“Thank you. I hope you’ll call me Charles. This lofty title still feels rather like a coat that’s three sizes too big.”
“You’ll soon grow into that coat,” MacPherson assured him. “You said something earlier about a spiritual visitation last night. What did you mean by that?”
“The duchess has been suffering from recurrent nightmares, which I believe are spiritually derived. Last night brought more of these troubling dreams, but we also had a visitation from something not entirely human.”
“Not entirely human? A curious way to describe this visitor. What do you think it was?” the clergyman asked as the butler entered, pushing a tea cart.
“Would you mind shutting those doors, Miles?” the duke asked. “I’d not want my granddaughter or Lady Della stumbling into our conversation. Go on, Charles.”
“You’re right, sir. Perhaps, it would be best if we reserve this sort of talk for our meeting,” Sinclair suggested. “Miles, would it be inconvenient if we adjourned to the library? I assume the room is still arranged for the circle meeting.”
“Yes, sir, but it is no inconvenience at all. If you wish, I can serve breakfast in there.”
“Yes, thank you, that would be most helpful, Miles. Uncle James, let’s continue this discussion in private. But first, I may walk the grounds again to see if our visitor left any tracks we missed last night,” the marquess said as Victoria’s dog ran past the open doorway, his lead taut. Lester quickly followed, a woolen overcoat flapping open as he tried to button it with one hand. Sinclair began to laugh, and he called to the dog. “Samson, do be careful with our first footman, will you? Shall I lend a hand?” he asked the servant.
The disheveled footman pulled gently on the leather cord, dismayed but ever stoic, replying drily, “Thank you, my lord, but I believe the animal is more than capable of exerting his preferences unaided.”
Charles laughed again as he reached for the dog’s leash. “My offer is for you, Lester, not the dog. Here now; allow me. I’ll take him for a walk. No need to fetch my coat. I’ve spent many a chilly morning investigating crime. I’m not dismayed by the cold. Perhaps, you could be of service to Mr. Miles. We’re convening a small meeting in the library. Come on, boy,” he said to the animal. “Let’s see what your superior nose might sniff out around the grounds. Uncle, I shan’t be long!”
The air was thin and cold, and the skies showed very little blue amongst the thick nimbus clouds. Most of Westminster’s chimneys belched billows of acidic grey smoke, and the detective wondered if he’d made a mistake by not donning an overcoat. The dog seemed to have a definite direction in mind, heading quickly ‘round the waterlily fountain, through a statuary park, and straight towards the small pond near the south wall that overlooked St. James’s Park. With his long legs, Sinclair had no trouble keeping up with the terrier, and he tucked his left hand into his pocket to warm his bare fingers, his experienced eyes scanning the area for footmarks upon the frosty grass. To his surprise, he found dozens of tracks—apparently left by a very large animal—perhaps a mastiff or wolfhound.
Samson stopped to relieve himself in several spots, all of them close to the strange paw prints within the hoary grass, marking them as proof of an enemy invasion. A stocky man in dark, cotton twill coveralls, topped by a single-breasted woolen overcoat stepped towards Sinclair. He carried a broken shotgun, crooked against the inside of his left elbow.
“Mornin’, my lord,” Frame said. “Mighty early ta be out fer a stroll. I reckon Samson’s a might anxious ‘bout them tracks.”
“Good morning to you, Frame,” the marquess said cheerfully. “Yes, he’s been furiously marking this curious set of prints. Was there a large animal running through here last night? A neighbour’s dog, perhaps?”
The gardener shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir. Them prints is too big fer any dogs known ta me. Seems most peculiar, specially after tha’ nurse thought she seen a great bat or summat crawlin’ up the side o’ the house. Me and Mr. Powers have our men scourin’ the park ta make sure everythin’s as it should be, sir.”
“And is it?” the marquess asked as Samson pulled free of the leash. “Oh, fiddle! Victoria’s going to be cross if he gets away. Are all the gates shut?”
Frame pointed down the long, gravel lane, to the south. “Aye, sir, though it’s hard ta see in this ‘ere fog. Young Mr. Childers is down at the main entrance now, keepin’ watch from inside the gatehouse. We usually open the gates at nine, but Lord Aubrey ordered ‘em all kept shut. Is everythin’ all right, my lord?”
