The Blood Is the Life

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The Blood Is the Life Page 29

by Sharon K Gilbert


  “Yes,” she whispered, her eyes lowering. “Rasha has said he will take me from you. Trent vowed to prevent us from marrying. Oh, Charles, please, promise me that you’ll stop them!”

  “I will, darling. I will stop them. I promise,” he said, sitting at the piano bench and taking her onto his lap. “Next Sunday, you and I begin the rest of our lives, and this child serves as a beautiful reminder of our bond. I’ve spoken with Michael Emerson, and he’d like to meet with you at five this afternoon. Is that all right?”

  “Yes, I suppose so, but will you be back by then?”

  “If not, I’m sure Emerson can proceed without my input. Both Whitmore and Price vouch for him, and having met with him briefly, he seems a man of great faith. Your opinion matters most of all, so put him to the test.”

  “I will. Charles, before you go, I want to make a confession.”

  She had worn her hair down, and several stray locks obscured her face as her eyes lowered. Sweeping the curls behind her left ear, he traced the curve of her face. “What confession, dearest?”

  “The dream. I told Paul about it, but I’ve been afraid to tell you.”

  “Afraid? Why?”

  She took a deep breath, the last of it catching in her throat in a stuttering manner. Tears formed on her lashes, and it seemed as if a great tempest brewed. “Because it made you seem uncaring, but I do not think of you that way! Not at all!”

  “What happened in this dream?”

  “It takes place inside a ballroom, and every time, the orchestra transforms into animals as the music changes key. You stand alongside the dance floor, staring at me, with a young girl beside you. I think she is my younger self, though I cannot be certain. My dance partner is Paul, but then another man forces him to leave, and this man is taller with long, dark hair. He insists I dance with him again and again, and as the musicians transform, I stumble and fall. The floor is bathed in blood, and the animal musicians rush into the costumed crowd and rend the dancers with their teeth and claws. Not noticing any of this, Paul leaves with another woman—a redhead. Finally, you notice my predicament and come to my rescue, abandoning the child. There’s more, but it is difficult to remember, and I think there is a black mirror...”

  “A mirror?” he asked, Morgan’s claims and the words of Saucy Jack’s riddle entering his thoughts. “Can you describe it?”

  “Not well, for it’s a part of the dream that eludes me. I think it has writing upon its surface, and the frame is very old. But it is an unusual mirror. More than that, I cannot remember. I’m sorry, Charles. Is it important—this mirror?”

  “Perhaps. Beth, I think that both you and I need time away from all of this. All of Redwing’s plots. If you’re well enough, why don’t we take a short trip after the wedding?”

  “Really?” she asked, her eyes brightening. “Where?”

  “I doubt we can stay long, but think of a city you’d like to visit for, oh, a week or so. It’s not a real wedding trip, but it’s better than none. After the baby is born next year, we’ll take a long voyage to a faraway land. Anywhere you like.”

  She threw her arms ‘round his neck, kissing his cheek. “You are so very good to me! Might we go to Tory’s château? It’s private, beautifully wooded, and lies close enough to Paris that we could attend the opera; though, all I really want is time alone with you. I don’t care if we do anything else, because being with you is the most wonderful, most special thing in all the world!”

  A hand knocked on the door, and Charles helped her to stand. “That’s Reid, I imagine. I’ll try to be home in time for supper. Don’t worry. Enjoy the party. Paul will need your aid in dealing with Cordelia Wychwright, you know.”

  She laughed, and he was happy to see it. “I’ll do my best, but it is a challenge. Adele will be disappointed that you’ll miss her recitation. She’s been practising Tennyson poems all week.”

  “Ask her to reprise them for me later. Darling, I miss you madly when we’re apart. When Paul and I get the ICI established, it will allow me to work from home. Would you like that?”

  “Oh, yes, Charles. Yes!” she replied, tapping her abdomen. “Both of us would like it very much.”

  They opened the door, and Edmund apologised. “Sorry to take him from you, Your Grace. I’ll do my best to keep it short.”

