Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “I’m sure it will. Very good, my lady. Luncheon will be served at one. Lord Aubrey asked me to make his apologies. He received a telegram from the War Office, but he hopes to return by four.”

  “Then, I’m all alone?” she asked, a trace of worry causing her to frown.

  “You are never alone, my lady. Per the marquess’s orders, all male staff have been given instruction in firearms, and many of us now carry a small pistol within our livery, so it is our honour to provide you protection at all times.”

  This eased her mind, and she smiled. “You all carry firearms? Well, we shall have to add iron bars to our cellars, and then we can call ourselves Queen Anne Station House. I think that would help make the marquess feel right at home, don’t you?”

  Miles cracked a second, albeit brief smile. “I believe it would, Your Grace.”

  He bowed and left the morning room, closing the door behind him, and Elizabeth was left all alone, surrounded by seven white baskets of pink roses. The heavy scent of the flowers moved about the room upon the light breeze from the open windows.

  To occupy her mind, Elizabeth began working her way through the correspondence. Most were replies to wedding invitations. Beth marked the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ responses next to the appropriate name on a long list, kept in a leather-bound notebook, embossed with her initials in gold. Including Victoria’s additions, she had sent out over five hundred invitations, and it looked as if nearly all would attend the historic event, with only sixteen sending their regrets, due to conflicts out of the country.

  After half an hour, she’d reached the bottom of the stack, where she found a large, green envelope, typewritten with her name and address on the exterior and stamped by the postal service. The return address was also typewritten in the top left corner: Merriweather & Merriweather, Royal Estate Agency, 33 Wormwood St., City, EC2.

  Inside, she found a business letter and a second, slightly smaller envelope, glued shut, with her name written upon it in a strong hand using black ink.

  The business letter was on Royal Estate Agency stationery, and read thusly:

  6, November, 1888

  Your Grace,

  Please forgive my presumption, but it has come to my attention that you are in the market for property in the east. Your solicitor, Mr. Alistair Penry-Smythe (a fine fellow), belongs to the same club as myself and happened to mention your desire to establish a charity hospital in Spitalfields or Whitechapel. I must say, this is a marvellous idea, and I would like to offer my services to you. I represent hundreds of properties in the east, many sizeable and quite reasonably priced.

  As your goal is charitable, allow me to offer my advice and complete guidance to you gratis. You may seek confirmation of my intent and obtain references via Mr. Penry-Smythe.

  I have the honour of being your humble servant,

  Lewis Merriweather, Esq.

  PS – I have included several additional items left with me by an anonymous individual. He asks only that I forward them to you poste haste. I have not opened his envelope, so I am at a loss as regards its contents, but the gentleman in question is of the highest reputation, therefore, I can do nothing but comply. – L.M.

  “How very strange,” Beth muttered to herself. Taking a letter knife from her lapdesk, the duchess sliced open the glued flap of the enclosure and reached inside to find a sealed, cream-coloured envelope, a list of names, a curious collection of news clippings, and a small photograph. This last was of a handsome man in a dark suit, holding an infant boy on his lap. The photo’s corners had been torn, and black paper tabs indicated that the portrait had once been mounted in a photo album. The man had curly, dark hair and light eyes, and the child seemed a wonderful echo of the man, with similar hair and features.

  “This looks like Charles as a little boy,” she whispered to herself. “But is this his father, holding him?”

  Several of the clippings were dated that very morning and a few others two days previous. The more recent articles told of the tragic death of a rising opera star, backstage at the Lyceum Theatre. The older, second set of clippings came from The Star, and told of animal sightings in the Whitechapel docks area and of the deaths of two young women in Victoria Park, Hackney. As she skimmed through the basics of each report, her heart began to beat more quickly, and the heady scent of the roses grew overpowering. She fancied herself standing beside a grave, and that the flowers covered a coffin. A vision of Charles lying dead on the woolen carpet with Trent standing over him, a smoking pistol in his right hand, overwhelmed her mind. She could smell the gunpowder and hear the pistol’s sharp report, but she shut her eyes against the hideous vision.

