“He did, and he’s pronounced me overwrought,” she told him honestly.
“Beth, I have two ears to listen, should you require them. And I can keep secrets, if needed.”
She shook her head. You promised Charles that you would say nothing to Paul, she reminded herself. “It’s only a case of nerves. Walk me indoors, will you? It’s grown quite cold.”
He helped her to stand, and the two loving cousins walked arm in arm into the conservatory.
Gertrude Trumper watched the pair from one of the oval windows that dotted the perimeter of the fourth storey, which served as attic space and contained the various junctions for the mansion’s electrics. She’d gone there to fetch a small mirror, left stored in the main attic cupboards many years before. As the maid left the window, she gazed into the dusty reflection, hoping to find the familiar eyes she’d come to expect, even admire.
He wasn’t there.
Sighing, Trumper placed the mirror into her apron pocket. Perhaps, the beautiful man would appear in another silvery surface and explain why he’d instructed her to obtain this rosewood-handled looking glass. Explain why she’d been chosen to fulfill his dark commands.
But the reward was worth it. Soon, Gertie believed, he would make her his paramour, and the possessions she now cleaned and polished and pressed, would be as nothing compared to her own.
All would fall down to worship her, when Gertrude Trumper became the beloved bride of the prince to come.
Esther Alcorn stared at the large circle of brass and iron keys. “I felt certain it was on this ring, my lord,” she told the marquess. “I’m sorry ta make ya stand there whilst I plunder through these. It’s an old ring, ya know, sir. It belonged to Mrs. Larson before she died and was left ta me when I took over. My that would be almost twelve years ago now! Hold on a minute. It’s this one, my lord. I’m sure of it.” She inserted a long iron key into the oil-rubbed bronze lock. Whispering a short prayer, Alcorn tried to make it turn. “Well if that doesn’t beat all. I’m sure it’s the correct key, but it won’t budge,” she said in dismay.
“Allow me,” the marquess offered.
She stepped to one side, and Sinclair placed his hand on the key. To his surprise, it felt oddly warm. “Strange,” he muttered, half to himself. “It makes my hand tingle. There it goes,” he added as the key clicked from vertical to horizontal.
“Well done, sir,” the housekeeper praised as Charles pushed the door open. “Clearly, the key and door recognise you as rightful lord of the manor.”
Sinclair shrugged. “Perhaps, but that title is still a week away. It’s quite dark inside.”
A strong whiff of ancient dust and mould rushed to greet them, and amongst the odours that one often met when unlocking a long-forgotten space, arose another that smelled far different; yet all too familiar to the detective.
The stench of death.
Baxter gently touched the marquess’s forearm. “Allow me to lead, my lord, if you don’t mind. Mrs. Alcorn, I suggest you follow behind Lord Haimsbury, so that we might protect you should anything other than...ghosts lurk within.”
Esther nearly argued, but instead obeyed, taking the third position behind the men. “If there are ghosts inside, then we’ll need this,” she told them, showing the small Bible to the marquess. “Psalm 91 is one of my favourites, sir. I’ve marked it. If you wish, I can read aloud whilst you men explore.”
Charles kissed the intrepid woman’s brow. “As always you provide what we men lack, Mrs. Alcorn: a woman’s instincts. Yes, please, do read it aloud, softly; and I think Mr. Baxter is correct. If anything resides herein with material capabilities, I’d prefer you remain safely behind us.”
“And what about you, my lord?” she asked, opening the Bible to the marked page.
Sinclair drew his grey woolen suitcoat to one side, revealing the everpresent shoulder holster with its gleaming Webley Bulldog companion. “If someone living breathes herein, then he’ll soon regret it, Mrs. Alcorn. I’m a crack shot. I never miss. Baxter, is there a lighting switch?”
The butler entered first, his heavy footsteps causing the oak floorboards to creak. Suddenly, a mouse darted past, quickly skirting the wide boards of the trimwork along the far wall; its dun colour blending into the murky shadows of the room.
