“I insisted Gladstone give me a high enough rank to allow me a great deal of latitude whilst in America. I thought General might be overdoing it, especially as I was only twenty-five at the time. I’ve learnt that American businessmen often lurk about the streets of the city, so I always add this warrant card to my pocket whenever visiting the square mile. Shall we?”
“Let’s,” the detective said, and the two entered the large office suite without knocking.
“Well, hello, Clive,” Aubrey said, as he casually walked up to Urquhart. “Miss me?”
The builder sputtered, his beady eyes wide with shock. “L-L-Lord Aubrey! Mon ami! What a great surprise, and with your illustrious cousin. Such a treat. Two Stuarts in one place.”
“Actually, I’m only half Stuart,” Sinclair corrected, “but from what everyone tells me, the Sinclair side of my heritage is just as annoying. Care to test that theory?”
The estate agent popped up from behind his massive desk, looking more like a pizza maker than a city businessman. Lewis Merriweather’s girth ran a close second to his height in inches. His walrus moustache drooped beneath Sinclair’s focused stare, and he began to jabber a nonstop stream of nonsense.
“Lord Haimsbury, we’re absolutely charmed that you could stop by today! How may I assist you? Looking for additional property for you and the duchess? Yes, yes, I recognise you, of course. From the newspapers. Not a day has passed during the previous month without one story or another about your miraculous return to your family’s bosom. My friend Clive and I were just talking about you, in fact. Wondering how our experience might serve you and the duchess. As I told her in my note, I’ve access to many affordable warehouses that would work for her philanthropic plans. No finder’s fee or any other charges. I’m willing to forego all that, as she’s being so generous. Least I can do, you know!”
Aubrey began to laugh. “You really are a smooth liar, Merriweather. But then so is your compatriot in crime. Clive, I seriously doubt if Mr. Merriweather here has the intellectual capacity to be accepted into Redwing, but I’ve no doubts at all regarding your membership. Which of you sent the parcel this morning?”
Merriweather practically spit, he blubbered so. His thick lips quivered, and the shock sent a wave of tremors rippling through his many chins. “Wh-wh-what?” he stammered. “Membership? Parcel? My lords, just what are you implying? Merriweather and Merriweather is an honest, diligent business concern...”
“Business concern?” the earl asked, moving close to the estate agent. At six foot three, Aubrey towered over the rotund man, and he pounded home his point by denting the man’s waistcoat with his forefinger. “What sort of legitimate estate agency can afford to pay half a million pounds for one office building? Your address is aptly named, Merriweather. 33 Wormwood. A worm’s home. Charles, you know it occurs to me that an excursion into the other levels of this bountiful building is in order. Shall we send one of our drivers to the police station next door to summon Sir James and his men? I imagine the city’s police commissioner has better things to do, so it’s likely he’ll be cross. Never a pretty sight.”
Clive took to his feet and raised his dimpled hands, waving them about as if manically conducting an orchestra. “Now, now, Lord Aubrey, we’re all men of the world, are we not? Just tell me what it is you and your cousin want, and I assure you that Lewis and I will cooperate fully. We need not disturb the city’s hardworking police commissioner.”
Charles shoved the builder back into the chair and then slammed a second chair directly in front of Urquhart. Sitting into it, his eyes fixed upon the builder’s face, the detective made his point. “I’ve had enough of your cat and mouse games, Urquhart. I want to know just who is sending my fiancée threatening letters, and I want to know now!”
“Cat? Mouse? I know of no such games, as you put it, Lord Haimsbury,” Sir Clive blustered. “If something unpleasant has happened in your idyllic life, then my friend Mr. Merriweather and I wish only to help. What letters do you mean?”
Charles withdrew the folded outer envelope from his coat pocket and showed it to the builder. “33 Wormwood. The return address for this very building. This very office. Contained within this envelope were items intended to demean me and terrify my fiancée. In fact, I would say that the items provide a substantial and legal link betwixt the sender and Jack the Ripper. Give me one good reason why I should not arrest you both.”
Merriweather’s face crimsoned, and his wide nose began to run. Wiping at his flared nostrils with a lime green handkerchief, the estate agent’s mouth followed suit with his nose, dripping words so fast that Aubrey stared in amazement.
