The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Who is she, sir?”

  “I cannot tell you that. Not yet. Soon, however, you will meet her. Tell me, Ida, do you worship? Are you a believer?” he asked as he offered her a plate of iced desserts. “The orange-cranberry sponge cake is quite nice. The others are lemon-blueberry and apple-pecan. I have a sweet tooth, as they say. A small vice.”

  She selected the sponge cake and placed it on her plate. “Thank you, sir. I’m not much of a believer, no. God never seemed to notice me. I wish he had, but I suppose I’m not important enough. Or perhaps he gave up on me. My sins are mighty grievous.”

  “They are not,” he insisted. “We hold no formal services here, but as tomorrow is Sunday, I could see if the others would be interested in beginning something. Mr. Blinkmire has a keen interest in theology. Perhaps he could assist.”

  “Do you worship, sir?” she asked innocently.

  “Once, I worshipped every minute of every day,” he said, his eyes taking on a distant look, as if gazing backward into an ancient past. “How I long to return to that, but it is not to be. Perhaps, that is why I call this home Istseleniye. It is Russian for ‘healing’. I would find such healing for myself, but as it evades me—for the present—I endeavour to bring it to those who’ve been wounded by my kind.”

  “Istseleniye,” she repeated. “It is a beautiful word, sir. If I may be so bold, my lord, you always seem so very sad. Is it because of the woman? The one you love?”

  “Partly,” he admitted. “Sugar?”

  “Just one.”

  He added a single cube to her teacup, took a sip of his own, and then wiped his mouth with the linen. “Ida, you mentioned your grievous sins. Mine would make yours seem like the purest wool, my dear. Once, I thought myself justified in my actions, but some years ago, I saw my true self in the eyes of a child. I will not tell you the boy’s name, but his father was slain by one of my own brothers. It was as if I looked into a mirror—and what I saw there tore at my heart. Since that day, I’ve tried to change. You wonder if God understands, but I tell you his compassion is limitless; beyond all imagination! Despite my former, rebellious choices, God always had a plan. That boy has grown into manhood, and actions I took in ages past, now prove useful to him and to those he loves. God truly does work all things together for good, despite the actions of fools.”

  Vasily approached and bowed deeply. “My lord prince, word has come from your brother. Last night’s meeting appears to have been successful.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. Sara has emerged. He will make our task much more difficult.”

  “So I have learnt, my lord, but the ceremony not only opened the gate, it revealed the location of another.”

  “Where?” Romanov asked, standing.

  “It is where you theorised, sir. In France, near his ancestral home.”

  “Forgive me, Ida, I must attend to a matter, which cannot wait. Vasily will see that all your needs are met. I have enjoyed our little talk. I believe Mr. Blinkmire walks each afternoon in the east garden, near to the cemetery. He might appreciate your company, if you would offer it. Until this evening,” he said, bowing and kissing her hand.

  In a moment, he’d vanished from the garden in company with the butler, both speaking rapidly in Russian as they walked. Ida sighed as she considered the cemetery with its dead and dying flowers placed near many of the tombs. “Perhaps, that is where I belong,” she said to herself. “Do you listen?” she asked the sky, thinking of God and whether he hated her for the choices she’d made.

  Only the wind answered, so she remained in her chair, sipping tea, and pondering the idea of rivers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The London Hospital, often simply called ‘the London’, began in the mid-18th century as an idea put forth by seven men at the Feathers Tavern in Cheapside, who saw the need for an infirmary in the growing city’s east end. The London was originally intended as a medical service for merchant seamen and warehouse workers, but before long the facilities expanded to include a broader class of poor, requiring construction of a larger building. In 1752, Mount Field in Whitechapel was chosen as an ideal site by a committee headed by the Earl of Macclesfield, and in 1757, construction began. During the intervening years, Mount Field had altered from a countryside meadow to a crowded inner city block, but the five-storey, brick building still overlooked small but well-kept flower and vegetable gardens, used by patients and staff alike.