“I shall have to put down traps,” the butler sighed. “This wing is not wired with electrics, sir. It was shuttered long ago, but re-opened when Duchess Patricia married the baronet. He insisted on using this apartment, despite its rundown condition. Sir William refused to allow anyone to enter, save those from his own private staff. He had a somewhat ill-mannered young woman who cleaned for him, and I believe that she provided other, uh, entertainments. Ah, here we are, sir. I think this small table will offer aid.”
The butler opened the centre drawer, withdrew three candles along with a box of matches, and then placed one into the nearest wall sconce. He lit the wick, and instantly the room grew more friendly.
“Much better,” Sinclair observed, searching the table for more candles. “Ah, here are several brass chambersticks. Do you need one, Baxter? Alcorn, here is yours,” he said, handing her the small lighting source after striking its wick with a match.
“Thank you, sir. It makes it easier to read,” she said.
“Thank you, my lord,” Baxter replied after he’d placed candles into two other wall sconces and lit each.
The yellow glow of their lamps flickered against the peeling wallpaper, revealing a highway of ancient cobwebs and two rather new constructions, each hosting a fat, black spider. The larger of the two webs held numerous moth parts, an array of dead flies bound up in silk, and a rather energetic wasp, struggling to free itself from the sticky trap.
“Much like the man who once occupied these rooms, the spiders draw helpless prey into their dark realm,” Baxter said, using a handkerchief to sweep the largest cobwebs out of the marquess’s path. “Step carefully, sir. It seems numerous rodents have left their marks.”
“I police in Whitechapel, Mr. Baxter, where numerous dogs and horses leave their marks every day. I’m accustomed to minding my feet. How many rooms are there in this apartment?”
“Six, sir. It was once used as the master by Duke Henry George, who was the little duchess’s three times great-grandfather. He was injured quite badly in a fall from his horse during a hunt. The duke remained confined to a bath chair until his death. I believe that he was only forty-seven when he died. Is that right, Mrs. Alcorn? Your head for history is superior to mine.”
“Yes, that’s correct, Mr. Baxter. Duke Henry George was a fine looking man, my lord,” she told the marquess. “There’s a portrait of him in the great gallery, astride his favourite horse. I’ve often thought he looked rather like Duke James, your uncle, my lord. Duke Henry George spent most of his youth in Scotland, in fact, as his mother was the only child of the Earl of Keel. Castle Keel stands in ruins now, but the farmland is still rich and productive. In fact, it provides barley to the Drummond distillery. Keel’s not too far from Lord Aubrey’s castle, sir. A day’s ride east of Inverness, if memory serves. And the earls of Keel were also Stuarts.”
“It seems that Scotland is everpresent in our bloodlines, is it not, Mrs. Alcorn?” Sinclair observed; knowing full well that the grand lady of the Branham staff hailed from Glasgow.
“Aye, sir, it is,” the housekeeper answered proudly. “My family worked for the Drummonds for six generations, but my father moved here to help young Duke George with his sheep. My old dad was a master herdsman, sir. I’ll go back to speaking the psalm now,” she whispered, continuing to read softly. “‘He shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.’”
Charles turned about, his eyes wide. “Say that last again, will, you, Mrs. Alc
orn?”
“The last verse, you mean, sir?” she asked.
“Yes, please.”
She complied, holding a candle in her left hand, the book in her right: “‘He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler.’”
“May I?” Sinclair asked, reaching for the Bible. “I know I’ve read this psalm before, but I’d not realised these very words are contained within. ‘Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day,’” he read out to his companions. “This may sound quite mad, but I heard these very words not an hour ago, whilst sitting inside the Branham coach.”
“You heard them, sir?” Baxter asked. “Didn’t you ride alone?”
“Yes,” he answered cryptically, “yet another person quoted this passage to me—by way of offering comfort.”
“Is this a riddle, sir? I do no’ understand,” Alcorn said.
“I’m beginning to,” the detective replied. “Of late, living riddles appear all around me and offer conversation. Shadow and light. Evil and good.”