“Not I! Not I!” Merriweather babbled. “I admit to sending the duchess an offer of help with regard to her property hunt, but I had nothing to do with sending those clippings! And the envelope within, well, I never saw what was sealed inside it, so how could I be blamed for that?”
“I never mentioned clippings, Mr. Merriweather,” Sinclair said calmly. “Nor did I say anything about a second envelope.”
The estate agent’s face went white. “Uh, I—that is, I was told what to do. Ordered, in fact! Clive conceived the plan, but not by himself. His horrid friends are behind this, Superintendent! Trent and those other two foreigners. They’ve been blackmailing me, you see. Through that Irish maid. It’s she who couriered information back and forth. Moira Murdoch and that damnable sister of hers! Look, sir, I can help your investigation, but I need your promise that I’ll not be charged. I never wanted it to go this far, I assure you. Please! You must believe me!”
The agent began to pant, mopping his brow with the silk handkerchief, his face pale as milk, and he looked as if he might faint at any moment. Charles stood and calmly began to speak. “Lewis Merriweather, Sir Clive Urquhart, you will accompany me to Leman Street. I charge you both with making threats to a public figure, extortion, obstruction, attempted rape, battery, and murder.”
“Rape? Battery? Murder?” Merriweather blubbered, leaning heavily against the edge of the desk. “What? Whose?!”
“Battery and possible rape of that Irish maid you were just complaining about, and the attempted rape and murder of two women in Victoria Park. Also, a second housemaid who was brutally slain and left in front of Leman Street last month, and possibly more. The press will have a field day, Mr. Merriweather. Jack the Ripper, caught at last.”
The earl took the builder by the scruff of his neck and Charles the estate agent, and the cousins escorted their two prisoners back to the larger brougham, and from there to Leman Street Station House.
As the Branham coaches pulled away, a tall man with a wolf’s head cane emerged from the crosscut that ran betwixt the estate agency and St. Ethelburga’s Church. He opened a silver cigar case, removed one and clipped the tip. After striking a match, the man touched its yellow flame to the end of the fat cigar. He tossed the burnt remains of the match to the sidewalk.
“Looks like the plan is working,” he said to an unseen companion. “The detective’s becoming unbalanced and misdirected. We’ll let our builder stew a bit, but he’ll require rescue eventually. As to the estate agent, well, I’ve admired this building for many months now. Shall we confiscate it for our cause, my friend? The tunnels beneath it have many, wonderful uses.”
The invisible ‘Other’ laughed, his icy eyes cold as a winter’s dawn, and for a brief second, he allowed his true form to penetrate the veil betwixt worlds.
A passing banker paused and stared, his heart nearly stopped by the terrifying image that flashed through his mind.
A busy woman on her way to a consultation at the ophthalmic hospital on Finsbury Circus, rubbed her hazel, careworn eyes, certain she’d hallucinated or imagined the hideous vision.
A young boy, holding his mother’s hand as the pair walked towards the police station to share a quick luncheon with the lad’s hard-working father, Police Constable Evans, bega
n to cry out. The shared, family meal would never take place. The child would arrive at the station house, pale-faced and babbling about the Dragon Man that talked to him, inside his head. These few cryptic lines would be the last words Alfie Evans would ever speak, living the remaining days of his life as a mute, communicating only by the blinking of his terrified eyes.
Trent found it all very amusing, and he puffed on his smoke, relishing the plans he and the ancient creature were making.
“Soon,” the glittering serpent hissed. “Soon, you may take her for one night—one night only. And then, she is mine for all time.”
Chapter Eighteen
5:37 pm
Charles Robert Arthur Sinclair III entered the foyer of Queen Anne House to giggles. “Cousin Charles!” Adele sang out as she ran into the detective’s open arms. “I’m here for my first fitting, and you’re not to see our dresses, so you mustn’t look. Promise!”
“I shall keep my eyes tightly shut,” he told her as the girl smothered his shadowed cheek with a dozen kisses. Charles carried Della into an adjoining afternoon drawing room on the west side of the mansion. “Where is the duchess? Upstairs, I imagine for this mysterious fitting. I wonder what dress she might be having fit. Is she going somewhere soon? On a journey perhaps?”
