Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  She considered this for a moment. “Then, is there something I should know?”

  He had no wish to lie outright, but Sinclair worried that news of the Victoria Park murders might cause her distress, so he decided to offer a partial truth. “There may have been a little cloud, but it’s nothing to shadow our joy. Those murders that the Ketchums mentioned tonight. Two women found in a park, and a third elsewhere. I’m afraid it’s all true, but the evidence bears no connexion to Ripper—nor to this Saucy Jack person.”

  “I see. But doesn’t that mean there is another murderer in the east?” she asked.

  “Yes, it does, but you mustn’t worry about it tonight. Reid and his men are following up all leads, and I’ve begun to investigate as well. Our cousin even joined in, so with Paul’s expert help, we’ll catch this man very soon.”

  “If it is a man,” she whispered, growing quiet for a moment. “I heard Bertie say the women were torn apart, as if by an animal. Are you sure it isn’t Ripper again, perhaps altering his methods? Do killers do such things?”

  “I’m sure it is not Ripper.”

  She gulped, and he could see something else troubled her deeply. “Charles, it seemed to me that you practically called out Anatole tonight. Do be careful, darling. The prince has dueled with many men. He is unbeatable, they say.”

  “His behaviour towards you was unacceptable. He deserved to be called out,” he replied, unable to hide his anger.

  “No! Please, promise me you’ll not allow him to bait you into taking a foolish step,” she implored, her eyes wide.

  “Is it foolish to defend your honour? Foolish to insist that others treat you with respect?” She bit her lower lip, and he instantly regretted the outburst. “Forgive me, darling. I’ll do my best, but it’s difficult when I see the man treat you with such familiarity.”

  She’d intended to tell him about the meeting with Rasha, but now feared Sinclair’s reaction all the more. Anatole’s reputation paled to that of the fierce Romanian. “I took no offence,” she told him. “But these murders in the east. The women you mentioned. If they were indeed killed by an animal, what sort of animal might that be? Might it be a... A wolf?”

  “The police surgeon thinks it done by dogs,” he answered, offering a half truth. “Pit dogs roam the streets in those out of the way areas, but I’ve left orders that all strays are to be rounded up and their owners fined. I’m sure we’ll see no more people attacked.” She was crying, and he drew her close. “Darling, tragedies such as these play out daily in the streets of the east. They’ve nothing to do with the dark forces that haunted us in Scotland. Nothing to do with wolves. You’re safe with me. In my arms, nothing will touch you. Do you believe me?”

  She clung to him like a small child, and he stroked her hair, remembering the terrified little girl he’d first met in ‘79—the one who called him Captain Nemo. “Do you remember how I promised you all those years ago, that I would never allow harm to befall you?”

  She nodded, her head against his chest.

  “I have not altered, my darling, nor will that promise alter. And soon, I’ll make new vows to you. To keep, and honour, and protect you for all our lives as husband. You’re so very precious to me, Elizabeth. The Lord’s eyes are ever upon us, and mine are ever upon you.”

  “Thank you, Charles,” she whispered. “I know that you’re awfully busy right now, but whenever you’re with me, you act as if you have all the time in the world.” She held up her left hand to the light, and the deep pink diamond sparked with radiant fire. “The ring really is beautiful. It’s just like the one I’ve always dreamt of wearing, but coming from you makes it all the more special. Every time I look at it, I shall think of my handsome Captain.”

  He kissed her hand, holding the delicate palm against his lips, treasuring the moment. “I’d shower you in diamonds if you asked it. I’d spend every last penny of my fortune to see you smile. Now, sleep, little one, and dream of our wedding night. I know that I shall,” he added with a wink, throwing her a kiss as he closed the door.

  Turning, Sinclair found the earl waiting in the apartment’s sitting room.

  “Well?” Aubrey asked, following Charles out of the apartment and down the spiraling staircase to the main floor. “Is she all right? It’s not this sickness, is it?”

  “No, I don’t think so. She’s just very tired. As I feared, she’s concerned about Bertie Ketchum’s tale of the women in Victoria Park.”

