The photographer had nearly finished packing up his exposed plates into the long wooden crate. “No, not a servant, sir. At least, not one in livery. He looked rather well dressed, also. Tall, dark-haired, but his back was to me. He stood upon the intermediate landing, just where the main case splits towards the two wings.”
“That’s strange,” Charles replied. “Other than the butler, housekeeper, two cooks, and a few trainee maids who come only in the mornings, there is no one else here now. The remaining staff don’t arrive until the end of this week, though I may postpone that, due to a separate problem.”
“Oh?” Kepelheim asked as he hung the robe on a hanger.
“You may have heard us talking about the maids who’ve taken ill at Queen Anne. I want to make certain it’s not communicable. That’s all. Nothing mysterious.” He turned back to the photographer. “Are you sure it was a man, Mr. Blackwood? It occurs to me that a good friend of mine is also in the house this morning. Mary Wilsham. She may have started down the stairs, not realising she interrupted.”
“No, sir. Definitely a man, and quite tall, though as I say, his back was to me, and oddly enough, he wore a tall hat.”
Charles sighed. “Perhaps you saw a workman. Carpenters and electrics crews are working on renovations in the west wing just now, and I’ve noticed several wearing their hats indoors.”
Blackwood shook his head, his spectacles sliding down his aquiline nose. “No, no one like that, sir.”
“Describe him,” Sinclair said.
“Long, dark hair, which brushed his shoulders. A well-dressed man of great height. Taller than you, I believe, although it’s difficult to surmise from so brief a glimpse—and he was standing on the stairs above. Near the split, as I said.”
A ghost or a demon, Charles wondered, for the description sounded far too much like the strange man calling himself Razarit Grigor, though he’d not worn a hat. “Well, it is a mystery, I suppose. More than likely, a foreman from the carpentry crew here to keep watch on his men. Martin, will you walk to Queen Anne or ride back in the coach?”
“I shall walk, if you wish for company, and I’ll leave these clothes here as you’ve more photographs to take tomorrow. Just give me a moment to alert Laurence.”
The tailor did so, and within ten minutes, the two men followed the foyer into the hallway and out through the conservatory entrance. The noonday sun warmed their faces, and the scent of late blooming clematis filled the air with sweet perfume.
“It’s sad to see these beds so neglected. Haimsbury Gardens used to be a showplace, admired by all,” the tailor said as they walked towards the Queen Anne gate. “Mr. Frame and his men will soon set it to rights, though.”
“Such a shame that the house had so few occupied years after being built,” Sinclair replied. “I’m sure it cost my grandfather a great deal of money to construct a new London house. I’m happy to say, though, that despite being shuttered for almost three decades, renovation has proven much easier than I’d first expected. The duke’s been generous in sharing his carpenters, and a man who used to serve on the circle has installed electric wiring throughout the house. Oh, I’m also adding a lift like the one at Branham.”
“Really? How very modern,” the tailor answered, stepping to one side to avoid crushing a slowly advancing caterpillar.
“Uncle James suggested I be proactive regarding the future and prepare for the day when stairs might not be such a good idea—for Elizabeth.”
The tailor considered this for a moment, his grey eyes twinkling as the implication became clear. “Ah! Yes, I see! And such a need might then proceed into another and another as time progresses, I should think. Not only the dear duchess and her delicate frame, but also nannies, nursery maids, and infant carriages. Who knows what the next few years will bring, eh?”
Charles smiled broadly, the light breeze blowing his dark hair. “Who knows, indeed?”
The two friends strolled happily through the lush grounds, and the marquess waved to the dozen or so employees who had spent the past week dressing and improving the landscaping of the once-shuttered estate. “Good morning, Mr. Frame,” he said to the chief gardener. “Are these old flowerbeds salvageable?”
Frame was a middle-aged man of modest height but sturdily built. He wore light grey overalls and a cloth cap, which he removed as the marquess approached. “It’ll require some work, sir, but we’ll get ‘em into shape. Course, that won’t be in time for the weddin’.”
