Blood Rites

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Yes, I think so, and I had planned to visit regardless, but now Mr. Merriweather has risen to the top of my list.” Sinclair picked up the other items and handed them to the tailor. “News clippings about the park murders. Now, why would an estate agent send her these? This is no coincidence, Martin. The survivor of those vicious attacks once worked for the man! Surely, he knows who I am, and that I investigate crime in that quarter. Is the man mad?”

  “Perhaps mad, but perhaps a dupe. This letter mentions someone who asked him to forward an enclosure. Perhaps, Merriweather had no idea what he was sending.”

  “If he’s connected to the deaths of those women, then... Wait just a moment!” Sinclair exclaimed angrily as he came upon the photograph. “I shall most definitely be paying Mr. Merriweather a call. Today, in fact. How dare he send her this, and where did he get it?”

  Martin took the photo. “That’s you, isn’t it? With your son. It looks as if it’s been torn from a photograph album.”

  “From my late wife’s photograph album,” he said bitterly. “This may explain why someone broke into my house, recently. But why send it to Beth?”

  “Does the duchess know about Albert?”

  “No, not yet,” Sinclair admitted. “I’d planned to tell her this Saturday. Beth and I are taking Della to Brighton—chaperoned, of course. Victoria said she’d come along, and I think Maisie Churchill may come also. In truth, Martin, I’ve been dreading telling Elizabeth the truth about Albert’s death, but now it seems this man Merriweather is forcing my hand.”

  “Merriweather, or perhaps another,” Martin suggested. “This is a very strange list, my friend. Dates and names. And there’s a pattern. Did you notice? Each date is three days after the previous. What might it mean, I wonder?”

  Charles folded the list and placed it into his coat pocket. “I know precisely what this list means. I’ll take it to Scotland Yard before I meet with Sir Charles. I want to compare the handwriting on it to some evidence there.”

  “Evidence regarding what?” Kepelheim asked.

  “Crimes in early ’79. A series of murders; some here in London, others in Paris. We kept the news out of the press, but Paul said the circle investigated them. Do you remember a series of mysterious deaths in the east during January of that year, Martin?”

  The tailor shook his head. “Very little, to be frank. I was in Vienna in ’79, working with a chemist there at one of those upscale health resorts. His name was André Vignon. A brilliant man who worked with the duke. Vignon had discovered that lithium, a remarkable metallic element, was a primary ingredient within the hot springs there. He’d hoped to extract the metal and perhaps conduct research into how lithium calms the mind and eases troubled hearts. Quite fascinating. Sadly, it was Patricia’s funeral that brought me back to England. In fact, it’s why I wasn’t there to meet you at the duke’s home, when you were first introduced to the family—or perhaps, it is better said reintroduced. Strange, though. If these crimes occurred in London, why are half the names on the list French? Huguenots?”

  “No, those are the Paris victims,” Sinclair explained. “I’ll tell you more this evening at the meeting. Now, what is this?” Charles asked as he opened the smaller envelope, finding the final piece to the puzzle. “Another of those damnable letters!” he shouted, looking up at George Price. “Did Elizabeth see this?”

  “I believe she did, Lord Haimsbury, but you’ll notice that she did not open it,” Price replied. “It is still sealed.”

  Charles ripped open the letter with his thumb, and then handed the envelope to the tailor. “We’ll want to keep that for evidence,” he said as he unfolded two sheets of cream paper that ran red with the sender’s hateful words. “It’s from the same person. The one who calls himself ‘Saucy Jack’. How I detest that man!”

  The detective’s face grew pale, and his hands shook as he scanned the contents, and Kepelheim reached out and gently took the pages.

  “Here, Charles. Let me. Dr. Price will you fetch our marquess a brandy whilst I read aloud? Yes, thank you. Let’s see, it says ‘Dear Duchess’,” the tailor began. “‘How was your Scottish holiday? I understand the moon on the moors is stunning, particularly when viewed from the windows of a small cottage. How very romantic!’ Oh, dear,” Martin observed. “It seems this Jack fellow knows all about your night in Scotland. This certainly links him to Redwing, which I’m sure you’d already surmised.”

