The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  When you first came to my attention as a new recruit all those years ago, I was ordered to provide you full instruction and opportunity for advancement. Those orders originated from a position very high in government. Therefore, I assumed, that your origins must be, let us say, from the other side of the blanket. My high-level confident also tasked me with finding out all I could about your background. You would not have been the first man born from an illicit union, and I thought little of it at the time.

  Later, additional orders arrived from this same person—and no, I shan’t tell you his name, but he is someone known to you. These orders included taking you to Paris and introducing you to his contacts there. It shames me to think of how I left you to their influence that night at the party. Shames me to the core, but, Charles, you did nothing wrong. Nothing. You were a gentleman and a Christian, despite their attempts to lure you into debauched situations. I know the woman who blackmailed you—know who she really is. However, I cannot reveal that either. Not in a letter. I pray that you discover it on your own. I suggest you have Aubrey’s team investigate that party. It will lead to her, and to many other, dark truths.

  However, it was that singular night in March, 1879, when my curiosity was at last roused from complacent slumber. You remember that night well, I know, but you were not privy to all that happened. Recall that we received word that Duchess Patricia’s body had been discovered on Commercial sometime just after midnight. I was called out to Leman Street a little after one, and you shortly afterward. You and I searched the scene and then conveyed the victim’s remains to the station house—for the child found beside her was already there, so we had learnt. What you did not know, Charles, is that I discovered evidence at the scene, which I concealed.

  Prior to that long night’s work, I’d been called upon by an envoy who represented a royal personage from Romania. Prince Alexei Grigor. Both Downing Street and our Foreign Office vouched for this gentleman, and he was working with our own Special Branch. The envoy informed me that a lunatic—a close friend to this Romanian prince—had escaped from an asylum, and that he had been seen in our borough. This escapee was foreign, and of high birth—very high birth, Charles—and it was imperative that any scandal be avoided. I would add that such a scandal would have involved the royal family, as this escapee often attended public events in company with Her Majesty. At the time, I thought myself acting rationally.

  As you and I searched the ground near the body, I discovered a figural stickpin, which I then pocketed, saying nothing to you. I never logged it as evidence; never revealed its existence to any other policeman. The pin bore the image of a white bird, that I understand you now would recognise as representing a dark group called Redwing.

  I’d instantly recognised the image, my dear friend, because as a youth—twenty or so years of age—I’d fallen in love with a woman who served this evil cabal. An ageless witch who lured me into detestable activities. I shudder to think what rites I once performed with her and her wretched friends, but when I finally broke free of her bonds, I thought myself emancipated at last!

  Not true. Not true. I fear all my follies are discovered, and tonight one comes to claim my life, if not my soul. He signs his name as ‘A’, and I fear this man more than any, Charles. He may be someone already in your intimate circles. If so, you must keep him away from our little duchess! He seeks to use her—but also you—to satisfy both his lust for power and his lust for flesh.

  No longer will I keep their hideous secrets. I pray that you and the inner circle will find a way to use the enclosed evidence, though I hand it to you ten years too late.

  I realise now that I was duped, and I pray our Saviour has forgiven me for these sins and so many others.

  My final piece of information is this: My investigation into your true identity as a Sinclair hints at some strange component within your blood—something connected to an ancient lineage that reaches much further back than the circle is aware. There is a Russian prince who may be able to tell you more, though I cannot vouch for his allegiance. He once aided me in France, and though you may not remember it, this same prince came to your rescue when you were a child.

  His name is Anatole Romanov.

  Forgive me, Charles. I go to Our Saviour now, praying that His blood may yet wash away all my unholy sins.

  Robert.’

  “It ends there,” the detective concluded. “He implies that Romanov is an ally, but if this ‘A’ person isn’t Anatole, then who might it be?”

  “Despite what Morehouse claims about the Russian’s help in the past, I’d still place my money on Romanov,” the earl replied. “He is overly attentive with Beth.”

