“I’m sorry, Paul. Not just for you, but for her. Redwing uses women most cruelly. Your decision to offer help is laudable.”
“Foolish, is more like it,” the earl muttered.
“Not at all. Look, as I’ll be away, would you keep watch on Beth tonight? Sleep on the sofa, if you don’t mind; inside her bedchamber. It makes her feel safest.”
“Are you sure?” the earl asked.
“Quite sure,” Sinclair told his cousin. “I trust you with her, Paul. Once we get to Queen Anne, I’ll pack a bag and leave at once. Is your train in Victoria?”
“One of them is. Are you sure you wouldn’t like company? I don’t think it’s safe for you to travel alone, Charles. James can watch Elizabeth.”
“No, I prefer you stay with her. If Trent calls again, I want you there. Keep your weapon and a Bible with you at all times.”
“And if he calls upon you at Branham?”
“Then I’ll have the staff there as guardians,” the marquess answered, smiling. “The most capable Mr. Baxter and his well-trained team. There is no finer army this side of Scotland.”
Chapter Eight
As Charles entered the foyer, Della ran to meet him, her small feet flying beneath a taffeta skirt. “Beth had a small spell, Cousin Charles. She’s sleeping now. Dr. Price came by and says she’s fine. She’s just—what was his word now?—oh, yes, overwrought.”
“What kind of spell?” he asked as they climbed the staircase.
“A bit of a faint. We mustn’t waken her, though. As I said, she is sleeping.”
“I shan’t. Promise,” he told his cousin, as Victoria met them both at the top of the stair.
“Hush,” she warned him in a whisper. “Make no sound, Charles. Beth’s finally asleep. Where have you been?”
“Investigating, Aunt. Only investigating. However, I must spend the night away. I’m here only to pack a bag. Paul will explain.”
The girl bobbed behind him as Charles reached the apartment door. “Are you coming back tomorrow?” she asked in a whisper. “Uncle James says lots of members of the circle are coming. I thought I’d bake them a raisin cake.”
“Save a slice for me,” he told her, kissing her forehead. “Now, let me pack quickly before Elizabeth awakens, all right?”
She left with their aunt, and Charles entered the apartment, using the second door that led directly into the bedroom where Paul now slept each night. Finding a large, leather valise, he selected enough clothing to cover a two-day visit—just in case—and snapped the clasp shut. He then sat at the parlour desk to compose a letter to Elizabeth. He longed to tell her goodbye in person, but believing her rest more important, the marquess wrote a short note, sealed it in an envelope with red wax, and then left it with Miles before departing for Victoria Station.
Two hours later, Charles arrived at Branham village station, where he was met by a crested coach, sent by Mr. Baxter. The long drive through the countryside allowed him the leisure of watching the passing autumnal scenery whilst composing his thoughts.
“Things have changed for you since you took this journey in October,” a voice spoke within the coach.
Sinclair was the brougham’s sole occupant, therefore the sudden appearance of another should have shocked him; however, with recent experience to draw upon, he found himself merely curious.
“I’d have been disappointed if you’d failed to show,” he told the unwanted passenger. “I prefer that you follow me rather than antagonise my fiancée.”
The entity’s full lips widened into what was intended as a smile but came across more like a sneer. “Am I keeping you busy?” Prince Rasha Grigor asked.
“How so? With rude conversations or with something else? I do have other things to occupy my time besides conversing with the likes of you.”
“Why do you visit Branham?” the creature probed. “Is there something there I have missed?”
Charles intentionally withdrew a notebook from his pocket and began scribbling a series of instructions to his inspectors. He offered no reply.
“I shan’t go away, if that’s what you intend. What did I miss?”
“Why ask me? If you’re so all-knowing, you’ve no need of my opinion.”
The creature’s upper lip curved into a lopsided grin. “I saw you last month. Inside her childhood rooms. And later, within the maze.”
Charles continued to write. It was a method he often employed when dealing with annoying visitors to his office at Scotland Yard.
