“Yes,” he whispered. “I forgive you, just as God forgives you.”
Her body relaxed completely, and her eyes closed. The waiflike smile remained, but Gertrude Trumper was dead.
Chapter Nineteen
14th November, Wednesday afternoon – 4 Whitehall Place
As Charles Sinclair sat at his desk, he reflected on the events since of the past few days. The shock of Trumper’s death had thrown the household into deep mourning. At Beth’s insistence, Gertie was buried in the family cemetery beyond the deer park at Queen Anne, overlooking a regal stand of graceful willow trees that grew alongside King’s Creek. Sinclair read several psalms at the funeral, and Edward MacPherson conducted the service. Aggie MacGowan planted a white rose bush beside the grave, and she promised to visit her fallen friend every week.
Snowdrop succumbed to her illness, and necropsies performed by Marsden revealed a severe infection of the liver in both Ambrose Aurelius and the mare, caused by the introduction of foreign material—most likely bacteria. The presumed route of infection was determined to be puncture wounds found upon the horses’ necks, just over the carotid arteries. The newborn colt was named Drummond’s Delight and appeared to be thriving, nursed by an experienced broodmare called Branham’s Heart.
Sinclair finished his photography session with Blackwood that Tuesday afternoon, including a series of ten poses at Queen Anne House with Elizabeth.
Michael Emerson met with the duchess twice in follow-up visits and received approval as her new physician. He confirmed the diagnosis given by Whitmore and Price: the duchess was indeed pregnant, and he estimated a delivery date near the middle of July, based on objective signs present during his examinations. Emerson felt her severe symptoms raised no immediate alarms, believing them nothing more than delicacy and nervous prostration caused by the trials the family had suffered of late.
After days in isolation, Michael O’Brien had finally confessed, and his information proved enlightening. The reporter corroborated the names on Ida Ross’s list, but also revealed the locations of Redwing’s meeting places throughout the city. Aubrey placed Malcolm Risling in charge of inspecting each site and removing any evidence discovered.
Sinclair personally investigated the claim made by Trumper before her death: that a mirrored entity had gained control of her and ordered her to poison the duchess. As a precaution, he’d asked Miles—now recovered—to assign footmen to search the house for any unusual mirrors, and they discovered the rosewood-handled looking glass Trumper had removed from the attics along with three other mirrors, apparently stolen from Haimsbury House. Gertrude had also written a rambling diary in a variety of hands and languages. These were given to Kepelheim and MacPherson for deciphering.
Lord Aubrey searched through stand after stand of pork sellers in Cheapside, finally locating a middle-aged Welshman named Pinky Jones, who’d recognised Trumper’s description as a girl he’d known at Stepney Workhouse. Not surprisingly, he denied buying the stolen jewellery.
Aubrey also found the gypsy, working in a carnival sideshow, operating two miles east of Hackney Wick. The palm reader called herself Magda Kováks, and she told the earl that a girl claiming to represent an unnamed peeress had purchased half a bottle of valerian root and penny royal elixir so that she might induce miscarriage. Kováks had a long and colourful history with the Metropolitan Police, having been arrested dozens of times. When told that the mixture caused an unwitting animal to become quite ill, the gypsy claimed that she’d no idea what the actual ingredients in the bottle were, as she’d purchased it from a fellow traveller near the Marshes for half a penny.
“Blame him!” she’d exclaimed. “If you can find him. The man is szellem; a ghost!”
Finally, as Wednesday afternoon arrived, Elizabeth’s health had improved dramatically. Her cheeks held their former blush of pink, her eyes were clear and joyful, and her hands steady. Though he’d seldom left her side since Sunday evening, Charles at last felt he could spend an hour at Whitehall, tying up loose ends at the Yard.
“Much has changed in six weeks’ time, hasn’t it, old friend?”
Sinclair smiled at his fellow superintendent, George Haskell. “Has it only been six weeks? Feels like six months at times.”