  The jewelled stickpin had made its way ‘round the table and returned to the duke’s possession. “Does this letter serve as evidence implicating Trent in Patricia’s murder? Is it enough to see that man hang at last?”

  Sinclair shook his head. “I doubt it, Uncle. Trent’s lawyers would deny that the pin is his, but merely another that looks like it; or that it was stolen; or that Patricia had it with her when she died. After all, it can be assumed she had access to his jewellery. It is enough, however, to remand him for questioning, and I look forward to doing so, providing we can find him.”

  “William Trent hovers about these Ripper murders like a carrion crow,” Aubrey remarked, glancing at the pin. “Just who is Trent, anyway? How did he become a hybrid? Rituals? Science? Can he even be killed, I wonder?”

  “I don’t think him purely spirit,” MacPherson said. “Our experiences reveal him as hybrid of man and demon, and it’s clear that he brags of it. Nox lupus, indeed. An enhanced human with transformational powers.”

  “Powers gained through blood rituals?” Charles asked. “He mentioned to me that the Ripper murders are but one part of a ritual that is nearly complete.”

  “What do you mean, Charles?” the earl asked. “When did you speak with Trent?”

  “I’ve already told James and Martin about this, Paul, but night before last, Trent appeared to me inside Beth’s apartment. He entered by way of a crack beneath the east window.”

  “A crack?” MacPherson asked, his elbows against the table, his eyes wide. “Was it in the form of smoke or mist?”

  “Yes, how did you know, sir?”

  “It’s a favourite method employed by these spirits. I’d no idea Trent had such powers! But if these murders are meant to enhance his capabilities, then perhaps they’re working.”

  Paul shook his head. “You could be right regarding Trent’s personal abilities, but the murders and the bloodletting provide far more than personal gain. An informant tells me that they power a ritualistic machine that will lead Redwing to the location of a hidden mirror.”

  “A mirror?” Kepelheim asked, his face darkening. “Oh dear. This is bad. Very bad.”

  Charles had been making notes, and he glanced up. “What do you mean by that, Martin?”

  “The riddle, Charles. Don’t you recall it? Yes, I know it’s been a very busy week with much to occupy your thoughts, but Saucy Jack’s riddle implies a mirror. Let me see if I can remember it...”

  Sinclair closed his eyes, his eidetic memory turning through pages in his mind. “Find the glass, the shining one, numbered ‘mongst its brothers near, keyless doorway to the dawn, crying child awakens fear. Dying dreams of princes be, to subtle asp and owls arise, Keepers howl and Watchers beam, as Wormwood’s poison seeks its prize,” he quoted. “The glass is a mirror. A shining mirror?”

  Paul smiled. “Your memory is like mine, Charles. And Beth’s. She can recall nearly every conversation heard or item seen. Blood will tell.”

  “And blood provides power in ways human knowledge cannot fathom,” the marquess answered. “I may have a nearly perfect memory for some things, but my insight into Redwing’s supernatural advisors is sorely lacking. Why blood? How can it power their rituals?”


  “It’s likely that blood provides energy for their transformations,” Deidra Kimberley observed. “Our human bodies require food, air, and water. Perhaps, these hybrids require blood for the same reason. Doesn’t the Bible say that very thing?”

  “The blood is the life,” MacPherson quoted. “Charles, when you encountered the creature at Branham and earlier inside your coach. what did it say to you?”

  “He threatened me, but that’s no surprise. However, I got the distinct impression that Razarit has no permission to harm me; that even he has commanders. My experiences thus far have taught me this much, though: when these creatures speak to me, I notice that worldly motion stops, as if time itself holds its breath.”

  The minister nodded. “It’s said that is how we perceive such visitations. As though the entities must pull us outside of our reality in order to commune with us. The duchess has often entertained these visitors, but despite her remarkable mind, her recollections are often clouded. Either she is incapable of retaining such a troubling memory or is deliberately manipulated to forget.”