  They’d reached the foyer, and Charles looked around for signs of servants, who might overhear. “In here,” he said, leading Paul through the secret entrance to Elizabeth’s library. Once inside, Charles shut the door behind them to assure privacy. “Paul, I tell you this truly. I am no longer certain of anyone except those within the inner circle.”

  The earl placed a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “I know the weight your position holds, Charles. I shouldered it for many years.” They sat now, each to his own settee near the fire. “Are you certain she’s not coming down with this strange fever?”

  Charles took a deep breath before answering. “No, I don’t believe so, but she is very worried about something. I hoped she’d tell me about it just now, and I think she nearly did, but she lost her nerve. Do you think that she seems—well, more delicate now than she was in Scotland?”

  “In what way?” the earl asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Sinclair admitted. “Physically, but also emotionally.”

  “It’s probably just pre-wedding jitters. I’m told it’s not uncommon.”

  Charles found no satisfaction in this explanation. “I don’t think her nervous, if that’s your suggestion, but she is carrying some sort of unspoken burden.” He sighed. “I’ll be relieved when Price arrives tomorrow, but it occurs to me that we’ll also need someone here in London, just in case. Does Elizabeth have a local physician we may trust?”

  “No, only Price. He grows older though, so it may be wise to seek another, younger doctor—one who keeps his wits sharp, but has no link to Redwing.”

  “God forbid she should ever be in the hands of such a villainous practitioner again!” Charles said, recalling all too well how close Elizabeth—and even he—had come to a dark ending. “This prince. Paul, am I being fanciful by wondering at his true purpose? The man showed too great an interest in our duchess for my liking.”

  “You noticed that, too?”

  “How could I not? The man buzzed about her all evening like a predatory fly!”

  “Take care with Anatole, Charles. He’s slain nearly three dozen men in duels. Men who were very good shots.”

  “Beth mentioned something akin to that,” the detective replied, stifling a yawn. “Oh, I am so tired! I must get some sleep tonight. Real, deep sleep for a change.”

  “Yes, even nodding off now and then on that sofa feels less like sleep and more like encampment, only without the insects, of course. Sleep late tomorrow, Cousin. I’ll keep watch on our duchess—oh, but only until one in the afternoon. I have a meeting.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t sleep that late, even if you had nothing else tomorrow,” Charles answered, rubbing his eyes. “I have a photography session scheduled at the other house, and then a luncheon engagement which I cannot cancel. With Sir Charles Warren.”

  “The police commissioner? What does he want—no, wait, let me guess. He’s hoping you’ll put in a good word for him with the Home Secretary. Warren’s made a complete shambles of the Ripper investigation, and a lifelong enemy of James Monro because of Macnaghten.”

  “I’ll not rub salt into that wound,” Sinclair replied. “Besides, Warren and I’ve always gotten along well enough. He may simply wish to congratulate me, but no matter his reason, I have to keep the appointment. It’s at one, so it looks as though I shall be gone most of the day again. Can our uncle watch after Beth?”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to
spend the day here, but I recall hearing him mention a meeting with Her Majesty.”

  “Another? What is James up to?”

  The earl laughed. “Who knows? He and the queen have a long history, and they often spend time together when he’s in London. I’m sure Della would love to come by and visit, though, based on her nearly nonstop questions about your old housekeeper. I think Della already sees Mary as a maternal figure.”

  “That is no surprise. Mary is a dear woman, and she’s been friend and mother to me for many years,” the detective agreed.

  “She’s a fine woman, Charles. I’m very glad you brought her here. Which reminds me, we’ll need to look into that break-in at your home. Shall I put Galton on it?”

  “No, I’ve already tasked Granger with that. Paul, I do hope this frantic pace slows once Beth and I are married. She won’t be happy if I’m never home.”

  The earl looked puzzled. “Are you planning to remain with the Yard after the wedding? Now, that is a surprise.”