“Not a problem, Frame,” Sinclair replied, touching the fading blossoms of a delicate, white jasmine vine that covered the south side of a small, field stone gazebo. “The reception is to take place at the duke’s home, and then afterward, there will be a private family affair at Queen Anne. Or so I understand. In truth, I’m not involved in the preparations, so I know only what little I’ve been told.”
The gardener laughed merrily, one hand on a spade, the other wiping at his forehead with a leather glove. “Aye, sir, that’s how the ladies like it. The little duchess, she sure is happy, if I may say so, sir. I heard her singin’ out here early Monday mornin’, walkin’ through these paths and inspectin’ the plantings. She asked that we put in China Pinks all along that brick walk there, nearby to them boxwoods. I’d figured she’d want a stand o’ Queen Anne Whites, but no, she wants them pink ones. The duchess is a great one for pink roses, my lord, so I hope you like pink an’ white gardens.”
“Really? She said China Pinks?” the detective asked, his jealousy rising to the surface.
“Asked for ‘em by name, sir. Is there anythin’ you’d like me to add? More shade trees, or mebbe a rock garden with juniper an’ flowerin’ shrubs all about? It’d go real nice with them statues o’ yer ancestors, sir. Now’s the time ta plant, afore the frost hits.”
“No. Let the duchess make all those decisions. I’m not much when it comes to horticulture. I must say, though, Frame, the gardens of Queen Anne Park are spectacular.”
“They’ve won many prizes, my lord. Thank you for sayin’ so, and once we finish with Haimsbury Gardens, they’ll likely be winnin’ prizes as well. Might the duchess be plannin’ on ridin’ this afternoon, sir? Mr. Powers was askin’. Seems she rode yesterday and took a bit of a turn.”
“I don’t think she’ll be riding today, Frame. She had a difficult night.” He started to walk away, but then stopped as the import of what the gardener had said took root. “I say, Frame, just what do you mean when you say the duchess took a bit of a turn?”
Frame set his spade against the side of the gazebo and wiped mud from his gloves, blinking dust from his eyes. “Well, sir, I only know what Powers said ta me. She took Connor’s Pride out for a short walk ‘round the pond, but per the duke’s orders, all the men workin’ in the gardens kept watch on ‘er. She disappeared behind the springhouse, bu’ never come back ‘round, so Powers sent his men to look after her. Found ‘er pickin’ herself up off the path, lookin’ all pale and confused like as she’d fallen or summat. The men helped ‘er back ta the stables, an’ Powers asked if she was all right, and the duchess said somethin’ ‘bout a man in the park. She seemed all right after a bit, but Powers were right worried.”
Rasha? Did that scoundrel appear to her as well?
“Thank you, Frame. I’ll speak with Powers about it. If you and he would make certain that as many men as possible patrol the area each night, I’d appreciate it. And from now on, the duchess is never to walk or ride without either the earl or myself accompanying her. No exceptions. If you see her out here without one of us, you’re to escort her back into the house. She will probably object, but you are to follow instructions. Is that clear?”
“It is, sir. We’ll keep an eye on her, sir. She’s right precious to us all, my lord. Most o’ us watched the little duchess grow up, an’, well, sir, she’s like our very own, if I may say so.”
“You may, Mr. Frame. It is yo
ur love for our duchess that brings me a great sense of security,” Charles replied. “Thank you. And please, let your men know how much your fellowship and attention to detail means to all of us.”
“I surely will, my lord. We’re real pleased ‘bout this weddin’, sir. Real pleased,” Frame finished, bowing his head in deference and respect.
“You’re a good man, Frame. See you again, soon, I imagine.”
Frame took up his spade, returning to his work, and the marquess and tailor continued on. As they walked, Charles mentioned his encounter with the strange ‘man in the park’.
“Martin, I didn’t wish to speak of this in front of Blackwood, but I’m concerned about this shadowy figure our photographer thinks he saw. And with Beth telling Powers that she saw a man out here, I’m all the more worried.”