“I hope that isn’t an indicator of doubt, Charles. I’ve seen your good lady’s portrait in the press. She’s absolutely beautiful. Surely, you’re not having second thoughts.”
“Not even one. Honestly, George, I’m happier than I’d ever thought possible.”
The portly superintendent crossed the room, perching upon Sinclair’s desk. “Not even a twinge of worry? Marriage is a big step, after all.”
“Not even a hint of a twinge. We’ve had a busy time of it, that’s all, but we manage. What do you think of our new commissioner?”
“It’s hard to say,” Haskell answered, removing a pipe from his pocket. “Monro seems a decent enough chap. He served as a magistrate in India before coming back here in ’84. He certainly stepped up to the mark as Assistant Commissioner for Crime, I thought. Didn’t you?”
“I suppose he’s all right. I’ve always got along well with Monro. Special Branch might not agree with the Home Secretary’s choice, but it’s no longer my concern. I’m resigning.”
“What?” Haskell gasped. “You’re doing no such thing. You bleed blue, Charles. Your peerage notwithstanding, of course. Why, I can’t imagine the Yard without you in it. Why would you even consider resigning?”
“My cousin and I are starting a private investigation service. I’m tired of being given a task with no funds to implement it.”
“Must be nice to have wealth,” Haskell observed, lighting the pipe. “If you ever need advice on how to spend it, call on me. If I can’t give you an answer, I’m sure my wife can. Or my two daughters.”
“Shall I let Helen know that you said that?” Charles quipped with a wink. “Actually, I think I’ll pay Monro a call this afternoon and let him know my plans in person. He’s a good man, and I’d not want to leave on a sour note.”
“He’ll likely try to stop you,” his friend countered as he returned to his own desk.
A constable knocked on the door frame, a calling card in his right hand. “Superintendent Sinclair, sir?”
“Yes, Wells. What is it?”
“You’ve a visitor. A right fancy man.”
Sinclair laughed. “Is he long-haired and well spoken?”
“He is, sir.”
“Then it’s probably my cousin, Lord Aubrey. Send him up.”
“No, sir. I know Lord Aubrey, sir. This is a foreign fellow. Says he’s a prince.”
Sinclair felt a chill run down his back. Which prince? “Send him up. George, do you mind?”
“Not at all. I’m not really the princely type, anyway,” Haskell, answered. He clapped the pipe against his teeth, grinned, and left the office, passing by Anatole Romanov in the corridor.
“Good day, Lord Haimsbury” the prince said as he entered. “I ask your forgiveness for calling without warning, but you are always so very busy.”
Charles met the prince at the door and motioned towards a pair of club chairs, flanking a blue-tiled fireplace. “Shall we sit?”
“Thank you, yes.”
“As you say, Your Highness, I’m a busy man these days. How may I help you? Have you come to offer more of your riddles?”
Romanov removed his gloves, smiling. “No. I come to speak plainly.”
“That will be refreshing.”
“Yes, I imagine so. Charles, I am hosting a ball at Kensington Palace this Saturday evening. It is in honour of your upcoming wedding. You and the duchess are the special guests. I sent an invitation to your home, but have not yet received a reply.”
“A ball?” he asked, thinking of Beth’s nightmare. “That’s kind of you, but as it’s the night before our wedding...”
“Yes, I know this, but it would mean a great deal to me. The Duke of Edinburgh also hosts the ball, along with myself and the Russian Embassy. You must come, Charles.”
“I’ll agree to come if you answer a few questions for me. No tricks, no riddles.”
“What would you ask of me?”
“Who are you?”
Romanov’s smooth cheeks rose high upon his serene face. “That is a complicated question. I am more than human, as you already know. Am I your enemy? No. I am your friend.”
“Prove it.”
“Very well. There is a man whom you should locate. He is called Mr. Thirteen, but that is not his name. It is a designation used by those who have kept him prisoner these many years.”
“Why would I want to find this gentleman?”
“Because you need him to recover your lost memories.”
“How so?”
“Find him, and you find your answers.”