“It’s her wedding gown, silly!” Adele exclaimed, kissing him once more. “Oh, you’re very scratchy, Cousin Charles. Just like my brother gets in the afternoons. Will you and Cousin Beth be going away? I overheard Mrs. Meyer and Aunt Mary saying that you might be taking her on a wedding trip. May I go, too?”
Sinclair began to laugh. “Would you like to go on a wedding trip, Della? They’re very boring. Walking tours of museums and the like. And long, tedious hours spent in hat shops, I should think. Is Beth feeling better?”
“Oh, yes. Much better. We spent the afternoon looking through music with Mr. Kepelheim,” the girl said as he returned her to the floor. “She said she planned to speak to you about something—oh, what was it now?”
“About the new house,” came a soft voice from the room’s entrance. Sinclair turned to see his fiancée, and his entire countenance lit up. He walked towards her, drawing the duchess into a warm embrace, and all that day’s fears and frustrations fell away in one simple moment in her arms.
“How I love you,” he whispered into her small ear. “Love with all my heart and soul.”
She rose up on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. “And I you, my dashing Captain.”
“So, how fare our ailing maids?” he asked. “Has Price offered a diagnosis?”
“He has pronounced it measles,” she told him, “which confirmed Mrs. Meyer’s initial diagnosis. I’m afraid the illness continues to infect our household. A fourth girl has taken ill. A char named Ivy Patterson. She’s only nine, Charles. Her father is one of our farmers, back at Branham. How do I tell him that his only daughter has come down with measles?”
“Measles is generally mild, isn’t it?” he asked, sitting on the sofa.
“Yes, but it can sometimes lead to brain fever. George says it’s rare, but he’s charged Mrs. Meyer and Tory’s nurse with keeping watch on all the girls, in case anything out of the ordinary should occur. How was your day, darling? You look positively worn through. Are you sure you don’t want to go straight to bed, rather than lead a circle meeting?”
Charles was relieved to see her looking so well. “Lead it? James will do that, I should think. All I need do is listen and keep my eyes open. I’m the newest member, so my opinion hardly counts at all.”
“That’s simply not true,” she argued. “Oh, George had to leave, by the way. He’d planned to sit in on the meeting tonight, but he received a wire from Branham this afternoon. The hall has its own outbreak of measles, or something that looks like it, and as we’ve plenty doctors here in London, he’s returned on Paul’s train. Don’t look so worried, Captain. He has contacted an old friend and circle member, a retired and very capable physician, who has promised to keep watch on our ward of patients. Did you stop and see Mrs. Morehouse?”
Slapping his forehead in self-recrimination, Sinclair sighed. “I forgot all about Martha Morehouse, I’m afraid. I’ll have to send my apologies. Too late for the evening post, I suppose.”
“Not yet. There’s a postman due at six, but you could send a message with one of our footmen. If you told her you’d come by, then you really should let her know right away. It’s likely she’s been waiting, Charles.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said, standing. “Miles!” he called from the open doorway.
A footman appeared, a stack of letters in his left hand. “Mr. Miles is in the cellars, my lord. May I assist?”
“Is that the evening post?” the marquess enquired.
“The evening post’s not yet arrived, sir. These are letters to go out. Six from Lady Victoria, and Mrs. Wilsham has included two, written to her sons. Have you letters to add, my lord?”
“No, but I’d like to send a message to a friend in Somers Town, on Grenville Place.”
“I can take care of that for you, sir. If you’ll write down the address, I should be happy to go there immediately.”
“Thank you, Lester. You’re efficient, as always. Give me five minutes.”
Charles found a pad of paper and a pen within one of the entryway table drawers. He dipped the pen’s brass nib into a painted porcelain inkwell and scratched out a quick note of apology. He blotted the note, folded it once, and then wrote the address on the outside. “Please, let Lady Morehouse know that I deeply regret my lapse in memory. It’s in the note, but if you’d emphasise that, I’d appreciate it.”
“I shall convey your sincere apologies, sir. I’ll leave right away.”
