The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “He’s very quick,” Ross said, her hand pressed against the window pane.

  Di Specchio laughed. “Anatole is swifter than you could ever imagine, my dear. As if borne on wings! Now, allow me to see you to your apartment. I believe you’ll find it is quite perfect. Exactly like you used to dream of when you were a girl.”

  Turning, the former prostitute stared. “What do you mean by that? How could you know anything about my childhood dreams?”

  “Anatole knows everything about you, Miss Ross. Now, follow me. Vasily!” she called, snapping her fingers. “Tell Cook to send up a special glass of my favourite vintage along with the wine. I plan to sit and talk with our guest for a time. And then, I, too, must go out for the night. I’ve a call to make at a theatre in Piccadilly. There is a magic act that I simply must view.”

  “Do you mean that I’ll be here all alone tonight?” Ida asked, suddenly fearful.

  “Not at all, Miss Ross. Here, as you will soon discover, one is never truly alone.”

  Ida sighed, reluctantly leaving the drawing room to follow Vasily and the countess to the upper reaches of the mysterious castle. Each mounting step took her further from her past, but to what kind of future?

  Before long, that question would find an answer, but it would lead the former prostitute into a telescoping maze of ever-deepening, infinitely puzzling questions, beginning with a single revelation: the true identity of Prince Anatole Romanov.

  Chapter Two

  Queen Anne House – Below stairs

  “Evening, everyone,” Alicia Mallory said politely as she entered the staff parlour. The pleasant space sat betwixt the kitchen and a small apartment currently in use as an infirmary for the household’s measles cases. “I wonder, Mrs. Meyer, might we have more of the sleeping powder that Dr. Price left for the duchess? Also, my lady complains of a headache.”

  The buxom housekeeper sat in an oak rocking chair near a brick fireplace, a crewel needle in her right hand, a deep blue swatch of cotton velvet across her lap, with a basket of woolen thread alongside. “We’ve half a bottle of the headache preparation left and two packets of the sleeping powder,” she replied, pointing towards the kitchen. Within its warm walls, head cook, Mrs. Hilda Smith oversaw a trio of chattering scullery maids, performing the evening rituals of washing up glassware and china; scrubbing out copper pots; and cleaning the two cookers, four ovens, and every table and counter surface with carbolic soap and lemon oil.

  “You know where I keep my medicine chest, Alicia,” Meyer instructed the young maid. “In the glass cabinet within my office. The packets are in the top section of the chest, next to the migraine tincture. The key to the chest is here, girl,” she added, reaching into the right pocket of her dress.

  Alicia crossed to the rocker and took the heavy ring. “Is it this one?” she asked, holding up a small brass key.

  “It is,” Meyer answered as she knotted a bit of green thread. “Is the duchess having troubles again? Is she feverish? If so, then perhaps I should come up.”

  “No, ma’am. No fever. The marquess isn’t to know about the migraine—per my lady’s instructions—but his lordship did express concern regarding her poor sleep of late. He’s quite worried.”

  “Such a lovely man, he is,” Meyer observed. “The duchess shouldn’t overprotect him from worry, though. However, it speaks to her character that she does, I suppose. Young love, isn’t that right?” she mused, clipping the thread. “I believe Dr. Price is staying with his friend, Dr. Whitmore, over in Mayfair this evening, but he’s promised to check in on all our patients tomorrow. I’ll mention the duchess’s headaches and poor sleep when he comes ‘round.” Then turning to one of the maids, she asked, “Gertie, you’re not catching these measles, are you? I noticed you hardly ate at all this evening.”

  Gertrude Trumper had said little since finishing her afternoon tasks at Haimsbury House. She and Agatha MacGowan sat together in the northeast corner of the parlour, working through a wooden jigsaw puzzle of the Tower of London. Most of the mansion’s footmen had decided to spend the evening playing cards with several grooms and gardeners, whilst the remaining male servants patrolled the park or kept watch upon the exterior doors. With four maids and a char still recovering from measles, the healthy female staff had dwindled to only seven, making Trumper feel even more isolated than usual.

  “I’m fine, Missus,” the Londoner answered. “Just a mite bit weary. No fever nor bumps, ma’am.”

  “Good,” Meyer answered, threading a long line of scarlet into the needle. “Have you ever sewn, Gertrude? Did your teachers at the workhouse instruct you in piece-work?”