  “Trust me, my limited experience with these creatures confirms what I’ve known for a long time: that Beth’s mind is incredibly strong,” Charles said with pride. “Few individuals, man or woman, would remain sane after all she’s endured. She is a brilliant person. Simply brilliant.”

  “Yes, our dear one generally recalls details others would forget,” Kepelheim said as he reached for a sliced beef sandwich. “You say that Romanov appeared as your benefactor? Is he our ally, then?”

  “I cannot yet say,” Charles answered. “Perhaps, he plays both sides, but it’s clear that he exerts power of some sort over this other—the one who calls himself Razarit or Rasha.”

  “This is the second time Rasha has appeared to you, Charles,” Kepelheim observed as he poured a glass of lemonade. “I wonder why.”

  “Probably because he’s jealous,” the earl answered. “I can appreciate his anger. No, dear friends, I do not return to my former state. I merely call attention to it. But I, also, have seen Rasha Grigor. He appeared to me at Egyptian Hall two nights past in company with Serena di Specchio. I’d intended to speak to you about it, Charles, but with Mary Kelly’s murder, time got away from us.”

  “What did he say to you?” the marquess asked his cousin. “Did he threaten you?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Aubrey replied stoically. “Nothing I couldn’t have handled, so sending Hamish Granger to fetch me was unnecessary.”

  “I’ll leave that to our Chief of the Mews to confirm,” Haimsbury answered with a slight smile. “The informant you mentioned earlier. I presume you mean Susanna Morgan?”

  “Yes, but as I told you at the station this morning, both she and MacKey have disappeared.”

  “Charles, why do you pursue Lorena MacKey?” asked Martin Kepelheim. “Hasn’t she done enough damage to you and Elizabeth?”

  “MacKey could provide access to Trent’s mind,” the detective answered. “When she and I spoke in Scotland, her mask dropped, only for a moment, but in that moment I saw regret in her eyes. I believe we can turn her to our cause.”

  “I doubt that,” Aubrey answered, pouring a cup of tea. “If her mask slipped, then it was deliberate. She’s a witch, Charles. Pure and simple.”

  Sinclair sighed. “Must we assume her unredeemable? You place your faith in Morgan’s defection. Why wouldn’t Lorena hold the same hope for independence?”

  “She demonstrated no such hope in my presence,” Aubrey said. “Perhaps, she found you more charming, Cousin,” he then added with a mischievous grin.

  “Paul, I think your charms ever true, if Delia Wychwright is any indication!” the duke teased “That girl has certainly set her cap on you. Shall I speak with her father and ask him to rein her in?”

  “No, sir, I’m capable of doing so, if it comes to it. However, Lady Cordelia was casting her eyes upon Sir Thomas towards evening’s end. Perhaps, I’ve slipped the hook.”

  “Or perhaps you’re already netted and being prepared for supper,” Galton answered.

  The doors opened, admitting Granger and John Miles. The two servants bowed and took the last empty chairs, near the end of the table.

  Charles rose to his feet. “Welcome, gentlemen. Thank you both for joining us today. I’m sure that you have plenty to keep you busy, but I’d ask your help with several matters. Mr. Miles, can you tell us if anyone working here presently or in the past might be considered suspect? It occurs to me that the first letter from Saucy Jack bore no stamp, and the postman assured the duchess that he did not put it into the post bag. Do you remember?”

  “Of course, my lord,” Miles answered. “Do you suspect someone within the household?”

  “It is one possibility,” Sinclair replied. “I’d be remiss if I ignored it. Another possibility is that the house was never rekeyed after Patricia’s death.”

  Drummond glanced at Paul. “I don’t remember having it done. With the funeral and so much to worry about at the time, it may have slipped past us. Paul, did you rekey the locks?”

  “No, sir, and I cannot believe it never occurred to me! Miles, are the current keys the same as in ’79?”

  “They are, my lord. No one ordered them changed. Do you think Sir William used his old key to enter?”