  On any given day, the hospital housed over six hundred patients within three hundred rooms and wards, but one special resident made his home on the ground floor in a small chamber overlooking a rose garden. As he knocked upon the resident’s door, Charles Sinclair recalled the many times he had visited here since first meeting the gentleman in 1886. A mumbled voice replied softly through the dense wood, and the detective entered the room.

  “Superintendent!” the patient exclaimed happily, his speech encumbered by the peculiar formation of his mouth and teeth. “Oh, this is a fine surprise. Do come in, old friend. Yes, come in!”

  Sinclair and Reid bowed gracefully, and the superintendent reached out to shake the resident’s misshapen hand. “Mr. Merrick, it is always a great joy to see you, my very dear friend. I’m remiss for not visiting sooner. You remember Inspector Reid, don’t you, Joseph?”

  “Yes, yes, of course! Of course! But you mustn’t apologise for not calling, Charles. The newspapers report daily just how busy you’ve kept since we last visited in September. Your life has taken many wonderful turns, has it not? From St. Clair to Sinclair, from a policeman to a peer.”

  “And from desperately lonely to engaged to be married,” the marquess continued. “May we sit?”

  “Yes, of course,” he answered, his breathing strained. Merrick sat upon his small bed, which bore half a dozen plump pillows: gifts from hospital staff and friends, many of them embroidered with pastoral scenes. “Shall I ask the sister to arrange for tea?”

  “No, I’m afraid we cannot stay,” Charles told him. “Another time, perhaps. We’ve come to speak with you about a mutual friend.”

  Merrick suffered from a disfiguring disease that caused his skin to harden into bumps and knots all over his body. His spine and limbs were twisted, and his head overgrown by the ravages of the illness. He had spent most of his twenty-six years confined to side show cages and tents, gawped at by those who came to stare and throw refuse at ‘the Elephant Man’. Though his stony exterior made it arduous to speak, those who knew him well had come to understand the refined words and gentlemanly expressions. His eyes grew soft now as he sat upon the bed’s edge, leaning upon the carved handle of his walking stick to keep his balance. “You mean Ida, don’t you, Charles?”

  “Yes, Joseph. Did Ida Ross visit you recently?”

  “She did. Only last week, in fact. I’d not seen Miss Ross in many weeks, but that is not unusual for her, as you know. She seemed in a terrible state. Thin, pale, and excited to the point of exhaustion. I suggested that she allow one of the nurses to examine her, but she insisted she was quite well.”

  “Ida has always been proud,” Reid said.

  “So she has,” Merrick replied. “Ida told me that she intended to speak with you, Charles. I take it that she has, else you’d not be here.”

  Charles removed the letter from his pocket. “Ida left this for me. She’d given it to a man named Barnett. There’s a stamp on it, so I assume he was meant to post it, but the man’s wits are dulled by drink, and clearly he forgot. In the letter, Ida mentions a list which she left with you.”

  “Yes, I have it. There behind you, Inspector Reid, you will find a silver box inlaid with ivory. It is a music box given to me by a dear friend. I secured the list within.”

  Edmund located the box and handed it to Sinclair. “May I?” the marquess asked before opening it.

  “Oh, yes. Do.”

  The detective turned the delicat
ely wrought latch and the lid opened, revealing the interior workings and tines of the unwound mechanism. “I see no list.”

  Merrick smiled—or did so to the extent to which his malformed face could manage. “The lid contains a hidden compartment. If you push up against it, a spring will reveal it.”

  Charles did so, and a rolled scrap of paper fell out of the secret chamber. He handed the box back to Reid and then unrolled the note. “Have you read it?” he asked Merrick.

  “I have, but I do not know why these names are joined together. Ida would not say. She only wanted to secure the list, for your eyes only.”

  “Joseph, I want to put a constable on your room from now on. I’ll speak with Mr. Treves about it. Would that meet with your approval?”

  “Why, Charles? Am I under suspicion of some crime?”

  Sinclair smiled. “Hardly, old friend. Rather, I worry that a crime might find you. The men on this list are very powerful, and if any suspects you have read it, he might decide to pay a call on you, and that is not a risk I’m willing to take.”