  “They did, ma’am,” the girl replied. “Only not like you’re doin’. Nothin’ so fancy as tha’. I can mend as needed, though. I can make real small stitches.”

  “Can you? You know, there’s a rather nice overcoat that might fit you, but it has a rip in the lining of one sleeve. It belonged to Constance Morrow, the duchess’s former lady’s maid, but she forgot to pack it when she left to marry her intended last year. I wrote to Connie, and rather than have me forward the coat, she asked that I pass it to someone in need. Remind me once you’re ready to go up, and I’ll give it to you. If you can repair the coat properly, it’s yours.”

  Trumper tried to smile, for she supposed that the offer was intended as kindness, but as she’d received very little positive feedback in her short life, she had no idea how to respond. “Thank you, Missus,” she muttered.

  “Not at all,” Meyer answered, her eyes on the two maids. “Aggie, did I hear that you spoke informally to Lord Haimsbury on Wednesday morning?”

  “Only as replyin’ ta his lordship, Missus. I never started it,” MacGowan answered.

  “I hope not. We must always remember to offer respect to the family, my dear. The Stuarts have a reputation for great kindness, and the marquess still accustoms himself to his lofty position, but that does not give us leave for familiarity. Even when our employers behave informally, it is up to us to respond with deference and respect.”

  “O’ course, ma’am,” the Scottish maid answered, noting that Gertrude Trumper’s attention had wandered.

  The cosy parlour contained two tall windows, both facing east, and the Londoner watched as a man wearing a cloth cap peered into the window on the right.

  “Who’s tha’?” MacGowan asked.

  Rather than reply, Trumper jumped up so quickly that the movement nearly toppled the wooden chair onto its side.

  The underbutler, Simon Stephens, nephew to the cook at Branham Hall, stood and straightened his waistcoat. “Return to your seat, Miss Trumper. I shall deal with this.”

  Stephens crossed through the busy kitchen towards the east entrance. Just as he reached it, the stranger knocked. As the servant opened the heavy door, the evening breeze blew a rusty collection of brittle oak leaves across the flagstones of the freshly mopped floor.

  “If you seek employment, sir, we’re not currently hiring,” Stephens told the disheveled caller, assuming him to be a tramp.

  The unkempt man appeared middle-aged with light eyes, thinning brown hair, and a thick nose. He wore no whiskers, and a long, red gash disfigured the left side of his face from temple to jawline. He squinted as he spoke.

  “I ain’ arskin’ fer no jobs, guv. Bu’ I wondered if I might speak wiv his lordship. ‘e knows me, sir.” The stranger handed the underbutler a grease-stained calling card, embossed in gold with the Stuart and Sinclair crests, showing the name ‘Supt. Charles R. A. Sinclair, III’ on the first line, ‘11th Marquess of Haimsbury’ on the second and ‘Haimsbury House, Westminster’ on the third.

  “His lordship gave you this?” asked Stephens doubtfully. “When? Where?”

  “At the thea’re, sir. The Lyceum. Migh’ ‘is lordship be at ‘ome? I called over at t’other ‘ouse, bu’ were told ta come ‘ere.”

  “Your
name?”

  “Tawbry, guv. Gus Tawbry.”

  “Wait here, Mr. Tawbry,” Stephens instructed.

  Fifteen minutes passed with the uncomfortable visitor doing his best to avoid scathing glances from the scullery maids and other servants who occasionally stared from their places inside the warm parlour. With November almost half over, the nights had turned quite cold, and before the underbutler finally returned, the light rain had changed into a downpour. As the kitchen’s clock began to chime the hour of ten, Tawbry could hear male voices speaking from nearby, and to his great relief, he recognised one.

  Charles Sinclair crossed through the wide kitchen and reached the open door, extending his right hand in fellowship. “Mr. Tawbry, sir, do come in. Forgive us for keeping you waiting upon our doorstep, particularly in the rain. Mrs. Smith, I wonder if we might offer this gentleman a cup of tea?” he called to the head cook. “Sit, won’t you, Mr. Tawbry?”

