If flies could smile, this one would have been described as grinning like a Jack-O-Lantern. Satisfied with its handiwork, the shapeshifter flew back to the window and signalled to his friends. The trio buzzed out through the broken pane to await the arrival of their ultimate prey.
Charles Sinclair.
Elizabeth Stuart awoke at half past eleven, disappointed to find Charles had left the house. Breakfast had long since been finished, but the cook prepared a bowl of oatmeal and toast along with a pot of peppermint tea, beaming with satisfaction when she learnt that the duchess had eaten nearly all of it.
At one, Beth met with George Price, who pronounced her much improved, though still somewhat pale and undernourished. The kind-hearted physician also examined the cadre of measles patients and admonished the housekeeper to keep all five in bed for another two days, when he’d return for a follow-up examination.
Having been given permission to walk outside, the duchess wrapped herself warmly and strolled towards the stables, intent on visiting Snowdrop, who had yet to foal. As she neared the main doors, a sudden gust of cold wind nearly blew her off her feet, and Elizabeth put up her hands in defence.
“I cannot stay long,” a man’s voice whispered as a warm hand touched her shoulder.
Elizabeth stopped, her boots causing no sound at all. She looked up at the overcast sky, and even the clouds had ceased to move.
“Forgive me for appearing to you without warning, Duchess. It is rare that you leave the confines of the house of late, so I took the opportunity when I sensed you had come outside.”
“Prince Anatole,” she said, her breathing rapid. “What is this? How are you here, and what has happened to the clouds? What do you mean you sensed it?”
“So many questions combined into one,” he said as he took her gloved hand. “Sit, please. The bench is not cold.”
Though the air temperature stood near freezing, the stone bench felt warm beneath her coat. “How? The seat is warm, almost like it glows with heat. ”
“A minor manipulation of matter,” he answered. “As to the clouds, I have paused time for you. I may not hold you here for long, though. Elizaveta—may I call you that?”
She nodded.
“Good. Elizaveta, I know that you do not trust me entirely, but I wish only for your happiness. I fear that a time of great trouble lies ahead for you. A time of testing. May I show you?”
“Show me?” she asked. Romanov answered by touching his hand to her forehead, and a series of images filled her mind.
She found herself looking down upon a scene covered in white. Slowly, Elizabeth realised that the white was actually snow, and she could feel the cold snowflakes as they fell upon her face and hands. She wore no overcoat, and her unbound hair blew in the breeze. Below her vantage point, chaos reigned. She could hear frantic calls, shouts, and the clanging of bells. Horses neighed as if panicked, and the clatter of wagon wheels on cobblestone rose up in the darkness. Despite the stars overhead, a strange, orange light flickered upon the snow-white ground.
Then she saw him. Charles Sinclair, and he appeared injured. He lay upon the snow, his sea-blue eyes open and staring. His limbs still; face pale as death. Delicate snowflakes collected upon his dark lashes, but he did not react. A stain of red slowly seeped into the virgin white ground, surrounding his frozen body in deadly stripes of crimson.
Terrified, Elizabeth began to weep, her breathing quick and sharp, and she squeezed Romanov’s hand. “Why have you shown me this?” she begged him. “Why? Tell me this is but a vain image! A lie! Charles cannot die—he cannot! Please, Anatole, I implore you! Tell me that this will never happen!”
“I fear that it will, my darling Elizaveta. Trent intends to hurt you, and his actions will affect many, including your beloved Captain. Will you trust me? I seek to alter these images, but if I cannot, I shall do my utmost to save him. Promise me this only: that you will stay away from Trent. His crimes have reached the point of no return, and he must face judgement.”
She started to reply, but the bench cooled, grower ever colder, and the icy winds began to howl as the clouds moved once more.
Snow, she remembered, standing alone near the stable entrance. Red snow.
All turned to darkness, and the next time the duchess opened her eyes, it would be almost four o’clock.