“Yes, I think so,” Sinclair replied. “We’ve guests arriving this morning; though, not many. The duke had hoped to host a large meeting of the inner circle, but the city’s new mayor had other plans. Most of the streets that lead here are closed to wheeled traffic not part of the mayoral procession.”
“We been told as much by the earl. His lordship was walkin’ the grounds this mornin’ as well, sir. Round ‘bout seven o’clock. He spoke ta Powers ‘bout them tracks. I don’ reckon it’s dogs, sir. Iffin you asks me, sir, I think it’s them wolves.”
“Wolves?” Haimsbury asked as he followed the dog’s path. “Do you refer to normal wolves or something less so?”
Frame smiled and pointed to the shotgun. “Let’s just say that we’s all prayin’ it’s the normal kind, sir. Don’ reckon buckshot’d take down one o’ them other types o’ wolves. Looks like her ladyship’s dog found summat, sir. He’s gone ta ground.”
Not far from the rowan trees, Samson had begun to dig a deep hole. “I’m not sure the duchess would approve of your labours, Samson,” Sinclair said. “Those pink asters are some of her favourite flowers.”
The gardener knelt beside the dog, carefully examining the surrounding area. “There’s lots o’ them tracks, ‘ere, too, my lord. All ‘bout these beds. I reckon Samson don’ like ‘ow they smell. Well, look at tha’!” he exclaimed. “The dog’s found summat.”
Samson turned about and sat before the marquess, looking up at Sinclair proudly. The terrier’s spotted muzzle was stained with rich brown earth, and he presented a package, held firmly betwixt his teeth.
“Can you get it from him, Frame?”
“Come on, boy. Show ol’ Frame what cha got,” the gardener said smoothly as he gently tapped the dog’s nose.
Obediently, Samson dropped the parcel, which was tied with thick twine. Picking it up, Frame brushed away the damp earth. “Iffin tha’ don’ beat all! It’s go’ yer name on it, sir. Writ in red ink.”
“Hand it to me, Frame,” Charles said, a dark foreboding creeping into the pit of his stomach. The package was approximately four inches by three and wrapped in brown butcher’s paper. “Would you mind taking the dog?”
The gardener complied, and Charles returned to the house, the muddy package clutched within his hand. In a few minutes, he arrived inside the library. “Shut that door will you, Uncle? I want none of the staff to see this.”
The duke secured the door and joined his nephew at the table. “What on earth is it?”
“What ‘in earth’ might be a better question,” Sinclair answered. “Our intrepid terrier uncovered it. See here? Marked in red ink? It is my name,” he told the two men.
MacPherson put on a pair of tortoise shell spectacles and reached for the box. “May I?” he asked. The marquess nodded, and the clergyman took the strange package, holding it up to the chandelier’s light. “It’s also marked with a date. See? Here, on the underside, again written in red.”
“Beth’s been receiving taunting messages from a fiend who calls himself ‘Saucy Jack’, and each is written in red ink,” Charles noted angrily. “I imagine this is another of his hideous pranks.”
“Nine November,” the duke read aloud. “That’s today.”
Charles grew quiet for a moment, his thoughts running back to the strange conversation with Sir Charles Warren the pr
evious evening. “The ninth day of the ninth month.”
“No, son. The eleventh,” the duke corrected.
“Yes, November is the eleventh month of the Gregorian year, but doesn’t the name imply it is the ninth month?”
MacPherson agreed. “I see what you mean. In the old Julian calendar, November, from the Latin novem, was the ninth, just as December is the tenth. Why, Charles?”
“One might then say that today’s date is ‘nine, nine’—or rather ninety-nine, sir. Thirty-three times three. Of course, the eleventh month also works, as eleven times nine also equals ninety-nine.”
“Is that significant?” asked MacPherson.
“Yes, I think it is. Last evening, I spoke at great length with Sir Charles Warren regarding his discovery of a stone marker in Syria. He believes this stone once held an imprisoned fallen angel.”
“Once held?” MacPherson asked, worry creasing his forehead and mouth. “Why do you say once? Does Warren know this as fact, or does he guess?”