  The Lyceum flyman gulped audibly. “Thank you, my lord. I don’ need no tea nor nothin’, though ‘tis a kindness tha’ you offer it, sir. It’s jus’ tha’ you arsked me ta let you know iffin I ever ‘eard anythin’ more ‘bou’ the goin’s on over a’ the thea’re, an’, well sir, I ‘ave. So I come righ’ away. It’s ‘bout tha’ singer, sir. Miss Soubret. There’s a fella name o’ Parker, sir, wha’ kep’ comp’ny wiv tha’ good lady, an’ ‘e’s been braggin’ to all an’ sundry tha’ ‘e’s come into a good bi’ o’ coin. Says ‘e won the money a’ the dog fights, bu’ tha’s a lie, sir. This feller’s a dark one; a righ’ scoundrel! When I challenged ‘im on it, ‘e gimme this,” Tawbry explained, pointing to the jagged wound. “Cut me wiv ‘is knife! Real long blade. All the girls is righ’ scared of ‘im, sir. Parker’s been showin’ tha’ blade an’ freatenin’ ‘em wiv talk o’ Ripper an’ all.”

  Sinclair listened carefully, his experienced ears accustomed to the truncated, Bow Bells dialect of the poorer people of London’s streets, but even he struggled to decipher some portions of the man’s rambling confession.

  “Mr. Tawbry, do I understand that this Parker person has been flashing a knife around the theatre’s female population? That he’s threatened them with it?”

  “Tha’s jus’ wha’ I been sayin’, my lord! Parker’s a righ’ bad man, sir, an’ Mr. Irving’s sent ‘im packin’, bu’ it ain’ made no diff’rence. Parker’s still comin’ ‘round, insistin’ on showin’ tha’ knife. Bu’ there’s more, my lord. I seen Parker wiv one o’ them creatures, sir.”

  Charles stared, suddenly concerned for the maids who stood within earshot. “Shall we go outside, Mr. Tawbry? Delicate ladies are present.”

  Taking an umbrella from Stephens, Sinclair led the visitor towards the formal gardens along the St. James’s Park side of Queen Anne House, finding shelter beneath the canopy of a small gazebo. “Forgive me, Mr. Tawbry. Our young maids might find references to these creatures somewhat disquieting. Do you refer to the wolfmen you described to me on Wednesday morning as I was leaving the theatre?”

  Tawbry nodded, his hair dripping wet, the cloth cap twisting in his dirty hands. “Tha’s right. Them creatures was back, sir. Las’ night. I been sober as a judge since tha’ nigh’—when poor Pamina were killed—an’ I know wha’ I seen. My lord, I ‘eard them wolfmen talkin’. They’s powerful strange! Ears all pointy an’ thick ‘air all over their faces, and e’en the palms o’ their ‘ands, ya know!”

  “They have hair on the palms of their hands? How is it they spoke so openly in your hearing, Mr. Tawbry? Didn’t they see you? Oh, do put your hat on,” the marquess advised at seeing the man’s condition. “You’ll catch your death!”

  “Thank you, my lord,” the flyman gulped, setting the cap over his plastered hair. “I cain’t rightly say if they seen me, sir, bu’ I reckon they migh’ o’ done, fer I ‘eard the big one speak yer name, sir. Charles Sinclair. Lord ‘aimsbury. Called ya sumfin’ strange, sir. Wha’ were i’ now? King o’ sumfing.”

  “They called me a king?” Sinclair asked, glad now that he’d removed the caller from the kitchen. “Try to remember precise words, Mr. Tawbry.”

  “I fink it were sumfin’ like king o’ the dead, sir. No. Tha’ ain’t quite righ’. Wait a minute. I got it, sir! It were king amongst the dead. Tha’s it! King amongst the dead. Makes no sense ta me, bu’ tha’s wha’ them creatures called you.”

  The detective took a deep breath, his eyes closed. I am but king amongst the dead, he remembered. The Tennyson quote he’d felt sure was the translation of the strange markings upon the card given to him that week by the photographer, Mr. Blackwood. “Is that all?” he asked the flyman.

  “Yes, sir. I reckon so.”

  “I see. Has anyone treated that wound for you?” Sinclair asked, his demeanor grown kinder. “You say this fellow Parker did it? Cut you?”

  “Aye, sir, bu’ I don’ need no tendin’.”

  “Yes, you do. Come with me. I’ll ask my housekeeper to look after you. She’s a very skilled nurse. What happened to your spectacles?”

  Tawbry’s hands unconsciously touched his bulbous nose, where a slightly cleaner stripe of skin connected the thick brows. “They go’ broke in the figh’, sir.”

  “Then we shall see that they are replaced. Come with me.”