Chapter Seven
Detective Inspector Arthur France loved his wife. “Brenda, you are a treasure,” he told her as she poured him a third cup of tea. “Not too much now,” he said. “I expect Sergeant Williams will be serving that gut-wrenching syrup he calls coffee this afternoon, and I wouldn’t want to have too much in my belly when it hits. Is that the morning copy of The Star?”
“It is, but there’s not much in it besides reports about His Worship’s big doings.”
Brenda France stood five-foot-six with auburn hair and hazel eyes rimmed in long copper-coloured lashes. A sea of pale freckles spattered the ivory skin of her face, making her seem much younger than twenty-nine. “Must you go back to Leman Street already?” she complained to her husband of eight years. “You worked most of last night, Artie. Can’t one of the other inspectors mind the shop this afternoon?”
“It isn’t to Leman Street I go, Brenda, m’lass, but to Charrington Mission. H-Division has been charged by the Home Secretary to provide policing at the lord mayor’s banquet. I’m to be there at one.”
She sat down just as their youngest, a boy of two years, toddled into the room carrying a stuffed bear. “Come here, Charley, my lad!” the inspector said, lifting the toddler onto his lap. “You’re gonna be as tall as your namesake, you are.”
“I wonder if Mr. Sinclair will attend the banquet as well,” Brenda said, breaking off a bit of rye bread for her son. “You’re right. Our Charles will be tall, just like his godfather. Must be quite a shock, learning you’re a marquess. You reckon he’s changed much, cause of it?”
“Not a whit. The superintendent’s the same as always. A kind and thoughtful man,” France replied. “Where’s Deidra?” he asked, referring to their six-year-old daughter.
“She’s making her bed,” Brenda answered proudly. “We’ll have no slackers here. And speakin’ o’ which, I suppose you’ll need ta be leavin’ soon.”
As if on cue, their front doorbell rang, and Brenda rose to answer. “I hope this isn’t another o’ them travellers come by to ask about sharpenin’ our knives.” Arthur fed the remains of a mutton sandwich to the boy, one ear halfway listening to his wife’s conversation with the visitor. He recognised the man’s voice: Constable Antram from Leman Street. “Sorry, son,” he told young Charles France, setting the boy onto the floor and standing. “I’m to leave at once, I take it,” he said as Brenda returned.
“I’m afraid so. The constable says there’s been some sort of crime over on Dorset, but he won’t say more than that. I’ve a very bad feeling, Arthur. Do be careful.”
He wiped his hands on a linen towel, and then took her into his arms, kissing her cheek. “I’ll be fine. Promise you’ll keep both the doors locked. I’ll ask Constable Brightman to make regular stops to check on you and the children.”
He left, taking a hansom rather than walking, but due to the processional’s street closures—and the overflow traffic being redirected through Aldgate—the ten-minute journey took the young inspector nearly an hour. By the time he reached Leman Street, the entire station house had erupted into chaos. Edmund Reid met him at the door, and next to the booking desk, stood Charles Sinclair.
“Sorry to interrupt your luncheon, France,” Reid said, glancing at his watch. “I’m afraid our assignment at the mission is now altered.”
“So I understand, sir. Good day, Superintendent. I’m surprised to find you here.”
The marquess handed an empty coffee cup to the desk sergeant. “About two hours ago, a man named John McCarthy reported a murder to a yo
ung constable who’d been patrolling Commercial Street. When the constable investigated, he discovered a woman’s body that appears to be the work of Ripper. Arthur, this is to remain as quiet an investigation as possible. Even though most of the city’s press is covering the procession and related events, we have very little time before their legions descend. Reid has sent two men to the crime scene to secure it, but I wanted to wait for you before going there myself.”
Reid finished signing a series of reports and handed them to the desk sergeant. “There you are, Williams. Send those to Whitehall right away. They’re actually for our superintendent here, but I’m sure Mr. Sinclair prefers to survey our monthly rolls at a later date. We’ll leave as soon as we can get a hansom.” He turned to Charles. “I’d prefer we didn’t take your carriage, though it is convenient. Cabs are scarce this morning, but I shouldn’t want your fancy coach left near such a place. Miller’s Court is the most crime-ridden section of the east.”