  “I see,” Merrick answered thoughtfully. “I have no fear, if you are on my side. Very well. Post your man, and I shall keep watch also. The hospital has a telegraph room, so I shall ask an orderly to send a wire, should anyone come ‘round snooping. How is that?”

  Standing, Sinclair shook Joseph’s hand. “Quite sensible. Joseph, I’m getting married in a week, and I’d like you to come.”

  He shook his head. “Charles, I find large crowds difficult, but I shall say a prayer for you and the duchess. It gladdens my heart that you and she have found each other at last. Perhaps, you would bring her by sometime?”

  “We’ll make a point of visiting often,” he promised. “Edmund will have one of his men come right away, so expect a constable to be outside your door from now on.”

  “If you select one that plays chess, it would be most gratifying.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Reid replied. “Goodbye, Mr. Merrick.”

  “Goodbye, Inspector. It was a great pleasure to see you again. Charles, remember your promise to bring the duchess to visit me. Her photograph is most pleasing, but I suspect she is even more lovely in person.”

  “Elizabeth is beautiful beyond the capacity of any camera to reproduce,” Sinclair answered. “We’ll come by next week. The twentieth or so.”

  The two detectives left and returned to the Branham coach. “Where to now, sir?” Granger asked as the men entered.

  “We’ll leave Reid at Leman Street, but I’m going back to Queen Anne, Granger.” The driver left, and in a moment, the carriage moved forwards. “We’ll deal with O’Brien tomorrow, Ed. This list must get to the circle right away. Be sure to send a reliable man to Merrick’s room, will you? The names on this list are extremely powerful, and their reach long.”

  “You said nothing to Merrick about Ida’s possible death,” Reid noted.

  “I’ll not distress Joseph without cause. Until her body is discovered, I refuse to believe her dead.”

  “We’re not going to the Custom House then?”

  “No, not today. I’d appreciate it, though, if you would send France to enquire about Barnett’s claims. Perhaps, a watchman saw him there in Ida’s company.”

  “Consider it done.”

  Charles read through the list again. Thirteen names in all, led by Sir William Trent and followed by Sir Clive Urquhart, Lewis Merriweather, and many others, including Razarit Grigor. The Romanian did indeed sit on the exclusive ‘round table’ of Redwing.

  Charles briefly wondered if it might be safer to take Beth far away from London, but he knew Redwing’s reach stretched ‘round the globe. No matter where they might travel, the ravenous birds would follow.

  Snowdrop’s breathing had grown shallow and quick, but there’d been no sign of the foal’s movement into the birth canal. In fact, Mr. Marsden believed the foal was dead.

  “Your Grace, I’m very sorry to tell you this, but the kindest thing would be to put the mare out of her misery. There’s no internal movement at all, which is surprising at this stage. She’s showing waxing in the bag, and her pelvic muscles are beautifully relaxed, yet it’s as if she’s reluctant or unable to do more. I have to assume it’s the latter.”

  Beth had stood beside the open gate to the stall for almost two hours, and she’d begun to grow weary. “Excuse me, Mr. Marsden, but I must sit.” Finding a wooden chair, she took it, and a stable boy brought her a cup of clear water. “Thank you, Master Keith. You’re as considerate as your father.” She looked at the veterinarian. “Might she feel crowded?”

  “Crowded? In what way, Your Grace?”

  “When I was a girl at Branham, we had a broodmare who refused to deliver whenever watched. It was as if she worried that her foal would be in danger, even from those whom she knew well. If we left Snowdrop in peace for a few hours, then might she feel safe?”

  “It’s an old wives tale that horses have such thoughts, my lady. Medical care and intervention in an expedient manner is best.”

  “I know that you are considered an expert, Mr. Marsden, but Snowdrop is my horse, and I’ll not have her put down unnecessarily. If she’s to die, then may we not allow her a little time to try foaling without us first?”

  “It will cause her a great deal of discomfort if the foal is dead, my lady.”