  “I understand, Inspector Reid. Next time, though, bring your wife along. Mrs. Reid can remain with me, and we shall commiserate one another.”

  “I’ll do that,” he promised. “Charles?”

  Sinclair waved to Paul, who excused himself from his conversation with Baroness Wychwright, relief painted on his lean face. “I hope this is an escape plan,” he whispered as he joined his cousin in the foyer. “Another moment in that woman’s clutches, and I might book passage to Australia.”

  Elizabeth clucked her tongue. “Shame on you. The baroness only wants to make a good marriage for her daughter. Do you mean to say you wouldn’t wish the same for Adele?”

  “I beg the court’s indulgence,” he said, laughing. “Charles, am I to go or remain?”

  “Go, if Beth can spare you. It seems Michael O’Brien wishes to confess. Are you up to assisting, Lord Aubrey?”

  “Always, Lord Haimsbury. Beth, will you be all right without me?”

  “I shall endure,” she answered, winking at Sinclair. “I’ll make use of the time by listing all your best points to the Wychwrights.” She turned to go, casting both a triumphant smile before joining the main group in the drawing room.

  “Perhaps, we should send Beth to interrogate O’Brien,” the earl suggested as they walked out the front door.

  Charles laughed. “O’Brien deserves such a fate! Those dark eyes cut to the quick, when she’s angry. So, what is it our reporter wishes to confess, Ed?” he asked as the three of them entered a Branham coach.

  “He claims that he’ll reveal all of Redwing’s plans in exchange for safety. With news of his arrest, he fears his compatriots will hang him out to dry as Ripper, and he hopes to avoid such a fate.”

  “As would anyone. Good, we’ll see how useful his information is, and if it proves true, then we’ll find a location where he might live out his life in security. Newgate, perhaps.”

  The carriage moved eastward along Great George Street, neither the driver nor its occupants aware of the great bat following above, its humanoid eyes blinking greedily.

  Chapter Eighteen

  7:15 Sunday evening – Queen Anne House

  Gertrude Trumper sat on death row, or so she believed. She’d been called to Cynthia Meyer’s office at half six. Now, nearly an hour later, the girl still sat upon a wooden chair, waiting for his lordship to return from Whitechapel, when the ax would certainly fall. Aggie MacGowan kept her company, hoping to encourage her friend, but Trumper found no solace in the Scottish maid’s presence. “Go ‘way, Aggie. There’s naught ta be done fer me.”

  “I’m sure his lordship will be fair, Gertie,” MacGowan insisted as voices rose up in the stairwell beyond the office. “He’s a kind man.”

  Before the Londoner could reply, the housekeeper entered with Lord Haimsbury. “His lordship wishes to speak with you, Gertie. Answer his questions honestly, and all will be well. Lie, and it will go against you, girl.” The housekeeper departed, leaving the door ajar.

  The marquess seemed as tall as any mountain to Trumper at this moment. She’d always thought him handsome, even generous, but now his face bore a stern expression that sent shivers down her spine.

  Sinclair’s visit to Leman Street had proven pointless, for Michael O’Brien refused to speak once Aubrey entered the room, claiming his earlier promise to confess had been misunderstood by Reid. Three hours of intense interrogation had made no difference, and the superintendent reluctantly left, ordering that the reporter be placed alone into a cell and kept on twenty-four hour watch, with no visitors.

>   During their journey, the earl had shared Della’s story of the cocoa, and Sinclair had decided to get to the bottom of the mystery himself. As he entered the room, Trumper stared—and her expression reminded him of the recalcitrant reporter; a fact that did little to soften his manner.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” he asked brusquely.

  She shook her head. “No, my lord.”

  “Do you like your work?”

  Trumper licked her lips, nervously. “Aye, milord. I reckon so.”

  “Then, why is it that your behaviour indicates the opposite?”

  “I’m not sure what ya mean, sir. I work real ‘ard, an’ do as I’m told ta do.”

  “I find that answer inadequate, Miss Trumper. Since the first day, you have proven obstinate and unreliable.”

  “Wha’, sir?”