“It’s probably best we cancelled our full meeting this morning, else we’d all have been there when this happened, Edmund. Has anyone from the city police arrived?”
“Major Smith’s men, you mean? No, and I doubt they will,” Reid replied.
Sinclair had been reading through a series of Whitehall mandates, recently delivered to all three station houses in H-Division. “Do I understand these orders right? Has the commissioner decreed that bloodhounds have to scour the scene before any police officers may enter?”
“That is my reading of it,” Edmund answered angrily. “Look, here, are you certain Warren has resigned? We’ve received no word to that effect.”
“He has, Ed,” Sinclair whispered. “But with the mayor’s doings today, it’s likely that most divisions won’t learn of the change until Monday. Warren told me last night that Matthews had already accepted his resignation. It became official as of ten this morning.”
“Then, it’s possible that the order regarding the bloodhounds is now void,” the inspector answered. “Look, I don’t want the people living at Miller’s Court to muddle up the crime scene, so I’m ready to go, if you approve it. You’re the seniormost detective on site. As far as I’m concerned, Superintendent, you’re in charge.”
“Then, I approve,” the marquess said. “Has anyone wired Abberline?”
“Fred’s still with His Worship,” Reid answered. “I’ve sent word to Superintendent Arnold to meet us at Miller’s Court.”
A hansom pulled up to the entrance to the station house, and Reid, France, and Sinclair squeezed into its cramped interior. Behind this, a second and then a third hansom arrived, followed by a pair of Metropolitan Police maria wagons, each drawn by a team of sturdy horses. “Did you contact Thomas Sunders?” Sinclair asked Reid as they drove north towards Commercial Street.
“He’s at K-Division today, finishing his study of the Victoria Park victims. I wired and asked him to join us. Knowing Fred, he’ll want Dr. Bond to examine the woman as well. Good heavens, Charles, is this nightmare ever going to end?”
“I pray it does,” Sinclair replied.
“Is the duchess aware of this new murder?” Reid asked his friend.
“No, and that is yet another of my prayers today. That she will never have to hear about this woman’s death.”
The sidewalks that lined Commercial were packed with handcarts and temporary stalls from which the costermonger class sold their wares: flowers, fresh fish, assorted bric-a-brac, new and second-hand clothing, household goods, vegetables, knives, meats and game birds, pies, oysters, and nearly every other item a buyer might find useful in his daily life. The stink of horse manure, a constant in any modern city, mixed with that of decaying produce, human sweat, caged songbirds, flowers, and chimney smoke; their strange admixture accented by another, less common ingredient, the unsettling scent of fear.
Charles Sinclair felt a chill run along his spine as their hired conveyance took them past Christ Church. As he gazed upon the crowded sidewalk to his right, he could almost see the scene unfold, playing through his memory like a ghost from the past. The headless body of the torn woman, the blind flower girl, a terrified witness who’d discovered the pitiful victim, and beside the dead woman’s remains, an unconscious child named Elizabeth Stuart.
Beth had been petrified with shock, unable to remember her own name, recalling only a single memory; that she had a cousin named Paul, and that he would rescue her. Thinking of it now, Charles puzzled through the events of that pivotal night and the day that followed. Again and again, Elizabeth had asked for Paul. “He often goes to Paris,” she’d told Charles many times. “He’s handsome and wonderful.”
Handsome and wonderful. Have I stolen her from him? Charles wondered with a sigh. Did meeting me alter Beth’s entire life as it has mine?
“You’re lost in thought,” Reid said as they turned west onto Dorset. “Is it the duchess?”
“It is both duchesses. Beth and her mother,” Sinclair answered. “You weren’t here in ’79, but France and I both responded to that call. Do you remember it, Arthur?”
France sat betwixt his superior officers, and he took a deep breath before answering. “I still dream about it sometimes, sir. That sweet little girl and how she stood up to her stepfather. Cor, blimey! There never was such an evil man!”
