The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Entering the small room she shared with Aggie MacGowan, Gertie made certain no one else lurked in the hallway and then shut the door behind her. After unlocking a dresser drawer, she withdrew an ornate, green bottle and opened its stopper. She then added the packet of sleeping medicine to the vial. Including the liquid already inside, the addition filled it to the three-quarters mark.

  “This’ll fix ‘er,” the girl whispered to herself as she stoppered the bottle and stored it once again in the locked drawer. She gazed into a beveled mirror that stood over the simple dressing table she shared with MacGowan.

  “You there, sir?” she said aloud. “I done wha’ you asked. I got that bottle o’ medicine from the old gypsy, an’ I added somethin’ extra, jus’ ta make sure she sleeps through it.”

  A shadowy figure materialised within the mirror’s surface, the indistinct form slowly assuming a pleasing shape: tall, regal, dark-haired. The image smiled.

  “When shall I use it?” she asked him.

  “I shall tell you soon, my dear,” he replied in heavily accented English. His ice-blue eyes were rimmed in black lashes, and to Gertrude, he appeared as beautiful as any god.

  “You shore is ‘andsome, sir,” she told the lying creature. “You ever gonna meet me, sir? You know, in the real world?”

  “Soon, Gertrude,” the image promised, his eyes smoking to a crimson hue. “Very, very soon. For now, keep the bottle of medicine safe. Allow no one to discover it.”

  “And when it’s done, sir?”

  “Then, I shall give you the reward you deserve, my dear. You will join me forever—as a lady of the night.”

  Once back inside the drawing room, Charles found the duke perusing one of the evening papers. “What did Stephens want?” the Scotsman asked his nephew.

  “Do you remember that Paul and I mentioned a flyman from the Lyceum?” Sinclair began.

  “Aye,” Drummond replied, reaching into his pocket for a pipe. “You spoke to him about a peculiar shadow that Paul had seen onstage, as I recall.”

  “That’s right, sir. His name’s Gus Tawbry, and we gave him our cards and asked that he contact us if he ever learnt anything new, which is why he’s here now. Tawbry tells me that a fellow calling himself Parker has been flashing a long knife and wads of money, hoping to impress the actresses at the theatre. The unsociable behaviour has cost this Parker his job, but he continues to harass anyone who challenges him, and Tawbry did so to his detriment. Meyer is patching him up now. The poor man will wear a long scar upon his face for the rest of his life, I should think.”

  “He was cut? Charles, do you think this Parker could be Ripper?” Drummond asked.

  “He certainly claims to be—or so he has implied to all at the Lyceum. Where is Martin, by the way? Did he already leave?”

  “No, our tailor is on an expedition in search of a bottle of wine, and Victoria’s gone up with Della. With Paul out, it’s just the three of us for the evening.”

  Charles took a seat just as Kepelheim returned, holding a dusty bottle of wine in each hand. “Do forgive the wait, Your Grace. It took me longer than I’d thought, for the cellars here have been re-arranged since my last visit, but I believe this vintage will suffice. Did I miss anything interesting? I overheard Mrs. Meyer speaking to some fellow in her office when I walked past. It looked to me as if he’d taken the worst in a rather energetic fracas.”

  “The man’s name is Gus Tawbry,” Sinclair answered.

  At that moment, Samson the terrier scampered into the room and began sniffing everyone’s hands as if inspecting their washing habits. “Hello, boy,” the detective said good-naturedly. “Have you decided to spend the evening with the men?”

  Martin set the wine bottles onto a carved, rococo-style table that stood behind one of the sofas. “Tawbry? Isn’t that the fellow who spoke to you as we were leaving on Wednesday morning, Charles? The rather dirty-faced one who reeked of gin?”

  “I think he’s left off strong drink for the present, Martin, but yes, the same,” the marquess answered, scratching the dog’s ears. “He claims a man named Parker has been keeping company with a group of hybrids.”

  Drummond struck a match to the pipe. “Hybrids? The man used that word?”

