The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Did I faint again?” she whispered hoarsely.

  “You don’t remember?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. My mind’s rather muddled. I think Dr. Emerson gave me something to help me sleep. I was dreaming. About you—and another. He looked so much like you.”

  “Who, dear?” he asked.

  “Albert,” she said, the single word tearing his mind with the speed of a bullet.

  “What did you say?” he asked, sitting up.

  “Albert. Your son. I saw him, though it was only a dream.”

  How can she know about him? “What do you mean?”

  She tried to push upward, but the effects of the sleeping draught weakened her arms, and she fell back against the pillow. “Could you help me? I’d like to talk about him. Do you mind?”

  “You should sleep.”

  “No, I want to hear about him, Charles. Please, don’t be cross with me.”

  “I could never be anything but in love with you,” he assured her. “Do you prefer to sit in bed, or would you like a chair?”

  “Bed is fine. I’m very sleepy, but it’s on my mind. He’s on my mind.”

  Sighing, he decided now might be the best opportunity to confess his failings, so the detective assisted her in sitting against the headboard. “Let me add another pillow to support your back. Water?”

  “No, I’m content. You look as if you need something stronger. Charles, if you prefer not to talk about him, I understand.”

  “It is difficult, but I’d always intended to tell you. In fact, it’s why I wanted to have that picnic with you, though something always came up to make us postpone.” He grew silent for a moment. “How did you learn about him?”

  “You mustn’t scold her, but it was Mary who let it slip. She’d brought me the scrapbooks Amelia kept when you were married. Sunday afternoon, when you and Paul were in Whitechapel. I’d asked if she had any photographs of you in uniform, and she brought out those books. We had a delightful time poring over those pages, and I removed several for framing. You made a very handsome constable, by the way,” she said, offering him a smile. He took her hand, squeezing it. “One photograph showed you with a baby, and I asked about it. Mary had no idea that you’d never told me about Albert, but when she mentioned his name, I immediately remembered that it was the name you called over and over whilst in your fever in Scotland. I’d thought then that it might be a child.”

  “You never said anything,” he whispered. “Why?”

  “Because you did not. I’d assumed there must be a reason why you kept silent on it. I waited to see if you would tell me. Charles, how did he die?”

  Charles grew quiet, his pale face revealing the deep pain the memories evoked. He said nothing for many moments, and Beth allowed him the silence, for she suspected that her question—and her condition—had uncovered deeply hidden grief within his heart. His eyes turned away from hers, as Sinclair fought emotions and memories he’d kept in check for ten years.

  “His name was Albert Frederick,” he began. “Amelia never liked living in Whitechapel. She liked very few things related to my life, but as her husband it was my duty to provide for her happiness. I failed in that nearly every day we were married. I often wondered why she married me. She was a lovely young woman back then, and I remember how she would laugh in those early days. That soon changed.”

  He halted, lost in a spiral of old wounds, old regrets. Then regaining composure, he continued. “That perceived bliss was short-lived, if indeed it ever really existed. After only a few months, we settled into a complacency that dragged at my heart. I truly wanted to make her happy, but Amelia seemed so desperately miserable, that I began to wonder if she might not be better off without me. I actually spoke with a solicitor about divorce.”

  This completely surprised the duchess. “After only a few months? Was it so awful?”

  “It was I who was awful, Beth. Amelia repeatedly told me how I’d disappointed her, and she hated my career choice. I was a policeman when we met, but she pushed me towards the practise of law. She said my university degree was being wasted, and that I should apply to one of the inns. My aunt and uncle encouraged me to divorce, saying Amelia didn’t love me. However, it all became moot, two days before my birthday in ‘77, when she told me she was pregnant.”

  “You hadn’t planned for a child?”