“Trent is far more insidious in his crimes that you can imagine, Arthur. The savagery inflicted upon Duchess Patricia was beyond the scope of any sane man’s mind. Honestly, nothing Ripper has done thus far exceeds it for ferocity and horror, though the slaying at the Lyceum came close.”
“Let’s pray we’ve seen the worst of that demon’s crimes, then,” Reid said as they neared their destination. “We’ll not get any of these vehicles into Miller’s Court. It’s accessible only through a narrow opening next to McCarthy’s shop. We might get a handcart back there, though, to carry out the victim’s remains. France, we should probably tell you how it is our marquess knew to come to Leman Street today. I did not send for him. This morning, the superintendent found a package addressed to him, buried in the south gardens at Queen Anne House.”
“Buried there?” France asked, stunned. “Ripper left you a package? Why would he do that, sir?”
“His reasons are yet to be determined. My aunt’s dog found it, but there’s more to the story. If you can spare the time, I’d appreciate your input on this mystery, Arthur. Perhaps, you might drop by Westminster later this evening.”
“Certainly, sir. May I bring my family? I’d prefer not to leave them on their own—given all that’s happened this past month.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sure the duchess would love to meet your wife and children, and I’ve not seen my godson in more than three months. First, we’ll see what awaits us here and then make our plans.”
They left the hansom and passed on foot through the entry to the courtyard. Just on the other side of a narrow passage, the policemen were met by a stocky man, wearing a green apron. He wiped his hands and extended the right. “Name’s McCarthy, sir. My man Bowyer’s the one who come ta see ya. We been waitin’ for word on them bloodhounds, but as local folks was ready ta break the windows, I figured we oughta get in first, so I busted down the door with a pickaxe.”
Reid’s face reddened with anger. “You did what?” he exploded. “And why would you imagine we’d approve of that, Mr. McCarthy? You can expect to spend a very long time in my interview room when we’ve finished here. A guilty man might find such interference to his benefit!”
To those within his purview, John McCarthy was the local powerbroker, for he leased rooms to nearly everyone now standing upon the sidewalks of Dorset and along the narrow lane within the courtyard. However, his proud voice fell to a whisper as he replied, not wishing to appear obsequious or deferential to the police, whom many listening not only distrusted but actually despised.
“If you’ll excuse me, I only wished ta help. If
I done anythin’ wrong, then I am sorry, Inspector Reid. I just wanted ta make sure nothin’ got thieved.”
“And how are we to know you’ve not disturbed the scene or thieved anything yourself?” France asked as they followed the chandler to number 13, where a dense crowd gawped and pickpockets ran wild.
“You boys, clear off now!” Arthur shouted at the urchins. Turning to his sergeants and their constables, the young inspector began to issue orders. “Applebaum, look to those rascals. See to it they return to their Fagin’s headquarters, emptyhanded. Prescott, take your men and walk this entire area. Search for anything amiss. Lance, start interviewing everyone hereabouts.” He turned to Sinclair. “Is that all right, sir?”
The detective superintendent nodded. “Yes, of course. Well done, Inspector.” He then faced the throng of onlookers. “Some of you may know me, but if not, my name is Superintendent Sinclair. I’ll be leading this investigation. I know that this is a great shock to you all, but the inspectors and I require time and solitude to conduct our investigation. We wish to uncover all evidence available, therefore, if anyone here has information to offer the police, let us know, and we’ll speak to you soon. For the present, I ask that you return to your homes, please. Allow us to do what we must to find this woman’s killer.”
“We already know who dunnit!” a bent woman shouted from one of the tenement houses beyond the community dustbin. “It were one o’ them Jews; that’s who killed poor Mary! Wore tha’ leather apron an’ all!”
Charles motioned to one of France’s sergeants. “Applebaum, see to that woman. If she has anything substantive to offer, then take it down, but I want this area cleared.” He turned back to the chandler. “Mr. McCarthy, you say that this door was locked when you arrived?”
The Blood Is the Life Page 11