“I’m sure it was nothing, my friend,” the tailor replied. “Nothing more than a trick of the light upon the stairs. Now, with regard to the duchess, it’s likely that a reporter accosted her. There’ve been many lurking about the last few days.”
“If only that were true, but with Beth’s dream, and now my own meeting with something otherworldly...”
“Your own meeting? Whatever do you mean? This murder at the Lyceum?”
“No. As I walked across the park this morning, a man appeared out of thin air, and later returned the same way. Vanishing like so much mist. The man called himself Rasha.”
Martin grew quiet for a moment, his lips pursed as he thought. “Did he also call himself a prince, by any chance?”
“Do you know this devil?” Sinclair asked sharply.
“In a manner of speaking, yes, and devil is an apt term. I met Prince Razarit in Paris at Dolly Patterson-Smythe’s home.”
“I’ve heard Tory mention her. I take it she lives nearby?”
“The next estate over, yes. Victoria lives in one of the Drummond properties. A château inherited when Ian Robert, the seventh Duke of Drummond, married the only child of Comte Michel Richard Henrí de Roux-Léfebré.”
“Bit of a mouthful.”
“So it is,” Kepelheim laughed. “As are many of the old French titles. You’ve several in your own bag of inherited titles, so you might wish to practise them. Lady Victoria’s château is quite lovely and remote, though only half an hour from Paris by train. This prince claimed he was visiting his grandmother in Limay, a quiet village near to an old Celestine monastery. Razarit is a very powerful being, Charles. The duchess knows nothing of his true nature, of course, but this creature pursued her relentlessly for many months. He is quite dangerous.”
“So I gathered.”
“Gathered is another apt term, my friend, for it seems to me that the dark forces of Redwing begin to gather all around us like a committee of ravenous vultures. We should discuss all this with Risling and MacPherson. Our meeting is scheduled for tonight at nine. You can be back in time?”
A large, greenbottle fly buzzed over Sinclair’s head, and he swatted at it. “Yes, I’ll make sure I am, but I hope to sleep an hour or so first. I prefer to be as sharp as possible, Martin. The enemy seems to enjoy dulling my wits, and I have no intention of allowing them further entertainment at the expense of my family—nor of my fiancée.”
“Well said,” Kepelheim replied proudly. “You know, I mentioned a tale regarding the ballroom earlier. I think we have time for me to tell it before we reach the house. It has to do with the last time it was used. I’ll keep it brief, but if you want to know more, you might ask your aunt and uncle. Both Lady Victoria and the duke were there that night.”
“The ballroom at Haimsbury, you mean?”
“Yes. Redwing’s minions attacked mercilessly that night. Nearly four hundred of the realm’s most influential peers had gathered for a grand party. It was the thirtieth of April, 1860, and it was in celebration of the return of your parents to London. It was the inaugural ball of the season, and even the Crown Prince was there—and so were you.”
“I? But I wasn’t yet five years old,” Sinclair objected. “Why on earth would I attend a grand ball?”
“You weren’t meant to, but you had come with your parents from Cumbria, and your nanny was supposed to be watching you in your nursery. It was midnight precisely, when you entered the room, and the entire assembly parted, right down the middle—rather like the Red Sea did for the Hebrews. A strange, supernatural event, I tell you. I’d been speaking with a musician friend near the orchestra, and someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned ‘round and actually cried out in shock, for an enormous, dark shape with many wings stood directly behind you. It seemed to me that you had no idea of its presence, for you moved forward into the room, calling for your mother, as if you’d had a nightmare of some kind.”
Charles stopped upon the gravel path, his face paling. “I—I think I remember this, Martin. No, I couldn’t. Though...”
“Try not to force these memories, my friend. They will come, and when they do, it’s likely to cause you great distress, for as with our duchess, your childhood had many supernatural events. Perhaps, I should continue this tale another time.”
“Yes, perhaps,” the detective muttered, his thoughts lost in the past. “Forgive me, Martin, what has this to do with the missing key to that room?”