“He deduces it, based on an inscription written upon the stone, but also from incidents that followed its removal from Syria and subsequent installation in London.”
“Syria,” the cleric whispered. “Was this stone found on Mount Hermon by any chance?”
The marquess nodded. “Yes, but how did you know?”
“I shall explain later, but do continue, Charles.”
“Very well, but I would hear what information you hold, Dr. MacPherson. Warren told me that the marker was delivered to London in 1870, and the following year, on the thirty-first of March, its crate was opened by a curator, who died for his trouble; found slain beside that open crate. Warren gave me a long and intricate explanation as to the numerology behind why he believes that stone had to be opened on that particular date. He’s convinced that the entity once imprisoned within it, derived maximum occult power by emerging on the third of March, 1879. Sir Charles insists that thirty-three holds high significance with the fallen realm, as does the number three. Ninety-nine combines both numbers. 1879 is a prime number, but more to the point, this creature emerged only nine days before Elizabeth’s third birthday. The very day she first began having nightmares.”
The duke stared at the box, slowly nodding, as comprehension took hold. “Aye. She had that first dream that very night, and they continued for weeks afterward. Connor told Robert Stuart and me about it. I assume it was Paul told you.”
“Yes, but I feel as if I have a lot of catch-up work to do regarding the spirits that swirl around my fiancée’s life. Warren feels certain that this stone served as a prison, and that its former inmate now roams the streets of England. Now, we find a package left in Beth’s garden, overwritten with a date that might be construed as ‘nine, nine’. But regardless of how we interpret it, the result is ninety-nine. Is it possible that the date written upon this package is part of a coded ritual to summon such an entity?”
Edward MacPherson removed his spectacles, staring at the detective with wide eyes. “The duke was right about you, Lord Haimsbury. You have learnt a great deal since returning to your family. Our circle needs men such as you.”
The marquess shook his head. “I have no special talents.”
“Oh, but you do!” James insisted. “However, now’s not the time to debate that point. Open it, son. Let’s see why it was buried here last night, and why your name is written upon it.”
The detective found a letter knife in a small desk near the door and used it to cut the twine. The butcher’s paper unfolded like a flower, revealing hideous contents that shocked all three men: crimson flesh that looked as if it had been purchased from a pork seller lay inside.
“No wonder the dog found this of interest,” Drummond observed. “Is it animal or human?”
During his years as a detective, Charles had learnt a great deal about anatomy, and he immediately recognised the familiar shape. “It is a human kidney,” he declared.
“Wasn’t a kidney removed from one of the Ripper’s victims?” MacPherson asked as all three men huddled over the gruesome gift.
“How did you know that?” Charles asked. “We didn’t release that information to the press.”
“Reid,” the duke replied. “His circle loyalty is fierce. Is this sent by Ripper then?”
Charles sighed. “I cannot say, but if so, it isn’t Elizabeth Stride’s. Only a portion of her kidney remains unaccounted for. Also, this is too fresh to be hers, though it does bear signs of glycerin preservation. It might be from one of the Victoria Park victims. They both had organs removed.” He took one of the sheets of writing paper, intended for use during the circle meeting, and used it to lift the excised organ from its packaging. Beneath it, they discovered a message, written in what appeared to be blood with a man’s finger. Sinclair bit his lower lip, for the implication was clear. “It’s an address in Spitalfields. James, I fear I must find a way to reach Whitechapel this morning, despite the congestion of the streets.”
“13 Miller’s Court,” MacPherson read aloud. “You know this place?”
“I do. It’s a dangerous rookery behind Dorset Street, not more than a block from where we found Elizabeth’s mother nearly a decade ago. Please, James, apologise to Beth for me; and when my cousin returns, tell him that I’ll be at this address. If what I fear has indeed occurred, then I may be away for a very long time.”
Chapter Six
Early that morning - Miller’s Court
Dorset Street in Spitalfields ran east-west from Crispin to Commercial, connecting White’s Row on the south to Union on the north. Towards the east, the lofty spire of Christ Church rose gracefully into the brisk morning air, its bells declaring the Lord Mayor’s procession day. To the west, the poor children of the Ragged School gathered in a muddy gravel yard, each wide-eyed pupil counted twice by Headmistress Hazel Parmenter before the excited group commenced the long walk towards Leadenhall Street, where each impish set of eyes would strain to catch a fleeting glimpse of the city’s new mayor, attired in colourful regalia. He’d be riding in a grand coach amidst a circus of mounted and mechanical followers, that included the ancient guardians of Guildhall: hand-carved effigies of England’s giants of legend, Gog and Magog.