  “I shall make this man choke on these pages, when I finally meet him, Martin!” the marquess seethed. “Read the rest. It gets worse.”

  Kepelheim continued, “‘Better be careful now that you have returned to the city, my lady. The revels of Lupercalia await, and those who roam the streets in search of blood sharpen their great claws on many victims—practising for the final prize to come. Should we order pink roses for your coffin, dearie?’”

  Martin paused, for he’d noticed that Sinclair’s hands were shaking so badly that he nearly dropped the brandy glass. “Shall I continue?” he asked.

  Sinclair gulped the remainder of the fiery liquid. “Yes. Keep reading.”

  “Very well. ‘Wondering just what it is I want from you, my dear?’” he continued. “‘Allow me to offer a hint: Find the glass, the shining one, numbered ‘mongst its brothers near, keyless doorway to the dawn, crying child awakens fear. Dying dreams of princes be, to subtle asp and owls arise, Keepers howl and Watchers beam, as Wormwood’s poison seeks its prize. Soon, my dreaming duchess, all will be revealed. - Your Crimson Knight. Jack.’”

  Sinclair tore the pages from the tailor’s hands and slammed them down onto the floor, stepping on each as if stamping out a fire. “This man is a devil!”

  “I fear that is precisely what he is,” Kepelheim said evenly. “Which makes him all the more dangerous. You must not allow him to unsettle you, Charles. That is the purpose of these missives.” The tailor bent down and gathered up the pages, and then placed them into the envelope along with the photograph. “If you’ll allow it, I shall take all of this and begin looking into this Merriweather chap for you.”

  “No, Martin, I’ll speak to the man myself.” He checked his pocket watch. “Warren,” he sighed.

  “What?”

  “Sir Charles Warren. I’m to meet him for luncheon. How can I, Martin? I dare not leave her. Not after this.”

  A hand knocked on the door, and Price opened it. Paul Stuart entered the room, his chestnut locks in mild disarray from the rising November winds. “I got here as soon as I could,” he said, smoothing his hair. “What’s happened? Oh, hello, George. Your telegram said Beth fainted. Is she ill?”

  Sinclair took a deep breath to calm his heart, grateful to see his cousin’s face. “Dr. Price and Martin will explain everything, Paul. I need to see Beth before I decide what next to do. If you’ll excuse me. Oh, but if Beth is well enough for me to go, there’s a call I’d like you to make with me this afternoon.”

  “Certainly,” Aubrey replied. “I’ll postpone my meeting with Morgan until tonight, but you don’t prefer I remain here?”

  “Let me see Beth first, and then I’ll decide.”

  Sinclair left, shutting the drawing room doors and entering the morning room. Once inside, he first closed the doors to keep out any errant conversations that might disturb Elizabeth, and then stepped into the darkened parlour. The windows had been secured against the oncoming storm, and the chandeliers remained unlit. The sickeningly sweet scent of flowers permeated the air, and Charles fought the urge to pull every last basket from its display.

  “Beth?” he called, crossing the carpet and sitting beside her. She lay upon a long, damask covered divan, her face pale, hands folded, and for a second, he imagined her dead—a vision made of wax on display within the maudlin chambers of some hideous east end museum.

  Then she breathed, and so did he.

  Sitting beside her, he took her han
d and pressed it to his face, tears of relief and joy dropping onto her smooth skin. She’s alive, he thought. She’s alive, and I can continue for another day. “Elizabeth?”

  Her eyelids slowly opened, and the dark irises came into view. “What happened?” she whispered, and he nearly broke down weeping.

  “You took a little spill,” he told her, kissing the delicate hand. “Nothing to worry about. Price is here, and he says you’re fine, but overwrought. Do you remember fainting?”

  “No. Not really,” she said.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Tired. A bit dizzy. Did I hit my head?”

  “No. Well, I don’t think so.”

  She looked about, and he could see that she was troubled. “You say Price is here? Why did you send for a doctor, Charles? I thought you believed me about last night.”