  “Why shouldn’t I keep a hand in there?” he asked. “If, as we suspect, the slayings in Whitechapel are connected to Patricia’s murder and to Redwing, then isn’t it important that one of us remains on the inside of the investigation?”

  “Yes, I suppose that makes sense.” Paul answered. “Look here, as you have a busy day, why don’t I postpone my meeting?”

  “Could you? Is it War Office business? Foreign Office?”

  “Neither, actually. I have a call to make that might aid us in finding Lorena MacKey.”

  “How?” Charles asked. “Didn’t Risling say tonight that our errant physician had fled to France?”

  “Malcolm’s informant on that was mistaken, I fear. MacKey’s been seen in London, which most likely means Trent is also in the city. Finding MacKey may lead us to the bigger prey.”

  “And have you a new lead?”

  The earl smiled. “Perhaps. Do you recall I mentioned that contact of mine? Susanna Morgan?”

  “The one who was to meet you two nights ago, but failed to show?”

  “The same,” Aubrey replied. “Well, tonight, after you and I spoke with Risling during the interval, I saw her keeping company with a member of the board of governors from Barings. Most likely, someone who squires her about, whenever Urquhart is otherwise engaged. When she noticed me, Morgan slipped me a message by way of a waiter, and asked me to meet her tomorrow at half past one.”

  “If this woman’s information could lead you to MacKey, then you should go, Paul, but I prefer not to leave Elizabeth and Victoria unguarded.” Sinclair replied.

  “Look, we’ll work something out, Charles. Don’t worry. If nothing else, Victoria can take her shopping.”

  “No,” Sinclair said, firmly.

  “Are you concerned that she’ll spend all your newfound wealth, Cousin?” the earl teased.

  “Hardly. It would take a lifetime even to dent it, but I’d want them guarded.”

  “Talk to Powers or Frame. Or even Miles. All have weapons training. This estate has more armed men than Scotland Yard.”

  “All right, all right!” the detective conceded, standing. “I’m off to sleep in a real bed. Oh, there’s a fine book on mathematics in here, if you require distraction. Third shelf, middle of the philosophy section. An odd place to store it, but that’s where I found it, so I returned it there.”

  “Mathematics?” Aubrey countered. “Not for me, thank you. I’ll stick to reading the newspapers. Beth receives copies of all the major editions from across Europe and America. Give me politics over polygons, any day.”

  “Very well, however...” the detective began, but a soft knock on the library doors distracted him. “Wait a moment,” Sinclair said, crossing to the door. “Yes, Miles?”

  “Sir, I hope you will pardon the intrusion. I know that you and Lord Aubrey wished privacy, else you’d not have chosen the library, but there is someone at the front door who insists upon speaking with you.”

  “Who is that?” the marquess asked.

  “Mr. Henry Irving, sir.”

  Chapter Eleven

  It took seventeen minutes for Irving’s hired carriage to convey him and Detective Superintendent Sinclair to the Lyceum, and whilst they journeyed, the actor explained his reason for calling at such a late hour.

  “Forgive the interruption of your evening, sir. I do hope the duchess is all right.”

  “Yes, just overly tired. Tell me, Mr. Irving, what is so important that you seek my company at such a late hour?”

  Irving took a deep breath, and it seemed to Sinclair that his sallow complexion was even paler than usual. “Just after you and the earl left with the duchess, I received an urgent message at your uncle’s home that required my immediate attention. After surveying the situation, I decided to call upon you, rather than send to A-Division.”

  This last comment garnered Sinclair’s full attention. “Mr. Irving, are you telling me that this situation, as you call it, requires the police? Why did you choose to call upon me first?”

  “You will understand when you see the, uh... The victim, sir.”

  “I presume you mean murder victim, as that is the type of crime I am generally called upon to investigate. Who’s been murdered, Mr. Irving?”

  The actor paused for a moment, and the detective could see that the ordinarily proud and garrulous thespian appeared at a complete loss for words. In fact, there were tears in his eyes.