  “You disobey orders, Gertrude. When told not to do something, you invariably do it, and when asked to perform a task, you find ways to avoid compliance. Were these the only complaints against you, I’d recommend a reprimand only, however, your actions go beyond that of a poor employee; they may be illegal. Tell me why I shouldn’t dismiss you now.”

  She’d hoped to have a moment to explain, to say how none of it was her fault—for in her twisted mind, it wasn’t. “I cannot say, my lord. I reckon you know all ‘bout them jewels.”

  Charles made certain his face showed no sign of surprise. He’d planned to ask about the cocoa. Beth had not mentioned missing jewellery. “Tell me about them,” he replied.

  “Nothin’ big, sir, though it were still thievin’, I reckon. A bauble or two. I been sellin’ ‘em off to a fella I knows near Cheapside. He peddles salted pork from a wagon there, an’ ‘e buys up the odd trinkets now ‘n then. I’ll pay the duchess back, sir. I still ’ave most o’ the coin I got fer ‘em.”

  “What is it you stole, Gertie? Precisely.”

  She gulped, her eyes cast downward, fingers twisting. “An emerald ring. A pair o’ blue and gold earbobs. A flower pin wif writin’ on. Four velvet hair ribbons, decorated wif little pearls. That’s all, sir.”

  “And what else did you take?” he asked, thinking now of the Verne novel. “Did you remove a book from the duchess’s nightstand?”

  She looked up, and tears tracked her thin face. “Migh’ o’ done, my lord. Bu’ only as wantin’ to read it.”

  “Read it? A book in French?”

  She blinked. Gertie had stolen the book as ordered by the man in the mirror, but she’d not looked inside—she had no idea it was printed in anything other than English. “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Gertrude, why would you take a book you cannot read?”

  “I dunno, sir.”

  “You don’t know? Girl, say something in your own defence! Selling stolen goods could send you to prison. Must I arrest you?” he shouted.

  Her face began to twitch, just above the left eye. “He made me do it.”

  “Who?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me, sir.”

  “I might,” he said, softening his tone. “Miss Trumper, if a man put you up to this, you must tell me. I shan’t blame you, if you’ve been coerced.”

  Her shoulders jerked back and forth, and her left hand began to tremble. “He ain’ showed hisself since last Friday. I reckon I done sumfin wrong.”

  Charles drew his chair closer. “Who, Miss Trumper? Tell me his name.”

  “You’ll say I’m mad, cause ‘e lives here, sir. Inside the mirrors.”

  Sinclair stared, dread invading all his bones. “Did you just say this man lives the mirrors? Have you any idea how mad that sounds? Such a claim could send you to an asylum.”

  She burst into tears, her hands to her face. “Please, sir! Don’ send me ta Bedlam! Mayhap I am mad, like as them teachers at the workhouse said, bu’ I didn’ wanna bring the duchess no ‘arm, my lord. I don’ e’en know what were in tha’ bottle!”

  “Finally, we get to the truth,” he declared. “You admit to adding something to the duchess’s cocoa? What did you use? Where did you find it?”

  “Some of it were wha’ tha’ doctor left. Fer sleepin’. The rest, I don’ know, sir, ‘cause I bough’ it off a gypsy. The man in the mirror, ‘e tol’ me ta go there an’ arsk fer sumfin’ called—I canno’ remember, sir. It were a new word ta me.”

  “Think carefully, Miss Trumper. Remember that I am far more than your employer. I am also a police detective. Bedlam might be preferable to ten years’ incarceration at Holloway.”

  She began to shake all over. Cynthia Meyer watched through a small window that communicated with the hallway outside the office, and she was joined by the butler.

  “Is he dismissing her?” Miles asked.

  “I cannot say. The duchess has said Lord Haimsbury’s to be in charge of how this is handled, but the poor girl looks terrified. Perhaps, I should go in.”

  “Allow his lordship to deal with this, Mrs. Meyer. Speaking to a policeman might be just what the girl needs.”

  Inside the office, Sinclair continued, his voice stern and commanding. “The concoction inside that bottle could have made the duchess very ill, Gertrude. Is that what you intended? Did you wish to harm her? Why? She has only been kind to you.”