“I very seriously doubt it, Rasha. In fact, I suspect that you lay claim to works not your own. I rather think your fellow demons will take umbrage at such theft.”
“Demons! I am no mere demon, Superintendent! Those pitiful wraiths have no power. They serve me, just as your driver serves you. Bowing and scraping.”
“My driver does no such thing,” the marquess answered, his head still down. “But as you’re here, make yourself useful, won’t you? Explain how it is that demons defer to you, a failed human experiment.”
The hybrid’s head tilted to one side. “I could crush you with mere thought, if it suited me.”
“Then do it, or else leave my coach.”
“Why should I leave, when the conversation is so very pleasant?” he asked, his left hand reaching for a cigar. “Oh, do forgive my manners. Would you care for one?”
“Even if I smoked, I’d say no. Just what is it that you expect to gain from this conversation, Grigor? Surely not my friendship. I loathe you, as does Elizabeth.”
He lit the tobacco with the snap of his fingers, causing the end to spark. Puffing thoughtfully, the altered human tapped ash onto the floor of the carriage. “Elizabeth has no idea what she wants, but she’ll soon learn the hard truth of her predicament. Much is about to change.”
“Is this Romanian wisdom or just fanciful imagination? Shall I see if a doctor from Bedlam is available to offer an opinion? I hear the jackets there are comparable to none. Such lovely, long arms.”
The creature took a deep draw from the cigar, his icy eyes rolling back thoughtfully. “Very droll. A woman you know spent time at Bedlam recently, Superintendent, and she wore those pretty jackets to keep from tearing out her own hair. Knowing how much you care about her, I saw to it that she was moved to kinder, more gentle accommodations. As your friend, I thought it wise to act in your stead. She’d been misdiagnosed with a fatal disease. Ida Ross is her name.”
Sinclair’s right hand cramped as he struggled to continue to write, but the slight pause was enough to reward his opponent’s efforts. Clearing his throat, the marquess answered the adversary. “You took her out of Bedlam?”
“Indeed. She found succor and healing at the second hospital. Such a fine staff of alienists. It’s quite modern.”
“And what hospital might that have been?”
“One you’ll soon come to know quite well. Did you appreciate my little joke?”
Charles looked up at last. “Do you see me laughing?”
Rasha smiled. “I see you weeping. Inwardly, at least. You’re such an obedient little puppy, Charles. You really are! I dangle a clue, and you sniff it out, just like that dog of your aunt’s. Saucy Jack, indeed! But it has turned out well, has it not? That first letter sent Beth flying to you, and thence to this very hall,” he said as the coach neared the turn for Branham.
“Hubris will gain you an eternal berth in hell, Rasha. Taking credit for the Lord’s gift is blasphemy. It was His design that Beth came to me. He merely used you and your kind to achieve his perfect end.”
“Blaspheming requires belief, Detective. I believe only in myself; therefore, no blasphemy has occurred.” He tapped on the window with a signet ring, its bright enamel forming the shape of a white dove bearing a red spot on its upraised wing. “Blonde hair, blue eyes. Kelly’s height and measurements are perfect matches, also. Perhap
s, I should send that information to Elizabeth. She’ll appreciate a man who actually tells her the truth.”
The pencil broke in half as Sinclair’s anger finally overwhelmed his reason. “You speak of truth, when your mouth knows nothing of the term! If you ever approach her, I will...”
“You will what? Kill me? How quaint,” the hybrid laughed. “Of course, I do not work solely in England. It is true that my exploits currently lie in London, but Paris is a beautiful den of iniquity! A peer might find himself lost in its depraved streets and garrets. Even an honest policeman might yield to temptation; find himself trapped, if not careful.”