It was half ten in the morning, when Thomas “Indian Harry” Bowyer arrived to collect twenty-nine shillings of overdue rent from the young woman who let the tiny room at no. 13, which sat just inside the narrow enclosure known as Miller’s Court. The entry to the claustrophobic yard of crumbling brick and misery stood next to 27 Dorset, site of a chandler’s shop run by slum landlord John McCarthy. Annie Chapman, who’d fallen victim to the Ripper’s knife on the eighth of September, had once lived at 35 Dorset. Spitalfields had a reputation for playing host to debauchery and crime, but those who lived in the east considered Miller’s Court and Dorset Street the black heart of an ever-lengthening, evil shadow.
‘Indian Harry’ Bowyer (so-called for his army career in the far east) served as McCarthy’s right arm in this low-rent, high-crime section of Tower Hamlets Borough. Two small children ran past the bearded man’s legs as he reached the door to the tiny bedsit.
“Oi! Watch it, there!” Bowyer shouted, as the boy bumped against his side in an attempt at pickpocketing. “I’ll clout your ‘ead next time, ya little toerag!”
The outraged man continued to mutter complaints about unruly gangs and indifferent schoolteachers as he knocked on Kelly’s door. He’d been here almost daily for many weeks, but each time the pretty blonde had convinced the stocky army pensioner to delay just one more day, claiming that she hoped to receive a windfall from a distant relative. Today, Bowyer would accept no excuses, for landlord John McCarthy, owner of Miller’s Court, had warned his employee that failure this time meant the overdue amount would be taken out of his pay.
“Mary!” the rent collector shouted angrily.
A woman named Liz Prater, another
denizen of the shabby court, walked past in company with a visitor named Sarah Lewis. “I doubt she’s awake,” Prater told Bowyer. “She were up ‘alf the night singin’ and entertainin’ some toff. I seen ‘im go in wiv ‘er. Drunk an’ actin’ like she were the Queen o’ Sheba ‘erself!”
“Queen or no, she’s payin’ what she owes,” Bowyer declared as he pounded on the door, but not a sound emerged from within the quiet room.
Prater shrugged, glancing knowingly at her companion. “Like I tolds ya, ‘arry; Mary’s dead ta the world.”
The two women continued on their way, and the rent collector pounded again, calling louder this time. “Mary! I know you’re in there! Open up, or I send for Bobby Blue!”
Receiving no reply, Bowyer walked around the corner of the building, where he noticed a break in one of the window panes. He pushed through the opening, against the closed blinds, so that he might see into the dimly lit room.
The horrific vision within the small chamber chilled his blood, and Bowyer nearly fell backwards, his heart skipping beats as it tried to calm his addled brain. Stumbling in shock, the rent collector headed back towards no. 27 and rushed into the chandler’s shop, shouting at John McCarthy. “She’s dead! Mary’s dead, an’ it’s ‘im again! Lord above, it’s ‘im!”
McCarthy dropped his pen, spilling India blue ink across the desk. The two men sprinted back to no. 13, and soon the entire Dorset Street congregation whispered the tragic news: Jack the Ripper had once again crept into their midst and sliced away a woman’s life; but this time, his insatiable madness had reached horrors beyond anything imaginable. This time, he’d practically devoured his victim, cutting into her like one might slice open a roast pig before serving it up for supper. It was like something out of a German fairytale, some said. Like a ravenous wolf devouring an old woman or an innocent child in a cloak of red.
As Bowyer and McCarthy shouted for constables, a trio of flies lit upon the windowsill inside the flat; their iridescent wings flicking, compound eyes reflecting the bloodstained scene like a hundred rainbow mirrors in a carnival sideshow. The largest of the three left the window and landed upon the dead woman’s face, its head tilting as it pondered the congealed blood.
The Blood Is the Life Page 10