  It is only a dream, she reminded herself. Just a dream!

  Elizabeth took a swallow of ginger tea to steady her nerves, and then picked up the list. It was written in the same, strong hand as that which had addressed the second envelope, but its contents made no sense. There were thirteen entries, names next to a date, beginning on the first of January of 1879 and ending on the sixth of February. The list ran as follows:

  1/1/79 – Jenkins

  4/1/79 – Parker

  7/1/79 – Allison

  10/1/79 – Willoughby

  13/1/79 – Gillington

  16/1/79 – McDowell

  19/1/79 – Macron

  22/1/79 – Durand

  25/1/79 – Gosselin

  28/1/79 – Lemaire

  31/1/79 – Mercier

  3/3/79 – Béranger

  6/3/79 – Biovin

  None of the names on the list seemed familiar to Elizabeth, although she’d known a Marie Béranger in France, and a Polly Parker had once worked at Queen Anne House.

  “Why on earth did Mr. Merriweather’s friend include this list? What does it mean?” she asked aloud as Victoria’s dog scampered into the morning room. “Oh, hello, Samson,” she said. The terrier leapt onto the sofa to sit beside her. “You really shouldn’t be up here, you know,” she told him, scratching his soft ears. “I shan’t tell Tory, though. Now, what is this, I wonder?” she continued, setting the list to one side and picking up the final piece to the curious puzzle: the cream envelope.

  She sliced it open, but rather than discovering a letter of explanation regarding the mysterious inclusions, she found yet another, smaller envelope of cream paper, bearing a fine scrawl of red ink, addressed to Elizabeth, Duchess of Branham, the Pretty Bride. For Her Eyes Only.

  Suddenly, the air felt heavy with floral perfume, mixed with a sickening undercurrent of death. She could hear the dog barking as the room closed in around her. The lapdesk tilted to one side, the gold and ivory letter knife fell to the floor with a soft thud, and the collection of letters fluttered alongside.

  Colours faded to a shadowy veil of black, and Elizabeth tumbled forwards, headfirst, onto the plush carpet.

  11:55 am – Haimsbury House

  “Hold still, my lord! Please, I must have at least a few moments without movement if these portraits are to be completed in time for your wedding, sir!”

  Charles Sinclair felt like a fool. For nearly two hours, he had stood in front of the main staircase at Haimsbury House, clad in a variety of formal attire, including one series with black cutaway, gold waistcoat, and gold tie; another with a Stuart tartan waistcoat (in honour of both his uncle and great-grandfather), red frock coat, and black hunting boots; and yet another wearing the Haimsbury House of Lords trappings. Kepelheim had dressed him, of course, and the talented tailor seemed to enjoy his protégé’s discomfiture, which increased to ever rising levels with each new costume change and camera pose.

  “Now, Charles, Mr. Blackwood only wishes to present you to the world as the handsome marquess that you are, so smile and keep that remarkable chin held high.”

  The detective’s left brow rose into an arch of defiance. “My so-called, remarkable chin is becoming remarkably ir
ritated,” he muttered as the photographer inserted a new dry plate into the interior of the large camera. “I’ve more to do than stand about all day, grinning like a trained monkey. Unlike some peers, I actually have a job!”

  “And I shall return you to that job as soon as possible, my lord. Oh, no, sir, do not smile just yet,” the photographer cautioned, each hand holding an exposed dry plate. He looked all about for a way to discard the plates, finally handing one to Kepelheim whilst he set the second into a wooden box before scribbling notes into a small folio. “Yes, yes, total of twelve in chandelier light with the robes by the stairs,” he muttered to himself, and then looking up, he said to the tailor, “I’ll take that now, sir. Thank you for holding it.”

  Charles cleared his throat to gain the photographer’s attention. “Mr. Blackwood?”

  “Oh, yes! So sorry! Lord Haimsbury, you have been most patient, and I do apologise for the time this requires, but these portraits will not only be used by newspapers across the globe but also mailed to your friends and family. Also, Mr. Wren, the artist, hopes to use several of these for his advance sketches for your official oil painting. Now just a few more with the flash, sir.”