“More riddles!” Charles shouted, rising to his feet. “Get out, if that is all you offer.”
The prince remained calm and seated. “I also know you found a letter from a woman whom you admire. The names on her list will begin to die, so if you wish to learn anything from them, you must act quickly.”
Sinclair paused, his anger dissipating momentarily. “Why would they die?”
“Because they have been exposed. The list’s existence is known, Charles. It throws their current plans into a temporary state of chaos, but the round table will rebuild.”
“With Trent at its head?”
He smiled, his right hand twisting the head of his cane. “No.”
“No?”
“I shall not explain further, but allow me to offer this. You have a fitting with your tailor this afternoon, no?”
“How do you know that?”
“I know many things, and no, I do not spy upon you through mirrors as do some of my kind. My knowledge derives from other methods. Not only do I see what Redwing does, I hear their little whispers.”
“You’ve not yet answered my original question.”
“Haven’t I?”
“Whose side are you on?”
“The one that will win,” he said, standing. “Keep watch for packages. One never knows what they might contain.”
He offered his host a deep bow. “Until Saturday, then.”
The prince left the office and vanished, leaving no hint that he had even been there at all.
Elizabeth Stuart read through the young woman’s résumé, finding herself impressed. “Miss Jenkins, you served as private secretary for the Countess Morell, may I ask why you left? You do not say.”
The woman was twenty-six, gracefully tall, auburn-haired, and pleasant with a serious, freckled face. She wore good shoes, an expensive dress that reflected fashion from three seasons past, and she had a tendency to tap her foot.
“She—well, it’s difficult to say, Your Grace. That is... If you must know, the countess dismissed me, due to my condition.”
Beth looked surprised. “Your condition? Are you ill?”
“No, no, I am quite healthy, my lady. But I was unmarried and—well, I still am, but you see, I was with child. I’d been engaged, you understand, to a wonderful young man from our parish named Thomas Willoughby. Tommy and I planned to wed last April, but he got cold feet, I suppose, especially when it became clear that we’d already begun our family. The countess was very kind to me, and she—well, I must admit it, her ladyship helped me to find a family to adopt my little boy. I’ve only now fully recovered my strength, but the countess hired another woman to take my place during my confinement. You may speak to her regarding it. I did not wish to keep any truths from you, Your Grace, it is just that the story is a difficult one, and I’d hoped…”
“You’d hoped you might avoid telling it. I see, and I understand. Where is your son at present? You say he was adopted? Does he live in London? Do you see him from time to time?”
“No, Your Grace, I do not. He lives with a family in Ireland. Friends to the Countess. I’m never to contact him, because his new parents must now be his only parents.”
She began to weep, and Elizabeth offered her a handkerchief. “Dry your eyes, Miss Jenkins. When would you be able to start?”
“Do you mean you’d still consider me, my lady?”
“I would, and I do—in fact, if my fiancé approves, then you may begin as soon as you’re available.”
“Oh yes. I recall seeing your wedding announcement in the newspapers. Will you remain here, then, or do you plan to return to Kent?”
“Both and neither, I suppose. I’m sorry to be so vague, but we are only now finalising our plans. When we return from our short wedding trip, we shall reside in Lord Haimsbury’s London house, which is not far from here—a short walk across the park behind Queen Anne, in fact. Which means, I shall be able to visit my old home and see all my friends here whenever I wish.”
She looked puzzled. “Friends? You have friends living here with you, Your Grace?”
“Most would simply call them my staff, but many have known me since I was a little girl. To me they are more like friends, and some are like family. Now, your home could be either here or at Haimsbury House, but it would work best for me, if you could be available during regular hours. Ten to four, I should think. I do not desire someone who is always on call. I merely need an assistant to keep track of each day’s demands, write a few letters, and maintain communication with my solicitors, estate stewards, and so forth. Does that seem attainable?”
“Oh, yes! It is very attainable, Your Grace.”