“Do you imply that you’ve seen such spirits, sir?” the butler gasped. “As in my tale of Duke Henry’s ghost?”
“I not only imply it, Mr. Baxter, I declare it. Redwing’s spiritual members appear when I least expect them; but I am learning not to fear. Those very words—the promises within this psalm—were spoken to me by one of the gentler spirits in answer to prayer.”
“Ah, I think I understand, my lord. It is always comforting to hear the Lord’s promises, is it not, sir?” Baxter observed as he opened a door that connected with a hallway.
“More than you might imagine,” the marquess replied. “Thank you, Mrs. Alcorn. I shall add the 91st Psalm to my nightly reading list. Where does this corridor lead, Baxter?”
“It branches off towards three bedchambers, my lord. Sir William rarely allowed anyone in here, but I entered once, whilst the baronet was away. I’d grown concerned for the little duchess—then called the Marchioness Anjou, of course. I’d feared that she might be inside. Her nurse had reported her missing, you see, and we’d convened a search party. I drew the straw for this wing.”
“How often did the duchess enter this area as a girl, Baxter? She’s told me some terrifying tales about her adventures inside this house, and some defy belief. However, I would never doubt her word. Not ever.”
“Nor should you, sir. The little duchess is brave beyond measure, and that fortitude has taken her into some very dark and treacherous paths, as you have learnt firsthand. But that day, I found her sitting outside the main apartment door, and she appeared quite dazed. The little marchioness said she’d talked with a monster man, and that he’d threatened her.”
“A monster man? Wait a moment, Baxter. Did she call him that, or did she say his name was Monstero?”
Baxter blinked, his thick brows pinched together. “I cannot say, sir. The latter may be correct. Was there such a man?”
“The duchess once told me about a gigantic creature whom Trent referred to as Monstero, and this horrid person often visited. Beth said he looked rather like a... What a fool I am!” he exclaimed without warning, slapping his forehead so hard that the report rang throughout the enclosed apartment.
“Careful, sir! You’ll do yerself a mischief!” Alcorn exclaimed, holding the candle to his face to examine it. “That’ll leave a mark for a day or two.”
“Then it will remind me to pay more attention to what my fiancée has to say, Mrs. Alcorn. Beth told me that she saw a horrid, shadowy creature on the south lawn of Queen Anne House on Tuesday morning of this week—the same day we attended a rather awful play—but she described this creature as looking like a spider. The very same words she used to describe this Monstero person to me last month.”
Baxter’s eyes widened as he began to understand. “Might this strange creature that my lady saw on Tuesday be the same as the Monstero person who visited Trent ten years ago?”
“Yes! It might very well be, Mr. Baxter. I wonder what sort of demon appears as a spider to a human’s eyes?” he asked, passing through the corridor into the first bedchamber. “You needn’t answer that, my friend. It is more rhetorical than anything else. Although, Dr. MacPherson may provide a more substantive answer.” The marquess crossed to one of three windows. “Baxter, what direction do I now face? North?”
“North of a kind, sir. This wing does not proceed in a direct line from the central portion of the hall. It branches from the original east wing at an acute angle so that it points towards the northeast.”
“Wait a moment, Baxter. Did you say that this wing branches from another? There are two east wings?”
“In a manner of speaking, sir, yes. The original east wing is used daily by staff and contains three apartments along with a small guest library on the first floor. When looking at the hall from the south, one would see only that magnificent edifice stretching eastward from the centre, however this strange arm was constructed as a sort of ‘secret wing’, sir. It juts outward from the centre at an angle of forty-five degrees and bisects the original east wing from that of the north.”
Charles turned ‘round. “It isn’t original to the house? When was this wing built then?”