  “He requires no key,” Charles answered, “but a human would. If Trent’s key is involved, then he has given it to someone fully flesh. I’d like a list of everyone who’s worked here, say, in the past ten years. And the names of anyone else with access to house keys.”

  “Yes, sir,” Miles replied. “I’ll work with Mrs. Meyer to provide that information to you. Ordinarily, only she and myself have keys, but I do not dismiss the possibility of someone stealing a latch key and having a copy made, or, as you say, obtaining one from Sir William.”

  Aubrey shook his head. “I should have had all the locks changed when Beth told me about that letter! Charles, you once told me that I left nothing to chance, but I neglected to perform that simple act. I’ll contact a trusted locksmith today.”

  Galton raised a hand. “I’ve a man who can do it, Lord Aubrey. Alvin Chambers. If you’ve no further need of me, I’ll fetch him and begin the process at once. We’ll have all the exterior locks changed by end of day.”

  “Good,” Sinclair answered. “Sir Thomas, is there anything else you wish to ask or report before you leave?”

  “Only that my man at the Empress Hotel has been forced to vacate his rooms. He did manage to obtain some information that may prove valuable, but he couldn’t be here in person today. Elberton’s mother is dying, and he asked leave to go to her bedside.”

  “Of course,” the marquess replied. “Is that why he left the Empress?”

  “No, sir, but it was a blessing he had, otherwise, he might not have learnt of her illness. He left because he was recognised by another customer. Dr. Alexander Collins.”

  Kepelheim wrote the name into his notebook. “Isn’t Collins with the Castor Institute?”

  “Is he?” Aubrey asked. “That place keeps coming up, Charles. You and I should pay a call on this Collins. And we should return to the French Hospital and revisit this woman doctor who treated Moira Murdoch.”

  Reid sighed. “Dr. Kennedy has left the French, Charles. I went there to enquire about Murdoch’s death, but our physician had fled, leaving no word as to her whereabouts.”

  “Why is it women doctors grow so shy around us, Cousin?” Aubrey asked.

  “Because you offer them opportunity to do so, gentlemen,” Deidra Kimberley noted. “When next you must question a female in the sciences, I suggest you call upon me. My knowledge of medicine and current research allows me to compose pertinent questions, but more to the point: men are easily led by feminine tricks. I have no such limitations.”

  Charles laughed softly. “Strange, I just had a s
imilar conversation with Paul’s sister.”

  “Does my sister also call me ‘easily led’?” the earl jibed.

  “Not really, but Adele thinks we lack a female perspective. She hopes to be the ICI’s first woman inspector.”

  “Well, if anyone would qualify, it would be Della!” the duke interjected. “Shall we discuss the ICI, then? I assume that’s why you asked both Miles and Granger to attend, Charles.”

  “Yes, it is, but before we get into that, I’d like their input regarding Sir William. This stickpin is evidentiary regarding Trent’s ability to transform into a wolf. Of course, I’d have a difficult time offering it as evidence at the Old Bailey, but in this circle, I am confident of your belief.”

  “Does this mean that I get to act as judge?” the duke quipped.

  “It does, sir. As do we all. Martin, do you recall our excursion into the east wing last month?”

  The tailor wiped his mouth, for he’d been enjoying a slice of apple tart. “Oh, yes. Yes, of course. How could one forget such a ghastly journey up and then down those peculiar stairs? Surely, you didn’t traverse them again, Charles!”

  “No, thankfully, I didn’t have to. Our good Mr. Baxter had removed the seal on the entrance to that strange wing, and we entered via the main section. Much preferable, I can tell you. Branham Hall’s history is rife with spiritual oddities. For instance, I was unaware that there are two east wings.”

  John Miles stood. “If I may, sir? I worked as first foot under Mr. Prescott at the hall for a year. He served as underbutler there before moving to Glasgow to join the duke’s household.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember Prescott quite well,” Drummond remarked, smiling. “A good man. He sailed to New York, Charles. Fifteen years ago. He works with the Albany branch of the circle now, though his public position, you might say, is as Beth’s butler.”