“Good. The salary is two hundred pounds a year to start, but once we’ve an idea of how efficient you are, you will be considered for a pay rise. You’ll have one week off each August, one at Christmas, and another in the spring for Easter week. All with pay, of course.”
Her eyes grew round. “Those are very generous terms, Your Grace.”
“I’m glad you think so. I had a secretary in Paris last year, who thought them positively meagre. Oh, and if my Aunt Victoria tries to second you for her own projects, you must tell me. Tory should be willing to pay for your time, if she chooses to employ it.”
“Thank you so much, Your Grace. Oh, is that the marquess there?” she asked as Paul Stuart’s tall form and Kepelheim’s short one passed by the windows.
“Actually that is my cousin, Lord Aubrey, and the other gentleman is his tailor and our friend, Mr. Martin Kepelheim. They’ve arrived to finalise fittings for the wedding clothes. May I contact you at this hotel, Miss Jenkins?”
The young woman nodded and stood, realising she was being dismissed. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Thank you for meeting with me today, Miss Jenkins. I shall contact you tomorrow morning either way, but unless Lord Haimsbury has an objection, you are hired.”
She beamed, and Beth could see the woman’s entire demeanor alter.
“We let ourselves in. The foyer is devoid of servants,” Aubrey said, peering into the drawing room. “Are we early? Where are all your staff?”
“Miles is at the other house, and Stephens conducts a meeting in the kitchens, I think. I’m not sure why Lester isn’t available. He was here a moment ago,” Beth answered. “Miss Jenkins, this is my cousin Paul Stuart, Earl of Aubrey, and this is our most esteemed and talented Mr. Kepelheim. Gentlemen, Miss Jenkins may soon be joining our household as my secretary. And no, I do not believe you early. Charles is late.”
The tailor removed his hat as did Paul, and both men bowed. Jenkins found it all too much, and she blushed beautifully in return. “You are very kind. Lord Aubrey, it is an honour to meet you.”
Paul smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. “Miss Jenkins, you will find that so long as you take good care of our duchess, you will never cease to have friends here. Beth,
I’ll take our tailor upstairs, so he may chalk my hems. Wait—did you say Charles is late?”
She nodded her head as the secretary left. “He is. I expected him an hour ago, and since I promised not to chase him all over Whitechapel, I am cooling my heels here.”
The earl kissed her cheek. “It’s clear that your old fighting spirit has returned, Princess. Shall I send a footman to forewarn your fiancé?”
“Oh, no. Allow me the pleasure of reminding the marquess just how accurate his timepiece is.”
Paul and the tailor left the room, both laughing, and even Beth found cause to smile. In only a few days, she would become Mrs. Charles Sinclair, and nothing she might imagine could ever make her happier. She left the drawing room, intending to find that afternoon’s post, but she overheard Jenkins speaking to someone at the front door. As Lester had not yet returned, Beth decided to discover who it might be. The secretary stood in the open door, and the duchess could see the young woman’s coat and hat, still in her left hand, but she could not see the other person.
Rather than ring for a footman, Beth ignored protocol and answered the door, opening both sides, so she could observe the entire front portico. A man and woman stood near one of the chairs. He was tall and thin and wore a waxed handlebar moustache upon his long upper lip. His dress was formal: cutaway coat, striped cravat, and lavender gloves. She was medium height with greying hair done up in an elaborate coif topped by a yellow rose hat, bearing three enormous heron feathers. Her turquoise and yellow dress echoed the latest fashion, but her pale face and tight lips gave her an aged look.
“Good day,” Beth said to the strangers. “Miss Jenkins, are these friends of yours?” she asked. It seemed a perfectly reasonable question under the circumstances.
As was often her way whenever at home, Elizabeth had dressed simply in a royal blue skirt and white silk blouse; topped by a yellow and blue, striped waistcoat. Her hair was down but neatly pulled back behind her ears and secured by a yellow ribbon, edged in white lace.
The man spoke in reply. “My good woman, we are family to the marquess,” he announced. “We wish to speak with Lord Haimsbury. Would you announce us?”
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