  “I do believe you, little one,” he assured her, as he gently stroked her face. “Mrs. Meyer and Victoria sent for George to look after the maids who’ve taken ill. That’s all. He just happened to be here when you took your spill.”

  “That’s right,” she said with a sigh. “I’d forgotten. There was something, though. What was it? I’d been going through letters. Responses to the wedding invitations, and...”

  “Don’t try to sort through it, darling. You must rest.”

  “No, it was something, Charles. Was it a letter? A photograph and clippings? Now, why would that upset me?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he lied. “You should try to sleep.”

  “Clippings and... Oh, what was it? A letter?” Her eyes rounded, and every muscle in her face tensed. “That man! It was from that man! That awful man, Charles! Red ink. Red ink!”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “We’re taking care of it, Beth. You needn’t worry. Yes, it was a letter from that fellow, but it is evidence that will lead to his downfall. Trust me on this. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes, Captain,” she whispered. “Always.”

  “Then, allow me to take care of this. I’m so sorry that all this has started up again, Beth. But you’re not alone in it. Never alone. Paul and I, and all those around you will keep anyone from ever bringing you harm.”

  “Yes, I know, but... Well, never mind.”

  “Tell me,” he urged her. “Don’t dismiss your feelings as if I deem them of no consequence. Beth, you’re all that truly matters to me in this world. I may not always be able to instantly understand what you’re going through, but I want to, so tell me what’s on your heart. Remember, that our hearts are forever entwined, and mine would fail, should yours ever falter. Please, tell me.”

  She took a deep breath. “I want to, Charles. I do. It’s just that I feel sometimes as if I’m losing all control—of my mind, I mean. I felt certain that Trent was in the room last night, but this morning, I began to fear that it was all in my imagination. Is Paul right? Might it have been just a dream? It felt so very real...” she whispered, her voice trailing off into silence.

  He started to tell her about the evidence he’d found of an intrusion in the room, but then reconsidered. Which is more harmful? Knowing he was there, or just thinking he was there? “Don’t dwell on it, darling. Think of our wedding and all the plans we’ve made together. Shall I postpone my meetings and remain here?”

  “What sort of policeman’s wife would I be, if I asked you to do that?” she said, offering a wan smile. “No, Charles, you attend to business, and I shall follow my doctor’s orders.”

  “George thinks you grow anxious for our wedding date. It is a major change, becoming a policeman’s wife.”

  “I look forward to becoming a policeman’s wife,” she assured him. “Charles, do you ever regret losing your old life?” she asked, her voice growing strained.

  “Never. Not for one moment,” he told her. “So long as you are part of this new life, I can endure anything.”

  “Endure it? You make it sound rather like torture.”

  “Of course, it isn’t torture, but my days did used to be less disruptive. I’ve spent an entire morning smiling and preening for a stranger’s camera, only because I want to do all that you and society now expect of me, but honestly, Beth, I sometimes feel like that proverbial square peg. You breeze through peerage life with nary a misstep, but it feels like a massive weight to me at times.” He thought he perceived a brightness to her eyes, as if tears threatened to fall. “I’ve made you cry. Beth, that is not what I meant. I am happy. Truly, I am!”

  “I hope so,” she said, her voice cracking with raw emotion. “Oh, just ignore me! I’m being overly sensitive. With these dreams starting up again, it feels as if a great shadow looms over our wedding.”

  “You worry that Redwing wants to stop it?” he asked, the letter’s disturbing implications rising up to haunt him.

  “Yes! The dream certainly indicated that, though I really don’t think it was a dream. I fear that Trent and his monstrous companion were really, physically in my bedchamber, and that perhaps they were showing me the future. I don’t know how they could do something like that, but I’ve a very dark foreboding, Charles.”

  He kissed her softly, stroking her hair. “Foreboding about what, darling? I hope it’s not our wedding.”

  “No, of course not,” she whispered. “Marrying you is the single brightest spot in my life. It is strange, though. When I spoke with you this morning, I felt quite cheerful. Then I came down and saw all these flowers.”