  “Not exactly. He calls them wolfmen, actually—or wolves that walk like men. This Parker was recently dismissed from Irving’s employ, but was flashing money about, regardless, claiming he’d found luck at the pit dog fights. When Gus called him out as a liar, Parker wounded our flyman and broke his spectacles. Gus is being tended by Mrs. Meyer just now, but I wonder if another visit to the Lyceum is in order.”

  “To see the play again?” the tailor asked with a wink.

  “Not if I can avoid it,” the detective answered, turning to look at Victoria’s dog. The terrier had leapt upon a nearby chair, deciding to take a snooze. Samson circled several times and then lay upon his back near the window. Within minutes, he’d begun to snore, all four paws in the air, twitching as he dreamt.

  “Samson likes this house, I think,” Sinclair noted. “Is he allowed on the furniture?”

  “He’s allowed wherever he wishes to go, apparently. Tory’s much too permissive. My dogs know better,” Drummond grumbled, casting a disapproving glare at the Parson Russell. James placed the pipe into the corner of his mouth, chewing on it as he spoke. “Charles, if you must return to the theatre, wait until Paul or one of us can accompany you. I’ve begun to worry about you, son.”

  “I’m fine, sir. Policing Whitechapel has taught me caution,” he replied, pointing to the pistol inside his coat.

  “Nevertheless, I want you to have company,” Drummond insisted. “Consider that an order. I’ll not have my great-grandchild’s father out and about where Redwing’s experiments might bring him harm. Oh, I do hope it’s all right that I mentioned it. Martin told me that he knows.”

  “It’s fine, sir,” the marquess said, smiling at the animal’s curious posture.

  “Look here, laddy,” Drummond continued, “there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you, when you’ve the time. One of them has to do with Loudain House.”

  Kepelheim had set three glasses onto the table, but suddenly recalling a promise, he reached into his pocket. “I nearly forgot, Charles. I’ve a note for you. Lester gave it to me as I passed him in the foyer earlier. I’m pouring glasses for all of us. A sort of celebration, in honour of our beloved duchess. Whilst in the cellars, I uncovered an entire rack of this lovely wine, if you can imagine it. Château Lafite ‘65. A very nice year. I’m sure it was Connor who added these to the inventory. Patricia never cared much for Bordeaux, as I recall. Didn’t the late duchess prefer white wine, Your Grace?”

  “Patricia? Aye, she liked Chablis, but only because Connor preferred the opposite,” the duke replied, his voice revealing a low opinion of the late duchess. “Trish was contrary when it came to my son. That reminds me, Martin. Charles has agreed to become my heir. Did I tell you that?”

  “Has he? That is absolutely wonderful news! Another cause for celebration! I’m sure Connor would have approved,” the tailor answered as he poured a sampling of the wine into a long-stemmed glass. “I wonder if I should allow this to breathe a bit?” he whispered aloud as Charles read through the letter.

  The duke laughed. “Don’t ask me. Ring for Miles, if you’re unsure. I’m content with whisky, but you do as you please. Charles, I’m told that you had some photos taken wearing the Stuart tartan on Wednesday. We’ll need to get one o’ you wearin’ the full Drummond regalia. Better yet, a painting! You’re nearly Connor’s size, and I’d imagine his kilt would fit you. I think it’s packed in a trunk at my house. I’ll have Booth send it over.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the marquess answered, looking up. “I’m not sure I have the knees for it, but I’ll wear it, if you wish.”

  “Who’s the letter from?” the duke as
ked as he fiddled with the pipe to make it draw better.

  “Edmund Reid. He voices concern regarding tomorrow’s meeting time. With the mayor’s procession planned for ten, it’s likely the streets will become impassable by eight. In fact, most of them are already shut to wheeled traffic twixt here and Leman Street. We may have to reschedule, yet again. Is that the evening Gazette?”

  “The Times, actually. Not much news,” James said, tapping the paper next to him. “Most of it’s filled with columns about tomorrow morning’s doings. You’d think the Lord Mayor’s being crowned the new monarch, for all the fuss the press is making! As you say, he’s shutting down most of the streets ‘twixt here and the city. It’ll be a chore for anyone to make it tomorrow morning. Reid may be right, but if we do postpone, then let’s move it to Loudain House. I could have Booth and his men open it, if you approve.”