“During Duke Henry’s time, sir. Duke Richard Henry, I mean; the one whose persistent ghost haunts these halls. Originally, there was a dower residence connected to this side of the house, extending northwards from the original east wing, but Duke Richard Henry, whom we generally just call Duke Henry, had it torn down and replaced with this hideous structure. Were you to overfly the mansion in Inspector Reid’s excellent balloon, you’d find that the basic shape of Branham Hall is somewhat unusual. The original house is rectangular and quite large, with an enclosed courtyard in the centre. The original east and west wings, along with the dower house, were added twenty-five years later by the first duke. The north wing and conservatory were constructed one hundred or so years afterwards by the fourth duke.”
“And this curious wing was built by the eighth duke; correct?”
“Correct, sir. That same duke also constructed the wooden maze, which we call the very peculiar stairs that you and Mr. Kepelheim traversed to get here during your first visit, and which we so mercifully were able to avoid this time ‘round. Per Duke James’s orders, I had the bars removed to this wing on Saturday last; thus we were able to enter by way of a much less stressful route today.”
Charles gazed through the mullioned windows, noticing now that they overlooked a small circle, made entirely of stone. “What is that?”
Baxter joined the detective at the window. “Ah, yes, well, that is the stone ring, sir. There is an old legend regarding the ring that links it to a labyrinth beneath the current maze.”
“You know about that?” Sinclair asked. “Powers, the Chief Gardener, mentioned that to me last month. How is this ring connected?”
“I cannot say, sir, but if you’ll notice the two bluish stones, there on the end, farthest from our view? They predate the hall. In fact, it’s said they were here long before Christ walked the earth. These two form a narrow doorway that encloses the rising of the sun, each summer on the solstice. It is a pagan structure, to be sure, and the duchess has no love for it, sir. It was she who told me that the ring connects to the tunnel maze. I’m not certain that my lady understands the entire layout of the underground system, but I recall her mentioning last year that she would like both the ring and the blue stones torn down.”
“I agree with her, as it is clearly a pagan site. We’ll see that it is razed once the weather warms again. I wonder, might that be why this wing was erected at such a strange angle? See there, Baxter. The blue stones appear to align with the direction of this very wing. Might this wing also track with the rising of the midsummer sun?”
Both the butler and housekeeper peered out the w
indow at the stones. Alcorn gasped. “Never did I consider that before, sir! My goodness! It gives me the shudders to think that this entire wing may have been built for a dark purpose!”
“Well said, Mrs. Alcorn,” Baxter replied.
“Trent must have known all about these structures,” Sinclair added as he turned from the disturbing view. “This house has many dark secrets. I’d see this entire hideous wing razed along with that ring.”
Sinclair turned to examine the rest of the room. A large bed occupied a long wall, its posts carved with hideous imagery that seemed unholy to the marquess’s eyes. “Is it the light, or do these carvings look demonic?”
Alcorn bent closer and gasped. “They look like writhing creatures,” she whispered. “Lord above save us from such hellish strange things! I’ve never seen this room before, my lord, and I’m glad of it. I wonder if tha’ awful man brought this bed with him.”
“I’d say he probably did,” the detective answered.
An oak desk sat opposite the bed beneath the centre window, and Charles opened the only drawer. Inside, he found a shallow box, which he removed and set upon the bed. The rosewood container was hinged with a keyed hasp of brass, which bore the scratch marks of repeated use. “I don’t suppose we know where the key might be for this?”
The butler took the casket and examined it in the candle’s faint light. “It isn’t the sturdiest construction,” he said, shaking it. “I hear nothing breakable inside, sir. May I?”
Charles smiled. “Allow me, Mr. Baxter.” The marquess took the mysterious box in both hands and threw it to the floorboards. The hasp sprang open. Sinclair picked it up once more and set it upon the bed.
“Photographs,” he said as he sifted through many dozens of images. “All are of Beth as a girl; perhaps five, six? Does either of you recall these?”
The housekeeper took one of the photos, which showed Beth on a small pony. She wore dark trousers and boots, and her eyes squinted as though looking directly into the sun. “I remember that day. My lady was not yet four when this one was taken, sir. That’s Crispin, her first pony. And that’s Lord Kesson, proudly holdin’ the reins. What a lovely man he was.”
The Blood Is the Life Page 16