  “No. I hadn’t, at least. Truthfully, it was a great shock, and I admit to doubting if the child was even mine, for we generally slept apart after the first month. Amelia had headaches most of the time. However, once he was born, it was obvious. Albert looked exactly like me. Amelia begged me to let us move in with her parents, but I refused—out of selfishness to be honest. I’m not proud of my behaviour then, Beth, for at that time, my mind was fixed only on policing and learning that craft. I was one of a very few men who’d been named to form the new Criminal Investigations Department for Scotland Yard, and I wanted to live up to the faith Morehouse had placed in me. The promotion also bumped my rank from Police Sergeant to Detective Inspector, for of those selected to found the CID, I was only one of two men with a university degree. Also, I’d already solved three murders by then. I was assigned to H-Division in early ‘78, and we relocated from Lambeth to Whitechapel. My citizenry lived within the borough, and that is where I believed my family should also live.”

  “That makes sense,” she said. “Didn’t Amelia agree?”

  “She agreed with practically nothing. If I said black, she would argue that it was white. Up for me was down for her. But it wasn’t only a desire to remain in Whitechapel that drove me. The truth is that I had no wish to find myself beholden to her parents—her father in particular. It’s strange to say it, with all that I now know about my life, my true heritage, but Frederick Winstone always seemed to enjoy putting me in my place. You’ve met him. He was a very difficult man to please. His daughter inherited that flinty character, and I suppose I simply decided that failure would be my fate, regardless of what I did. Therefore, I did not try.”

  She listened quietly, her hand in his, and his grip tightened as the dark past rushed to intersect with the present.

  “I adored that boy, Elizabeth. From the moment I first held him, I knew Albert was mine. Amelia reacted strangely to him, though. She seemed cold, almost hateful towards him. So much, that I was forced to engage a wet nurse to care for him, but Amelia assumed her to be my mistress.”

  “Your mistress! Why would she think that? Charles, you are so faithful, so true!”

  “Am I?” he asked. “No, the girl wasn’t my mistress. Don’t think that, darling. Still, Amelia was convinced of my infidelity, and she dismissed the nurse. But Albert began to grow despondent and weak. After consulting with a doctor, I hired Mary Wilsham to keep house and switched Albert to a mixture of cow’s milk, cream, and honey, taken from a glass bottle. Though I wasn’t fond of the idea and wondered if the mixture offered adequate nutrition, it did allow me to feed him, which I did as often as possible. Over the course of ’78, he steadily grew and even began to thrive. Amelia’s icy exterior slowly thawed, and she began talking about having a second child.”

  “When was Albert born?” she asked.

  “December of ‘77, on the twentieth, but he never saw his first birthday. When we moved to Whitechapel, all that I could find was a tiny flat above a jeweller’s shop, but after two months, the house on Columbia Road became available. It was much larger and in a safer part of the east. I thought Amelia would be pleased. It was relatively new and had a back garden. It’s the house you stayed in for a few hours—do you remember it?”

  “I remember it very well, Captain. Those few hours forever altered the course of my life.”

  He smiled for a moment, grateful for her patience. “Somehow that small house came to life when you entered it, Beth. It was always a cold place—cold in many ways. Its sole source of warm
th is in three fireplaces. We had gas lamps but no boiler for central heating. This wasn’t unusual for Whitechapel rents, and I’d been saving to purchase a small place of our own. A new development was going up near Kingston with modern amenities, and my plan was to give Amelia this gift as a surprise for Christmas. It occurs to me now, that this was only a few months before William murdered your mother. That winter was cruel, was it not?”

  He paused again, closing his eyes, and she could see the cost of this retelling, written in pain across his handsome face. “In early November, some of the residents of Whitechapel began to fall ill. Within a week, dozens had died, and by the end of the month, hundreds. Eventually, the source for the epidemic was traced to a seaman returning from China, who’d carried the disease, which rapidly spread to dock workers, hauliers, prostitutes, and thence to costermongers, local merchants, and eventually to policemen and their... To their families.”

  Charles paused again, and tears formed like drops of heavy dew upon his black lashes. He took a deep breath and continued, his hands shaking.