  “James, you’re the leader. I’m pleased to participate whenever, wherever you wish, but let’s not delay it too long. Monday?” Sinclair suggested. “We’d planned to overlook Loudain House that day, anyway. A circle meeting would allow the full London membership to help us make decisions regarding how best to utilise the space.”

  Kepelheim swirled the sample of the wine, examining it for signs of sedimentation. “Monday? Mr. Blackwood will want to see you again early next week, I should think, Charles. Did we tell him Tuesday?”

  “Yes,” Sinclair answered. “I think so, at least. I’ve yet to hire that secretary you mentioned, though I promise to interview him once the wedding’s done. I suppose Sunday is impossible.”

  “We’re having the Churchills and Cartringhams over for luncheon following morning services,” Drummond explained. “My sister has arranged it all. Charles, make sure your cousin attends, won’t you? Delia Wychwright will be singing that morning, and I suspect it’s primarily to impress him.”

  The policeman rolled his eyes. “That girl is certainly persistent! Very well, Sunday is out, or the afternoon is, at least. Might we meet that evening, sir? Warren gave me information that we must discuss as a group, and with Beth’s recent nightmares, I think it important that we gather as soon as possible.”

  “Have we ruled out Saturday?” the tailor asked, sniffing the wine’s bouquet.

  “I don’t believe so,” the duke answered. “What about Saturday morning at ten?”

  “I have to visit Whitechapel that morning, sir, but I could return by noon. Would early afternoon work for everyone?”

  “Let’s make it one, and we’ll serve luncheon, but it will have to be here, since the kitchens at Loudain haven’t been used in decades. Martin, write that time and date down in your enormous brain, will you? In the meantime, we can meet as a family tomorrow morning. Pull the bellrope, will you, Martin? I’ve an errand for our Mr. Miles.”

  The tailor complied and in a moment the efficient butler answered. “Sir?”

  “I’ll need one of your footmen to run to the telegraph office, Miles.”

  “Most of the footmen are enjoying entertainment with the grooms, sir.”

  “Cards?” Drummond asked, winking. “They work hard. I canno’ begrudge them a few hours o’ play. Is your underbutler available?”

  “He is, sir.”

  “Good. If you’ll bring me a scrap o’ paper, I’ll write it down. It goes to Sir Thomas Galton at his home in Mayfair. He’ll make sure everyone else receives the message.”

  Within five minutes, James Stuart had composed a short note regarding the altered date and time for the circle meeting, and Miles dispatched Stephens in a coach to carry out the order.

  “Tomorrow, we’ll go over anything you think important, Charles,” the duke told his nephew. “I’ll see if Tory might find a means to distract our duchess.”

  Sinclair felt weary, but adding to the sense of fatigue was the weight of an incomprehensible foreboding. “I promised Elizabeth that we’d share a picnic at the other house on Saturday afternoon. If we could finish by five, I’m sure she’d appreciate it. Will Dr. MacPherson be able make it tomorrow morning?”

  “Aye, he lives this side o’ the city, so I imagine he can. Why?”

  “Spiritual questions that I’d put to him.”

  Drummond leaned back against the sofa. “If these pertain to Beth’s experiences, I could ask her to join us as well.”

  “No, James. I prefer she did not.”

  The brown and white terrier’s eyes popped opened, and the dog squirmed to a new position on the upholstered chair, his attention captured by a large, black moth at the window. The animal’s head cocked to one side, and a stripe of bristly hair rose up along his spotted back.

  The three men took no notice, continuing their conversation.

  “Why shouldn’t Elizabeth be part of the meetings, son?” Drummond asked. “She’s at the centre of all our discussions, and her experiences with these entities could bring insights we lack.”

  “I appreciate that, James, but I prefer those experiences be relayed through myself or the earl for the present. I’ve no wish to stifle her input, but Beth is very delicate at the moment. I’m sure you understand.”

  Drummond grinned, his dark eyes twinkling. “Aye, I certainly do understand. Tis a delicacy that makes this old man very happy. Very well. I’ll not press the issue. What did Warren have to say this evening? Is he resigning?”