“Well, I’ll tell you this much for now. The events that followed your sudden appearance at the ball terrified everyone there. Everyone. Including the Crown Prince. As I said, I’ll explain it all later, but afterward, your father locked the room and threw away the key, saying it was never to be used again, and that no one was to enter that room. He took to keeping a pistol beside his bed after that, and he insisted you begin sleeping with him, rather than in your nursery. It was a very dark time that grew all the darker, when only a few months later, your father was slain and you taken.”
They’d reached the main entrance to the conservatory, so the two men wiped the mud from their boots and passed into the magnificent, indoor garden. Sinclair glanced up to see a young woman staring at him. “Hello,” he said cheerfully. “Are you another of the new housemaids?”
“I am, my lord,” the girl answered, her voice high-pitched. “I was just about to run out and fetch you, sir. I’m to say first off that the duchess is all right.”
“What on earth do you mean, girl?” Sinclair asked sharply, a sense of dread creeping into his bones.
“She’s had a spell, sir. Dr. Price arrived right after we found her...”
“Found her?” the marquess shouted, his forward motion halting entirely. “Tell me everything. Now.”
“Seems the duchess fainted, my lord. Fell right over in the morning room. Mr. Miles discovered her, papers scattered all about, my lady amongst them, pale as a ghost! Like I said, sir, she’s with Dr. Price,” the girl explained as she led the two men through the conservatory and into the northernmost section of the house. “The doctor arrived just after it happened, praise the Lord Almighty. Mr. Miles will explain it all, I’m sure, my lord. He only asked me to run and fetch you, as all the footmen have taken up arms and now keep watch.”
“Arms? Keep watch?” Panic seized his mind, and Sinclair hastened his steps as he wound his way through two hallways, past a guest library and music room before, at last, reaching the foyer. “Dr. Price?” he asked as the physician emerged from the morning room. “What’s happened? Is she all right?”
The elderly physician set a black leather medical bag upon the large, oval entry table. “The duchess is fine, sir. Nothing broken. No illness. Just anxiety and no breakfast, I believe. I’ve taken the liberty of wiring the earl, and he is on his way back from Whitehall, but the duke has not yet arrived. I sent Mr. Lester to fetch him, as I thought you would wish it.”
“Yes, thank you. You said anxiety. Anxiety from what?”
“Possibly from the wedding,” Price said simply.
“Why would our wedding cause her to
be anxious?” Sinclair asked, his brows furrowed. “I thought her happy.”
“Do not misunderstand, Lord Haimsbury. The duchess could not be any happier, but planning such an important, life altering event can prove taxing, and a young woman might suffer from concerns, even fears that we men simply cannot appreciate. Becoming a wife is a very great step, a major change—with certain, shall we say, expectations.”
“Yes, I imagine so, but might she be ill? We’ve several maids who have fevers at present,” the marquess argued.
“So I’ve been told, but the duchess exhibits no fever, nor is there any sign of rash. There is something else, however, and I will tell you only if you promise to keep your temper when you hear it.”
Sinclair glared at the shorter man. “Keep my temper?” he asked, his blue eyes narrow. “And why do you think I might lose it, Dr. Price?”
“Because of this,” the physician answered, lifting a large envelope from the interior of his medical bag. “We discovered this by her side, near to her hand, and we have secreted all contents back into the container. I suggest you look at these items in the drawing room next door. Lady Victoria has made it clear that the duchess must not be reminded of this package.”
Charles took the envelope into the spacious, afternoon drawing room on the southwest side of the house. “Shut the door,” he told Price and Kepelheim. Sitting near the elegant, Italian marble fireplace, the detective opened the envelope and withdrew the contents.
“It’s a letter from someone named Lewis Merriweather. Now, why is that name familiar?” He paused, as a memory rose to the surface—a sickening connexion. “Royal Estate Agency. This Merriweather’s name came up just yesterday, as regards the Victoria Park murders. This cannot be coincidence.”
Kepelheim stood behind Charles, overlooking his shoulder. “Lewis Merriweather. I know this fellow, Charles—well, I know his name at any rate. His agency is in the city, I believe. Near Bishopsgate. Is it the same that, as you say, came up yesterday?”
Blood Rites Page 28