  “But we do not know for certain that it is dead, do we?” she countered patiently. “Mr. Powers, let’s clear the stall and leave Snowdrop in peace until morning. Send someone to check on her hourly, but no one is to remain where she might see. Is that clear?”

  Powers nodded. “Clear as a bell, my lady.”

  Marsden disliked the suggestion. “If you did not intend to take my advice, Your Grace, why did you send for me?”

  “Your expertise is appreciated, Mr. Marsden, but I am not without experience, and neither is my Chief Groom. Our concern was that Snowdrop appeared ill—not that she is having difficulty with foaling.”

  “She is not ill,” he declared as he put on his hat.

  The earl entered the stable area, a telegram in his left hand. “Charles is on his way back from Whitechapel. How is Snowdrop?”

  “Dying,” the vet replied matter-of-factly.

  “Not another one!” Aubrey exclaimed. “Is it the same as with Ambrose?”

  Beth stared at him, shock painting her face. “What are you talking about? Ambrose is fine. You rode him only a fortnight ago, in fact.”

  Paul wished he’d said nothing. “No, dear. I’m afraid Ambrose died last night. I’d assumed Charles had already told you.”

  “Charles knew about it and said nothing to me?” she bit back angrily. “Why would he do that?”

  “To spare you, I imagine,” the earl answered. “Marsden, is there any sign of injury to Snowdrop’s neck? Ambrose Aurelius had two puncture wounds below his ear.”

  “Wounds? No, none that I perceived. What does Clark think? Shall I go to Branham and perform a necropsy, Your Grace?”

  Beth had begun to weep. “Oh, I don’t know. Paul, take me back to the house, please. I just want to sit down for a moment.” Bella and Briar drew near, concerned to see their mistress weeping. The female licked Beth’s hand as if trying to comfort her.

  “Sorry, darling. Yes, I’ll take you back inside.” He turned to the vet. “Mr. Marsden, we’d appreciate it if you’d pay a call to Branham tomorrow. Stop by here first, though. If Snowdrop is still in distress, then we will take your advice—whatever it might be.”

  Elizabeth leaned upon him, clinging to his side as she wept. The earl held her close as they walked, and Della met them at the door. “Has Snowdrop had her baby?” she asked her brother.

  “Not yet,” he answered. “Beth, would you like Della to play for us? It’s two more hours until supper. I’ll read the news, and you can have a little lie-in whil
st Adele entertains us.”

  “Is Cousin Charles coming back?” the youngster asked as they headed towards the music room. “Uncle James had to leave, by the way. Something about a meeting at the palace.”

  “Another? Our uncle sees more of the queen than the prime minister these days,” Aubrey said with a grin. “Yes, Charles is on his way back. He’ll join us for supper.”

  “Good. I have a report about the cocoa,” she told him. “Shall I play my new piece? I’ve been learning one for Christmas.”

  “That would be lovely,” her brother replied. Beth continued to cry softly, and in a few moments, he’d laid her upon a long, velvet sofa within the music room. Adele searched through a tall stack of music she’d brought with her from Scotland. “I’ve a wonderful book of Christmas songs that my piano teacher gave to me last year. My favourite is Away in a Manger; but there’s also March of the Kings, Sing We Now of Christmas, How a Rose E’er Blooming—that’s Uncle James’s favourite—and O, Tannenbaum. Do you prefer one over another?”

  “Play them all, dear,” the earl said softly. “I think the duchess is already falling asleep.”

  Elizabeth had turned her face towards the back of the sofa, preferring no one see how upset she’d become. It felt as if the entire world’s weight crushed her now, and all she wanted was to see Charles’s face and hear his voice.

  “I’ll play softly, then,” the girl said as she set the music upon the piano.

  Paul left momentarily to find that afternoon’s collection of newspapers, returning quickly and carrying six editions beneath his arm. He listened to the music whilst reading various reports of crimes in the west, financial news, Parliamentary decisions and debates, and several articles on Ripper. Two included quotes attributed to Reid and Abberline, but the earl doubted that either man had given reporters the time of day, much less any comments.