  “I dunno,” the girl muttered, her shoulders rounding.

  “What was in that bottle?”

  “I don’ know!” she shouted, her chin jerking up, eyes wide. “And I don’t care! I hate her! She thinks she’s ‘igh and mighty, and every man loves her and wants her fer ‘is own, but she’s a liar and a cheat! She cheats on you, sir. She’s been sportin’ abou’ wif the earl, an’ ‘e’s prob’ly the baby’s real fawver! Arsk ‘im, iffin ya don’ believe me! She don’ love you, sir. She ain’ never loved you!”

  He started to interrupt, but the girl’s spine arched backward, and she began to shout in a foreign language; her eyes rolled into her head, showing only the whites. Threats spewed from her mouth like dark water, and blood ran from both her eyes. Trumper’s entire body rose up into the air, all on its own, leaving a great gap betwixt the floor and her feet. She literally hung suspended in mid-air; arms and legs stretched out impossible angles, as if unseen hands pulled the poor girl in four directions at once.

  Trumper began to scream. Meyer and Miles rushed into the office. The girl’s face contorted into animalistic shapes, the irises returning to the front; only now, the pupils had elongated into slits like that of a snake, the eye colour shifted from grey to yellow.

  “She will die!” Trumper cried. Her voice was no longer her own, but that of many; most of them male. It sounded almost like the scratching of a bow upon out-of-tune strings, and the dissonance sent shivers down the detective’s spine. “She will die,” the hideous voice continued, laughing. “And her brat of a child will die with her!”

  Charles reached out to take the maid’s arm, but she struck him so hard that both he and the chair slammed into the corner, knocking over a small bookcase and spilling half a dozen reference books and ledgers onto the floor. John Miles tried to help the marquess, but Trumper’s floating body flew towards him, biting at his ear as her left hand wrenched the butler’s shoulder, dislocating it.

  As the servant fell to the floor, the possessed girl rose higher towards the ceiling, the butler’s blood staining her chin. A deep-throated laughter gurgled from her throat, but the voice was not human. It was a low-pitched, growling, mixed with the irritating voice of Prince Razarit Grigor. “Find the glass, the shining one,” the demonic presence inside the maid sang out, “numbered ‘mongst its brothers near. Have you deciphered our riddle yet, Superintendent? You search for a key in vain. We require no such convention to enter this home! All mirrors are our doors, and soon we shall use one to steal your bride and claim her as our very own! As for this foolish human, her usefulness is at an end.”

  Charles stumbl
ed to his feet, taking the girl by the hand. “Gertie! Listen to me, you don’t have to allow this creature to control you! God hears, and he loves. He died for you!”

  A shudder ran through her body, and she looked down at him, her eyes returning to normal. “God doesn’t care,” she whispered.

  “He does,” Charles answered. “Tell this creature that you no longer wish to follow his cruel path. Tell him, Gertie!”

  “God has no time for me.”

  “He does. His word says that God resisteth the proud but giveth grace to the humble, Gertie,” Sinclair quoted. “I know that in your heart, you are a humble young woman. Submit yourself unto God; resist the devil, and he will flee from you!”

  A tear tracked down her cheek. “But I’ve sinned,” she said. “I’ve hated and thieved and lied.”

  “As have we all. We are of us sinners. Christ alone is perfect, but His perfect blood can wash you clean. Don’t you want that?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Then ask Christ to cleanse your heart. God so loved the world that he gave his son for us. All you need do is ask him to accept you,” he told her; his voice filled with anguish, tears running from his eyes.

  Slowly, her body lowered to the floor. As her feet touched the boards, Sinclair pulled her into his arms. “God loves you, Gertie.”

  She collapsed against him, whimpering like a child. “God, help me, please. Forgive me! Take me to heaven. I don’t want ta hurt no one no more.” Gertrude Trumper smiled as she looked up at her employer, her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you, sir. No one’s ever shown me such love afore. Tell the duchess I’m real sorry. Can you forgive me?”

 

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