  The marquess led the man back through the side garden and into the kitchens once more. After leaving him sitting at the table surrounded by a ring of curious scullery maids, Charles pulled the cook and housekeeper aside to a solitary spot near the bottom of the servants’ staircase.

  “Mrs. Meyer, I hope you and Mrs. Smith will forgive the interruption to your evening. This gentleman may not possess graceful manners, nor is he of pleasant countenance, but he is in need of medical care. I hope that I do not overstep. My experience in life is as a policeman who orders men about, so if ever I treat either of you unkindly, you must let me know. This man—Mr. Tawbry—has been a wealth of information to me regarding the murder at the Lyceum on Tuesday night. I feel that he has earned our indulgence. Do you mind?”

  Meyer actually blushed. “Oh, sir, you mustn’t ever think your actions are anything but kind! Had we known this gentleman was one of your—what do you call them, sir? Informants?”

  “Yes, that’s correct, Mrs. Meyer,” the detective answered, smiling. “Of course, most in the east have a far less gentle way of referring to those who offer information to the police. I’ve heard them called grasses, snitches, rats, rossers, even spawns of Abaddon, if you can believe it.”

  Smith blinked. “Is that so? I must say, my lord, that your experience in the world makes ours seem quite ordinary!”

  “I seriously doubt that, Mrs. Smith. Though I’ve only been part of this family for a short time, already I’ve heard tales of your bravery in the face of danger. The duke mentioned a time when you aided our little duchess in the herb garden, saving her from a poisonous adder. And Mrs. Meyer, you served with the duke in two theatres of war, I understand, and comported yourself most admirably; particularly as regards your time in Turkey during the Crimean. But I have interrupted your quiet evening with all this, ladies. Again, forgive me.”

  “Really, my lord, it is no interruption at all. None at all,” Meyer answered as she peered around the corner at the bashful visitor. “You say his name is Tawbry, sir?”

  “Yes. Gus Tawbry.”

  “Mr. Tawbry!” she called to the man. “Do come through, sir. I shall fix you up in my office, if you don’t mind.” Meyer turned back to the marquess. “We can handle it now, sir. Oh, and I’ve sent the medicine you requested with Alicia. Is my lady feeling better? Mrs. Smith and Mr. Miles both mentioned that the little duchess is still off her food.”

  “Her stomach is rather delicate just now,” he whispered. “Nerves.”

  “Ah, yes,” the housekeeper replied, though her expression made it clear that she doubted the diagnosis. “I suppose that makes a kind of
sense, doesn’t it, sir? Getting married is a big step, after all.”

  Hilda Smith agreed. “Aye, gettin’ married can set a lady’s stomach all aflutter. The duchess has always been right sensitive, ya know. I’ll make sure that we offer something light and easily digested at every meal from now on.”

  Meyer started to follow Tawbry into the office, but then turned, glancing at Sinclair. “Lord Haimsbury, I wonder, might Dr. Price have left any instructions regarding a special diet for my lady? Foods that will help in nourishing her, uh, delicate constitution?”

  Charles stared at the perceptive woman. She knows, he realised. “None that he mentioned to me, but I shall ask when next he stops by. And may I say, Mrs. Meyer, that you and Mrs. Smith are the foundation of this home? We should all be lost without you.” He kissed the right cheek of each woman, causing the prim housekeeper to blush profusely, and the plump cook to giggle like a schoolgirl.

  Charles climbed quickly back up the stairs, and the women returned to their duties, each stroking her cheek thoughtfully, eyes twinkling.

  Standing nearby, just inside the door to the butler’s pantry, Gertrude Trumper began to consider what she’d overheard. She’s off her food and faintin’. Reckon I know the real reason ‘er ‘igh and migh’y is poorly. I wonder which one is the father.

  With this playing in her mind, the Londoner left the doorway and tiptoed through a connecting hallway towards the housekeeping office, where Meyer now tended to the flyman’s wounds. Gertrude’s objective—the medicine chest—stood open as if daring the maid to theft. The housekeeper’s back was to the door, and Trumper entered, treading softly to avoid detection. Cynthia Meyer’s attention was upon the hand lens she now used to examine her patient’s eyes. Taking advantage of the distraction, the newly hired maid quietly removed the remaining paper packet from the chest’s top layer. After stuffing the powder into her uniform pocket, she hastily left the office and followed the narrow staircase up to the third floor living quarters.