  The dog growled softly, its body posture altering once more, so that the chin was low, tail held high, ears back. In response, the moth fluttered against the panes of the south window. The gas lamps of the portico shimmered against its iridescent wings and revealed two marks that looked for all the world like a pair of red eyes.

  Martin held the wine glass up to the chandelier’s light, swirling the Bordeaux slightly before tasting. “Oh, this is quite delicious!” he exclaimed, pouring himself a full glass. “Charles, you really must have some. Lafite is spectacular, but also medicinal. It settles the stomach following a heavy meal and even aids in sleep.”

  “I’ve no trouble sleeping most...” Sinclair started to answer, but the dog’s sudden movement caught his attention. The animal pounced against the glass as if trying to strike or bite the persistent moth. “Samson!” the marquess cried out as he rose to remove the dog. “What has you so upset? It’s only a moth.”

  Bending to retrieve the animal, Charles froze, for he could now see precisely what the dog saw: not a moth at all, but an enormous, inky figure with two red eyes within a blank face.

  Drummond and Kepelheim perceived nothing, for the two men continued to chat genially as they sampled the wine. Finally, noticing his friend’s prolonged silence and frozen position, the tailor spoke. “Charles?”

  “Does anyone else see that?” Sinclair asked the others, his eyes wide.

  Drummond stared, but perceived nothing amiss. “See what, son?”

  Kepelheim set down the wine glass and walked to the window, joining the marquess. “What do you see, Charles?” he asked pointedly.

  “A creature. It’s looking at me,” the marquess explained. “It’s approximately nine feet tall with an oval sort of face, though there’s no nose or mouth. Just red eyes. It’s watching me as I speak, Martin. Listening. Wait! It’s moving backwards now, away from the window. Good heavens!” he gasped. “It grows even larger: fifteen, sixteen feet in height—and it has wings!”

  Kepelheim squinted at the retreating moth, trying to see past the veil that disguised the demonic presence. His attention thus distracted, the tailor nearly missed it when Sinclair started to fall.

  “Charles!” the duke shouted, leaping to his feet and reaching his nephew just as Kepelheim clutched at the collapsing peer’s shoulder.

  “Sit, my friend. Sit! Shall I send for George Price?”

  “No, I’m all right,” the detective assured the tailor as he leaned back against the chair. His breath came quickly, and a cold sweat covered his brow.
“Neither of you saw it?”

  “I saw only a peculiar looking moth,” Kepelheim told him.

  “A moth?” the duke asked. “No, it was more like a bat!”

  Charles sighed. “Neither, though it’s likely this creature conceals itself beneath multiple layers of lies. I’d take some of that whisky you mentioned, sir,” he told Drummond.

  The duke rang for Miles, and the butler entered. “My lord?”

  “Bring us some of your strongest whisky, Mr. Miles,” James told the man.

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  “I wish Paul were here,” Drummond said, moving to a chair beside his nephew. “Did you see anything else? Sense anything?”

  Sinclair shook his head. “Nothing I can explain. Is this how Beth feels when she sees visions that elude the eyes of others? I know that creature was there, James. Staring into this room like a hellish spy of some kind. Sir, do you mind if we speak more of this tomorrow? I’d like to go up to Beth soon. I’ve an unsettled sense, and I would make sure of her safety.”

  “Of course. You go sleep, son,” he said as the butler returned with a decanter of Drummond Reserve. “That was quick!”

  “From the library, Your Grace. Some that I’d already decanted for tomorrow’s meeting. I fear that it’s the last of the ’22 Reserve. Would you prefer to save it for tomorrow? I could fetch the Glenlivet.”

  “Certainly not! I’ve six casks of the ’22 and plenty of other years at the castle, if we run low. Pour our marquess a large glass, will you? Has my sister gone to bed?”

  “Lady Victoria and Lady Adele retired to the upstairs library with Mrs. Wilsham, sir. They mentioned an embroidery project.”

  “And what about Mrs. Marchand? Is she about?”

  “Lady Victoria’s nurse has gone out, sir. I believe she is walking the north gardens. The rain has stopped, and she said something about stretching her legs. Shall I send a footman to fetch her, sir?”