Charles stared, for the creature’s taunts struck close to home. Whilst in Paris in early ‘79, Bob Morehouse had insisted his junior officer attend a raucous party in the countryside, just outside of the city. Sinclair had awoken the following morning with no idea what had actually occurred, but afterward, he’d begun receiving blackmail letters. Written threats that Amelia soon discovered. The implied infidelity within those pages had destroyed what little affection remained of their marriage. He’d felt certain that nothing had happened with the actress, that the implications contained within the letters had been fabricated; but Charles had no way of proving it as fact, for he had only vague memories of that wretched night.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Grigor laughed, the smoke from the fat cigar curling about his face. “I would never reveal your dark secrets to anyone. Neither the truth of Paris, nor the truth of your son’s death. I prefer to save those revelations for a more important day. Perhaps, your wedding.”
His breathing quickened, and Charles prayed again, begging the Lord to prevent him from making a terrible mistake. In answer, a sense of calm filtered through his spirit, as though a cool hand touched his face. Beth loves me. She loves me and believes in me. We are together for a reason—and it is not to please Redwing.
“My wedding day?” he asked, regaining composure. “How very thoughtful of you, Rasha. I’m sure you long to attend as groom, but Beth chose me, not you. And how is it that your so-called father allows you free rein? You’re giving the nether realm a bad name, Grigor. Failure becomes a habit with you.”
“Clever human!” the prince laughed. “Too clever by half.”
“Doesn’t that describe you?” Charles volleyed back. “A weakling half-human hybrid with angelic aspirations? Part divine, yet part profane, as your comrades might call the human condition. I see no advantage to striding the line betwixt worlds. You stand neither in Jehovah’s camp nor in that of—who is it that you serve again? Lucifer?”
“I serve no one!” he shouted angrily, his icy eyes flashing into orbs of bright crimson.
“I see,” the detective replied with feigned ease, though his heart beat wildly. “Then, by implication, you serve yourself. How does that work? Are you king of the heap, or are you the heap itself? Perhaps, it is both.”
Rasha’s hand flew to strike, but froze a mere fraction of an inch from Sinclair’s face. Then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, the unwanted passenger vanished from sight.
Exhaling slowly in an effort to calm his heart, Charles focused on thoughts of Elizabeth, internally praying for her safety and for God’s protection upon her and their unborn child. As he lifted his head, yet another uninvited passenger sat opposite him.
Prince Anatole Romanov.
“Good afternoon, Lord Haimsbury,” he spoke in crisply accented English. “Forgive the impertinence, but I thought it prudent to curtail Razarit’s temper tantrum. He can be such a noisome child at times.”
“Strangely enough, I grow accustomed to these unannounced visitations, but I confess to only mild surprise at finding you capable of such feats, Romanov. This explains much about your effect upon Elizabeth,” the marquess replied, wondering now if he’d actually fallen asleep in the coach and all of this were but a dream.
The Russian smiled. “I am no dream,” he told Sinclair. “Nor am I a nightmare, though both types of slumberous adventures have the innate capacity to host visitations from beyond. Midsummer is not the only time for such delights, though Shakespeare’s play seems to imply it. How does it go now? ‘The lunatic, the lover, and the poet are of imagination all compact: one sees more devils than vast hell can hold.’” The prince quoted. “If only that were true. Hell holds an incalculable number of devils and expands itself ever larger to accommodate all that the human world now breeds.”
“You would know,” the marquess said as the coach passed the gravel turn that led to Henry’s Copse.
“Has the duchess ever tell you about the cottage she once visited down that lane?” Romanov asked, pointing towards the road. “It was in a stand of trees, three miles south of the brewery. King Henry the Second is said to have planted the copse himself, but that is only legend. Much has altered since.”
“No, she never mentioned it. Why?”
“There is an old Germanic tale of a brother and sister who chanced upon a cottage in such a grove. I believe the most recent version of it is called Hänsel and Gretel, but the tale’s origin reaches back much further than the Brothers Grimm.”
Sinclair sighed. “What has this to do with Beth?”