  “Forgive me, Mr. Irving. This is clearly a tragedy, and I only make it worse. Please, what has happened?”

  The actor wiped his pale face with a linen handkerchief. “Oh, it is such a calamity! Far worse than you can imagine, Lord Haimsbury. Do you recall the lovely soprano who sang our prelude this evening?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Soubret, wasn’t it? Are you saying she is dead?”

  “I am, sir. Wounded and aggrieved with such ferocity that it pales against anything stagecraft has ever imagined!”

  The carriage rolled off The Strand and turned north onto Wellington Street, but then entered a narrow alley, before finally stopping beside a weathered door marked with a sign labeled STAGE ENTRANCE.

  “I asked the driver to bring us to this door,” Irving explained. “I prefer to keep this tragedy quiet for as long as possible. You will understand in a few moments.”

  Charles climbed out of the hansom and followed the actor through the side door and up a winding, metal staircase. “It’s up here, sir,” Irving continued. “Just beyond the main storage area.”

  Sinclair sneezed once as chalk dust, kept on hand for the dancers, assaulted his nostrils, and he noticed several flymen who appeared to be mending rigging and sharing a bottle back and forth. One was Gus Tawbry. The somewhat inebriated stage hand tipped his hat as the marquess walked past.

  Beyond the flyspace, their pathway led into a cavernous storage loft, and once through, Sinclair instantly knew why Irving had come to fetch him. “This is how you found her?” he asked Irving, who nodded slowly, holding the handkerchief to his mouth.

  “It is, sir. I’m told nothing has been moved or altered.”

  The experienced detective knelt beside the savaged body, careful to avoid the congealed pools of blood and tissue. “I see footprints here,” he said, his eyes taking in the scene. “They are clearly not yours, Mr. Irving. Too small. Might a woman have found her?”

  “I cannot say if any of our actresses came upon the scene, sir, but perhaps one of the younger workers did. We have three youths who clear props and sweep.”

  “I see,” Sinclair answered, assessing the singer’s condition. The beautiful young soprano was beautiful no longer. Both eyes had been ripped from their sockets and placed into the palms of her hands. Her throat was cut, left to right, and a second, jagged incision sliced through the breastbone and terminated at the symphysis pubis. The bodice of her dress and underc
lothing had been torn asunder as if by an animal or enraged individual, and the breast tissue excised cleanly and placed above her shoulders. Both wrists were longitudinally sliced along the radial artery. As if such assaults were not enough, the young woman’s face, upper arms, and stomach had been bitten, over and over again, as if someone—no, something—had tried to consume her flesh.

  “Is it he?” the actor asked nervously. “Is this Ripper’s work?”

  “Who found her?” Sinclair asked, doing his best to maintain objectivity as he memorised the layout of the scene and the locations of the wounds.

  “One of our supporting actors. Anthony Jones. A Welshman. He’s in the actors’ lounge below stairs, drinking most likely, poor man. I asked him to remain to answer questions.”

  “Has he any relationship to the victim. Husband? Lover?”

  “Neither to my knowledge,” Irving replied, his eyes fixed upon the pale corpse. “They were friends, of course. Pamina was liked by all.”

  “How long has Miss Soubret worked here?” Sinclair asked.

  Irving had to think, but his mind was nearly numb from shock. “I—I’d have to ask Bram about that. A month, perhaps. Should I send for him? He and Florence left Drummond House just behind you, so were not there when the message arrived.”

  “No. I can speak with Stoker tomorrow.” Standing, the detective noticed a young man watching from a cramped closet near the rear of the storage room. “You there. What’s your name, and what is your job here?”

  “That’s Eddy MacPhee, Superintendent. He’s a mute. I’ve known him for all his life. My cousin’s son.”

  “Can he hear?”

  “Yes,” Irving answered. “Out of one ear, he can. He was born with physical limitations, but he’s actually quite bright.”

  “Does he know sign language of any kind? Can he write?”

  “He signs a little, and he can write, though his education has been sparse. He is rather shy, so I cannot guarantee he’ll answer you.”