  Blackwood loaded a small charge of black powder into a tall lamp on a metal stand. He lifted up the heavy drape that enclosed the rear of the camera and adjusted the lens. “Yes, now, sir, you may smile if you wish, but you must hold it for several seconds, as with the others. Mr. Kepelheim, might you step back just two feet towards your left, and perhaps if the other gentleman would return to the upper balcony area?”

  The marquess produced a slight smile that only hinted at annoyance, and once the flash finished, he relaxed. “What other gentleman?” he asked Blackwood.

  “The one on the stairs, sir,” the photographer muttered from beneath the heavy drape. “The one right there,” he continued, pointing with his left hand as he adjusted the lens with the other. “Sir, if you would just return to the upper level, then...” Blackwood withdrew his head from the isolation of the drape, blinking. “Oh, I see he’s gone,” he remarked as he looked directly at his subject. “Well, that was strange. Remarkably quick on his feet, don’t you think? Must be part rabbit.”

  Kepelheim had sat into one of several armchairs that Matthew Laurence had brought into the foyer to serve as a place to change boots and shoes, and as additional receptacle for wardrobe pieces and numerous hats. “Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Blackwood?” the tailor asked. “I saw no one on the stairs. Charles, my dear friend, perhaps we should continue this project tomorrow. It’s twelve o’clock, and I don’t know about you, but I am famished! And you have that appointment for luncheon at one, as I recall.”

  Sinclair stepped away from the staircase, looking back up the grand, marble and ironwork design towards the first landing. “Strange, I thought I heard someone up there, too.”

  “Probably nothing,” Kepelheim chirped as he gathered up the coats and trousers. “I do like the way that tartan waistcoat turned out, Charles. It used to be your grandfather’s, you know. The 9th Duke of Drummond. I found it inside one of his storage trunks whilst we were at the castle. It required very little alteration. The old duke was a robust individual, and you are nearly the same waist and chest measurements. Quite remarkable.”

  “Mr. Blackwood, are we now finished?” Sinclair asked, only half hearing the tailor’s banter.

  The photographer glanced up from his notebook. “Oh, uh, yes, I imagine so. We can continue the formal poses tomorrow.”

  Charles sighed. “Do you mean to say, that we spent all this time, and we’ve not yet finished?”

  “I’m sure you have no desire to repeat any of this, sir, which is why I endeavour to be thorough. Now, you may change if you wish, my lord. Oh, might I store my camera and lamp in a closet nearby?”

  “Yes, of course. See my butler for instructions on where best to accomplish that, Mr. Blackwood,” the marquess said as kindly as he could muster. “Martin, let’s continue this in the drawing room whilst I change.”

  The two men repaired to a small parlour that adjoined the music room. “I hope this man’s work is worth all the time,” Sinclair grumbled as the tailor helped him out of the elaborate robes.

  “Aleister Blackwood is the preeminent photographer for weddings and formal portraits, my friend. There is none better. He has photographed all the government ministers, most of the country’s peers, and even Her Majesty a time or two. His fees are somewhat steep, commensurate with his reputation, of course, but did you notice that he is doing this gratis?”

  “No, I hadn’t. Why would he do that?” the detective asked as he unbuttoned the white silk shirt.

  “Self-promotion, I should think. Though he is well known throughout England, Blackwood’s reputation has not yet reached beyond our shores. Your impending nuptials already play across front pages the world over, and your return from the grave has made you a household name in the drawing rooms of both Europe and America.”

  Charles laughed. “Perhaps, Americans have little to amuse them.”

  “Well, that’s most likely true, but you should take a look at a series of articles written by a New York writer who goes by the pen name of Roman Sir.”

  “Roman Sir? Oh, I see. Romancer. Clever, I suppose. Does he write for the agony columns?”