  “I thought you liked China Pinks,” he said.

  “Ordinarily, I do, but not these. Something about these flowers feels, oh, I don’t know—evil. It’s that prince, I think. Anatole. When he talks to me, it makes me feel as if I’m being interrogated. Inside my head.” She tried to smile. “Look, darling, I’m being far too sensitive and causing you to worry needlessly. When must you leave for your appointment?”

  “As soon as I’m finished speaking with Price, but the offer stands. Shall I stay?”

  “No, do what you must. Is Grandfather coming by?”

  “He’s on his way, and Martin is here. Perhaps, the two of you can select music for the wedding.”

  “Yes, I’d like that. Do go on, Charles. I’ll be fine.”

  He smiled. “I shan’t be too long. I really need to find an hour to sneak in a short nap. I spent far too much time with Blackwood this morning. He seems efficient enough, but then I’m hardly an expert on portaiture. The only photographs I’ve ever sat for are my first wedding and the day my s...”

  “Your wedding to Amelia and what else?” she asked innocently.

  Charles had nearly mentioned his son, but covered the blunder as best he could manage. “The day my service with the CID began. A memorable day.”

  “Of course, it was. I’m sure your fellow policemen feel the same. Don’t be gone long, though,” she said, kissing his hand. “I worry about you. You look very tired.”

  She started to sit up, but he restrained her. “As do you, darling. Close your eyes for an hour and have no worries regarding my feelings, Beth. I could not be happier. I’m a wealthy man, you know, but not in material riches which may rust or be stolen, but in that which truly counts. I am loved by you,” he told her, kissing her cheek once more. “I’ll tell you what. When I return this evening, you and I shall tour the new house. The electrics are complete, and nearly all the carpentry repairs finished. You can give me decorating ideas for our apartment. Would you like that?”

  “Very much,” she replied, rather sleepily. “Go now, Superintendent. Go to your appointments. I promise to remain at home.”

  “I don’t have to go, darling. I can stay, if you wish.”

  “No, Charles. You go. I’m fine. Really. Only, would you ask Miles to remove these flowers? They’re giving me a headache.”

  “Consider it done, little one.”

  He left the room, and in a few minutes
, she’d fallen asleep again.

  Back inside the drawing room, the detective found his cousin fuming.

  “How dare this man send such vile threats?” the earl exclaimed, the pages of the letter in his hand. “I shall pay a call to this Merriweather and teach him a lesson!”

  Charles had calmed considerably in his fiancée’s presence, and he replied in a whisper. “Let’s discuss this after I’ve finished with Warren. Meet me at Merriweather’s office at three o’clock.”

  “And what of Beth?” the earl asked, his face red with anger. “We dare not leave her unprotected. Not after this!”

  “I’ve no intention of doing so,” Charles replied calmly. “Martin, do you mind staying with her until James arrives? Most of the men in the house are now armed, but it would mean a great deal to me if you would remain. Beth so loves your company.”

  Kepelheim had been speaking with Price and he looked up from their huddle. “I’d be pleased to do so, Charles.”

  “Thank you. We’ll go through all of this at tonight’s meeting. Three o’clock, Cousin. Don’t be late.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sir Charles Warren was first and foremost a military man. An engineer by training and a soldier by profession, Warren had served in numerous theatres of war, including South Africa, Gibraltar, and Syria. His natural curiosity and mathematical background led him to use trigonometry to measure the eponymous ‘Rock’ at Gibraltar and later investigate and describe numerous archaeological sites, including the Temple Mount in Jerusalem and Mount Hermon in Syria. His most recent posting as Police Commissioner for the London Metropolis had left the energetic Warren battered and badly bruised, however, so when his friend and advocate Charles Sinclair walked into the Royal Café, Warren’s weary countenance broke into a rare smile.

  “Well, well, Lord Haimsbury,” Warren said happily as he rose to shake Sinclair’s hand. “It’s very good to see you. A marquess now, eh? Soon, you’ll be telling me what to do, I imagine.”