  “At first, it looked like seasonal cases of chickenpox or even measles, but its true, terrifying name was soon discerned. Smallpox. Doctors at the Eastern Dispensary and the London came to us and asked that our constables be dispatched to every home, warning of the disease and ascertaining if anyone there had shown symptoms. Morehouse asked me to lead this initiative, and we found many hundreds infected, and dozens already dead or dying. Some merely developed the rash and cough, but others—oh, others,” he whispered, his voice cracking, “they, they…” He wiped at his face, struggling to maintain composure. “Their skin turned black and sometimes... Sometimes it sloughed off. Beth, it was devilish; unthinkably horrible! I’m so glad you weren’t in London to see it, or even hear of it.”

  He paused again, great tears sliding down both cheeks. She squeezed his hand, patiently listening.

  “Early in the outbreak, Amelia asked me whether she might go to her mother’s home, and I—well, I selfishly insisted she remain with me, that I preferred she and Albert stay in our own home. I foolishly thought them safe there, you see? Mary tried to convince me to send both my wife and son to another part of London, but my pride kept them within my reach; though, I foolishly believed myself protecting them.

  “It was several weeks into the outbreak, and more and more corpses began to choke our streets. The hospital and police morgues could no longer house all the bodies, and a shuttered warehouse near Leman Street became a makeshift crematorium. It was hideous work, but dozens of desperate, able-bodied men lined up to receive a shilling a day to stuff the dead into hastily built ovens that burnt ‘round the clock. The stench over the east was overpowering. It is a smell you never, never forget.” His hand trembled as it tightened around hers. “Our doctors feared that the bodies carried disease, you see, so all who died of the illness, regardless of social position, were so dispatched. That also included—children.”

  His shoulders began to shake as grief took hold of his entire body. Beth held him close, saying nothing, merely being his sounding board, his helper, but it broke her heart to hear the deep pain and regret in his manly voice; to see such sorrow etched upon his noble brow.

  “For some reason, I never became ill, not for a day, not a moment—dear God in heaven! I have so many times wished that I had died instead!”

  His head dropped to his chest in shame and regret, and grief spilled down his face like bitter rain. Sinclair wept for many minutes. Beth held him close, saying nothing, allowing him to grieve. Finally, after gathering up his courage and straightening his shoulders, the marquess continued as he wiped away tears.

  “Amelia panicked when the disease began to spread towards the north. Without my knowledge, she and her mother took Albert to a city doctor who claimed to have a cure, and this man—whom we later learnt was a charlatan—injected my son with some unknown chemical agent. Within hours, Albert’s small body grew hot, his eyes unable to focus. He wasn’t even a year old, Beth. We’d planned to celebrate at Christmas, and I had my surprise: the new house, but it... It never happened. She took him to her mother’s doctor that very hour, and within a day, Albert was dead. I never saw him again. Not to hold him, not even to say goodbye. Amelia never forgave me, and she never let me forget that it was my fault that our son died. And she was right. It was my fault—all of it!”

  He broke down completely, his head in her lap, great tears of agony raining down his face and onto the quilts. “Beth, I never saw him grow up; never got to—oh, Beth! Please, please, I could not bear losing another child! Nor can I ever lose you, so promise me, promise you will take care, please!” He clutched her to his chest, holding her tightly, desperately as he sobbed. “He was a beautiful boy, Beth, and I as much as murdered him!”

  “Charles, that’s simply not true. You made the best choices you could. Diseases come upon the wind, and no matter what we do, sometimes our loved ones die.”

  “Do you hate me?”

  Her heart-shaped face widened into a soft smile, and Beth stroked his cheek. “How could I hate you, Captain? It is beyond my capacity. Forever out of reach. I love you all the more for your great heart, and I promise to do all my doctors ask of me. If you want, we can name this child Albert,” she suggested. “Providing it is a son, of course.”

  He shook his head. “That is kind of you, but no. Albert was named for Amelia’s cousin—a rather loathsome creature. Actually, I thought we might name him Connor.”

  “Or Charles, perhaps?” she suggested.