  “No,” the tailor laughed as he handed Charles a change of shirt. “He writes for the society columns—a trend yet to take hold here in London, but it will. I’m told that the photographs sent to the New York Times by Harry Dam have garnered you many admirers amongst the well-heeled, distaff set. The garden club ladies call you the ‘Darling Detective’!”

  “Darling Detective?” Charles mused. “Alliterative nonsense. How very American.” He buttoned a white and grey, pinstriped shirt and tucked it into his trousers. “I really like the fit of these, Martin. Most of my old clothes were cast-offs from Bob Morehouse. He and I were about the same size, and he took pity on me, I think.”

  He buckled the leather holster ‘round his chest, and Kepelheim assisted him with the waistcoat. “You really should hire a valet, Charles. As you attend public ceremonies and parties that require fastidiously dull uniforms and so forth, you’ll find such a servant indispensable.”

  “Laurence already serves as valet in the rare case I require one. How does my tie look?”

  Kepelheim straightened the blue and silver striped cravat and adjusted the watch fob so the Haimsbury crest faced out. “You are every inch a peer, my friend. And darling at that.”

  Still laughing, Sinclair headed into the foyer, where the photographer was packing up the exposed dry plates. “Thank you again, Mr. Blackwood. I’m told that you’re doing all this work for no pay. The duchess and I insist that you allow us to compensate you for your materials, at least.”

  “No, no!” the diminutive man proclaimed. “It is my honour, I assure you. I’ll spend the remainder of today at my studio in Soho, and then bring you the first prints when we meet tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir. If you’ve the time, I should like to try a series in the conservatory in the morning whilst the sun is strong but not directly overhead. Too many harsh shadows that way. Shall we say ten? I appreciate that your time is precious and posing for portraiture tedious, but I’ve only another hour or so, and then afterward I shall begin with the duchess at Queen Anne House. She was kind enough to reschedule her appointment, as she was unable to meet me yesterday. And if your own schedule permits, I should love to photograph the two of you together there as well.”

  “Ten will suffice, Mr. Blackwood. As to the duchess, I am the last to ask on that account, but if she sets a time with you, then I’ll try to be there. It seems that my diary is filling up quickly. I may need to hire a secretary.”

  “A capital idea, my friend,” the tailor said as he continued to gather up the various wardrobe components. “I kn
ow a young man who would fit the bill nicely. And his father is a policeman.”

  “Really? Who is that?”

  “Gerald Pennyweather. His father was head of D-Division, I believe.”

  “I knew Tom Pennyweather. A good man. He died last year. Far too young to leave us. His son can’t be more than twenty. Is he old enough to work as a private secretary?”

  “Twenty-three, actually,” the tailor replied. “Unmarried. Erudite, well spoken, very well dressed. He just completed Cambridge and a fellowship year in France. He speaks six languages, and he knows nearly every peer in the country. His mother organises debutante balls, you see. She is reputed to be instrumental in many a peerage marriage. In fact, it occurs to me, that Gerald might also work well as valet, should you require one. I could have him pay you a call tomorrow, if you like.”

  “Do I have a choice?” he asked, laughing. “All right, Martin. Have the lad stop by here at ten tomorrow. As I’m forced to return for photographs, I may as well make the most of it.”

  “I’ll contact him right away. Oh, will you be stopping to visit with the duchess before you leave for the Royal?”

  “Sadly, Martin, I shan’t be able to spend much time with my beautiful fiancée, though I’ll say a quick goodbye. I have a call to make before meeting Warren, and then afterward, I hope to spend an hour with Reid and Abberline. Also, I promised Bob Morehouse’s widow that I would stop by her home for tea. I’ll be lucky to get it all done before six. Do you think Elizabeth will understand?”

  “I imagine she’ll adjust. Elizabeth is accustomed to having her own way, but it’s been my observation that she accommodates you more readily than any other man. Love has remarkable powers.”

  “I can certainly attest to that,” he said, smiling broadly. Charles paused before the staircase, a thought crossing his mind. “Mr. Blackwood, did you say earlier that you saw someone upon the stairs? Though I saw no one, I was certain I heard a voice. Was this man a servant?”