“This mysterious cottage was constructed of tasty building materials that enticed the children—or so the Grimm’s version attests—but in truth, it was nothing of the sort. The house did not tempt children, but was only visible to children, or rather to one very special child.”
The marquess leaned forward, comprehending. “Are you saying that Elizabeth saw something in that old stand of trees that others did not?”
The prince nodded. “Indeed, so. A house and occupant that appeared only for her eyes. Ask her about it.”
“I’m asking you, since you began this. What did she see?”
“Not what, Superintendent. Whom. Whom did she see? It is an important difference. She was but four, and her father had allowed her to disappear from his view. A woodland creature attracted her eye, leading the child into the meadow near the brewery; thence, across a narrow bridge and through a veil of shadow. Beyond it, within the copse, Elizabeth perceived the cottage. Oh, I see that my time is nearly up,” he said suddenly, his hand upon the door.
“And my patience is nearly gone! Just what did she see?”
“You must ask Baxter. My time is at an end.”
“Why are you here then? To torment me, or to drive me insane?”
“Neither, though, I can see why you might think it is both. I have enjoyed our talk.”
Sinclair grasped the angel’s hand. “What did she see?”
The prince’s face remained serene. “I know that you think me your enemy, Charles, but I wish only for your fondest dreams to come true. It has ever been my goal.”
“So you say, but you offer no proof. Rather, it seems to me that all of your kind have but one goal: to terrify my family, but most of all Elizabeth.”
“It is a sad consequence of an old plan; one which has now fallen out of favour,” the prince replied. “I did not anticipate revealing myself to you so soon, but as Razarit intended to harm you, I had no choice. Or rather, I chose to intervene. A subtle point, but a salient one, as free will goes.”
“No word games now?”
“I’ve no need of them,” the prince answered. “You had already guessed that I am far more than human, but you do not yet understand exactly who and what I am, so I shall allow you and your circle to continue positing theories. For now, I am permitted to answer one question for you.”
Charles wished he were dreaming. “Permission? Such a word is charged with its own questions. From whom did you receive permission? From a more powerful entity? I assume that you, like the creature claiming to be your nephew, are only part human; otherwise, how could you pop in and out of existence so readily? What kind of hybrid are you? Wolf or other?”
“I do love your mind, Char
les Robert,” Romanov said, his smooth hands on the chased silver grip of the ebony cane. Both the handle and stick bore a series of symbols, which looked completely alien to the detective’s eyes. Charles tried to commit a few of them to memory with an idea towards discussing them with Kepelheim.
“You admire my cane? Although your memory is keen and your capabilities are quite extraordinary regarding ciphers, you would fail to decrypt these symbols. They are older than Time. This symbol near the handle, for example, is my name.”
“Which name might that be?” Sinclair asked. “Anatole or some other demonic epithet?”
“No, my friend, I am no lowly hybrid. My brethren and I awoke in the earliest days of creation. I shall tell you my full story one day, but for now, ask your question, for our time grows short.”
“Whom did Beth see?”
“William Trent in one of his many guises.”
“Guises? What do you mean? It is a related question,” he argued. “Not an entirely new one.”
“So it is,” Romanov agreed. “He is much older than you suspect, and he is part human, part demon. Inhabited, you might say.”
“Why does he wish to harm Elizabeth? What is his plan for her, and why appear to her when she was only a girl? Her father still lived at that time. Had Trent already begun luring Patricia into his web?”
Romanov laughed, his icy eyes twinkling. “So many questions! Even as a boy, you found ways to break the rules, Charles. I have truly missed our conversations.”
“What conversations?”
“No, no. That is an unrelated question, therefore, I cannot answer it. As to Trent, he is a hybrid of human and spirit. He has gained certain capabilities because of this demonic presence, however the familiar spirit within him lacks finesse and true access to the higher planes and powers. If we make comparison according to Darwin’s ridiculous theories, then Trent is a bit of slime emerging out of a thick soup of nucleic acids.”
The Blood Is the Life Page 13