The footman placed the letters into a canvas post bag, left it on the table, and then headed towards the kitchens. The front bell sounded, and rather than wait for a servant to answer, Charles opened the door himself to find Edmund Reid and Sir Thomas Galton.
“Come in!” Charles said. “Miles is downstairs just now, so I’m playing butler. You’re early. The meeting isn’t until nine.”
“I’m afraid I bring bad news, Charles, which I thought you’d want to hear immediately,” the inspector said, removing his hat as he and Galton entered.
Charles put up his hand. “Wait a moment,” he cautioned in a whisper, leaving the pair whilst he returned to the drawing room. “Beth, darling, I’m afraid it’s police business. Do you mind if I take Galton and Reid into the library?”
“No, not at all,” the duchess replied. Seeing the two men, she smiled. “Good evening, Inspector Reid. Sir Thomas. It’s very nice to see you again.”
Both men bowed, and the inspector crossed to the sofa and kissed the duchess’s hand. “An honour to see you again, my lady. I’m to tell you, that both you and Charles are invited to our home for supper—at your convenience, of course. My wife Emily would very much like to meet you, Your Grace. She’s quite a good cook, and I think she wants to show off our children, Harold and Lizzie. Perhaps, after the wedding?”
“Yes, I’d like that very much. Thank you, Inspector,” Elizabeth said. “Sir Thomas, when are you getting married?”
Galton cleared his throat. “Probably not for some time, Your Grace. I require someone to marry first, and I fear that my present occupations preclude romance and courtship.”
“Now, that is a tragedy,” she told him. “We shall have to remedy that, Sir Thomas.”
Charles kissed her cheek and then led the two men into the library, where he discovered that the staff had already begun readying the space for that night’s meeting. Three rectangular tables had been joined to form one long surface, and thirty chairs surrounded it. Pens, inkwells, pencils, and sheets of paper sat before each seat, and a silver cart laden with a variety of wines, whisky, and liqueurs awaited consumption.
“I see our butler’s been b
usy,” he said as they entered. “Let’s sit over here,” he added, leading them towards an alcove near a set of bow windows that overlooked the north gardens. “This is one of my favourite spots in the whole house,” he told his friends. “Right here is where I first kissed Elizabeth. I knew then, that I wanted to marry her, but I’d feared it was but an empty dream.”
“And now, look where we are,” Reid answered. “Dreams become reality, my friend. The Lord is very good. However, the enemy is not. Urquhart’s been released, and Merriweather is in hospital.”
“Released? What?” Sinclair asked, angrily.
“Allow me to explain, sir,” Reid replied evenly. “When you and the earl questioned Merriweather at the station house, he grew somewhat unresponsive, do you recall?”
“Of course, I recall. It’s why we left off our questions, Edmund. That estate agent strikes me as a fat mouse caught in a rat trap. His constitution may be less than robust, but his delicacy seemed more thespian chicanery than genuine illness. Why on earth is he in hospital?”
“If he is an actor, then he is a consummate one, Charles. He’s suffered a mild heart attack, or so Sunders believes. We had no choice but to send him to St. Mary’s. Merriweather’s personal physician practises there. Abberline and I plan to visit the agent tomorrow morning, but for tonight, I’ve placed two constables and a sergeant by his room.”
“There is no chance he’s playacting?”
“I don’t believe so. Sunders would be able to discern fakery. No, I think him a man with health problems. And he’s scared, but not of the police. I think him terrified of what Redwing will do to him, which is why I wanted him guarded.”
Galton agreed. “Our London team have been watching the activities of Merriweather’s company since that building on Wormwood commenced construction. Wormwood’s an ancient street, with roots reaching back to even before the Great Fire in 1666. The street is so named because the plant Artemisia absinthium, also called wormwood, grew abundantly upon the old London Wall. The plant is used in absinthe, a favourite intoxicant amongst Redwing’s membership. They relish the wormwood connexion to Bible prophecy, claiming the drink grants them the ability to foresee the future. Ask Lord Aubrey about absinthe sometime. He has consumed it, but only once, out of necessity, when he infiltrated Redwing’s branch in America. He very nearly lost his life on that operation and bears a long abdominal scar to prove it.”
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