  “We’ll talk of it once he’s born, all right?” He stroked her cheek, his eyes shining. “I love you so much, and I love this child—our child, our son or daughter. Beth, you are the love of my life—do you know that? I know you are independent, but allow me to take all the risks from now on. Let me stand ‘twixt you and danger. Trust in me to care for you, and I shall do all within my power to protect both you and this child,” he vowed. “And though it may take my life, I’ll make sure no harm touches either of you. Not whilst I have breath in my body.”

  Mr. Thirteen peered through the crack in the boards that covered the window. Outside, upon the banks of the Lea, a Romany youth dipped a handmade fishing pole into the muddy water, hoping to catch a carp for that night’s supper. The terrified former patient watched the lad, his belly stretched and taut from hunger. The escapee had been holed up in a ramshackle boathouse since fleeing the institute, living on what few fish he could catch with his hands, or the odd rat, when his efforts proved futile.

  The boy couldn’t be more than twelve, and his costume looked completely foreign to the man. The waning moon would rise again tonight, her own shape grown hungry. Thirteen’s ears twitched, and his sensitive hearing perceived footfalls upon the sandy marshland. Fearing capture, the terrified man hid beneath a damaged boat, his entire body trembling.

  “I know you are there,” a refined voice called. Despite his keen ears, Thirteen hadn’t heard the door open, nor had he heard footsteps inside the shack.

  “Come out, won’t you, Mr. Thirteen? You’ve no reason to fear me.”

  “Go away!” the altered human shouted. “I might hurt you!”

  “You cannot harm me. My powers are far greater than yours, my friend,” the voice continued as a gloved hand lifted the heavy boat with ease. “There now. See? I am not from the institute. Do you remember me, David?”

  David? “Who is David?” he asked, his teeth chattering.

  “That is your name. Can’t you remember it? Fear not. I shall help you recall everything, in time.”

  The hand reached out, and to his surprise Thirteen accepted it. As he touched the stranger, all terror fled from his bones, and a sense of warmth surged through his frame.

  “Am I dead, sir?”

  “No, David. You are finally alive again. Come with me, and I shall help you to heal.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

&nb
sp; After the arrival of the package, Drummond called an inner circle meeting for seven that evening. In attendance were the primary members: the duke, Kepelheim, Sir Thomas Galton, Edmund Reid, Victoria, and Paul Stuart.

  “Let us begin with prayer,” the duke said, bowing his head. “Lord, we stumble and fall, but you are always there to pick us up, to take our hands, and for that we give you thanks. Help us to see what dangers lie ahead, and to rush towards them without fear, knowing you are by our side. Be with our Elizabeth and keep her body and spirit strong. Be also with Charles and Paul as they show their love for her and for one another, in service to your wonderful Son, Christ Jesus. Keep us united, though the enemy seeks to divide us. And may we ever keep our minds focused upon the task you have appointed for this day, looking neither to the right nor to the left, but ever forward, though the way may bring danger and even death. All this we ask in our Saviour’s blessed name. Amen.” The duke glanced at the earl. “Is Charles joining us?”

  Aubrey seemed distracted, even irritated. “Yes, I imagine so. He and Beth were talking when I started to knock, and I didn’t wish to disturb them. I’m sure he’ll find us when they’ve finished.”

  “I see,” Drummond said, deciding not to pursue it further. “Galton, you mentioned that you wanted to speak first.”

  Galton stood. “Thank you, Your Grace. That heart took us all by surprise, but this may help us put an end to such surprises and see where Redwing’s plans are taking us.” The baronet spread out the map Reid had given him at The Brown Bear the previous month. “See here, sir, there are marks upon each Ripper site. Note the shape.”

  “Redwing’s symbol,” the earl observed as he leaned over the map. “This one—the one on Miller’s Court. This was the most recent Ripper event, but Edmund when came you upon this map?”

  “In early October, following the Eddowes murder. Honestly, we had no idea then what it meant, but note the names upon the back: Ankerman and Swanson. This map was found by Swanson in the pocket of a dead man, and then passed to Ankerman who gave it to Reid, and thence to me. Though I’ve searched the entire city, neither Ankerman nor Swanson can be found. It’s as if they’ve vanished off the earth.”