The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  Reid looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Be careful with whom you discuss this, Charles. As a loyal circle member, I will always defer to our leadership, but there are those inside the Yard whose loyalty lies elsewhere. And I do not refer to police officials.”

  “Another reason I wanted to sound you out on it first,” his superior admitted. “It cannot be coincidence that this happened at a time when Beth was here all alone. She was only four, Ed. Four years old! It was also the summer that Beth first saw ‘the man in the park’.”

  Edmund frowned. “That dark shadow? She saw him that year?”

  “Yes, and with Beth expecting, it worries me, Edmund.”

  “It is definite, then?” he asked. “She is with child?”

  Sinclair nodded. “Yes. Emerson insists she remain calm, for he has some concerns about her state of health. I intend to make sure her every day is secure. That is why I would know more about these crimes in ‘72. Could you make copies of the Yard records on the murders? I cannot do it myself. It would leave a trail for Redwing to follow.”

  “Yes, but you should speak with Thomas Galton. He’s often obtained records through, shall we say, less than legal means that leave no official trail.”

  “I’d hoped you’d have a way to manage it, just make sure neither your name nor mine is attached in any way.”

  “I will. Now, if you’ve nothing else, I should be getting back to Leman Street. Send for me if you have any other need, Charles.”

  The two men exited the cottage; the inspector returning to Whitechapel, and Charles to his new home to commence a series of meetings with furniture manufacturers. It was afternoon by the time he concluded the interviews, and he’d just left his study, when a footman arrived to announce a visitor—one he’d not seen in many days. Martin Kepelheim.

  “My dear friend!” the tailor gushed as the marquess entered the drawing room to greet his guest. “You look more and more like your father now that your attire is improved. That cutaway coat is a masterpiece. One of my finest creations!”

  “I completely agree. Martin, I am delighted to see you, and I wonder if perhaps you read my mind, for I’ve been thinking of you whilst walking the many rooms of this house with the craftsmen. The paintings of my parents always make me think of you. I’ve read through all their letters now, and my mother spoke of you often. I hadn’t realised you and she were such close friends.”

  “I adored your sweet mother, Charles. Her strength of heart and depth of spirit are matched only by Elizabeth’s. Angela Sinclair lives on in her son. I must say, you’ve transformed this house in record time! Are you happy with the results of your labours?”

  “Not all of it is complete,” he replied. “Sit, Martin. Have you eaten?”

  “I took a late lunch with the duke, and I’m expected at your fiancée’s home within the hour. We’ve scheduled a practise session, you know. Della is learning how to walk with a train for the wedding.”

  “I’ve been banished from Queen Anne for the day. Sunday cannot come soon enough.”

  “We have journeyed far since October, have we not, my friend? But this is where you were always meant to be. In this house and married to Elizabeth.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, I do! With all my being. But you worry, my friend. Is it the child?”

  “You’re a mind reader,” the detective said with a slight smile. “Or am I that transparent?”

  “Only to me, perhaps. The earl tells me that you’ve learnt of the miscarriages. Moira Stopes was a monstrous witch, if you ask me. I would not be at all surprised if she is connected to Trent. That man wormed his way into Patricia’s life long before he married her, if that letter from Connor is any indication.”

  “I wonder if Stopes is still in England. Perhaps, I should begin an investigation into her, Martin.”

  “The duke tried to locate her back then, but you’ll find little under the name. Oh, yes, there is an official record of a Moira Stopes who studied nursing and midwifery, but this woman’s trail vanishes even before Connor supposedly hired her.”

  “Supposedly? You doubt he did?”

  “It does not conform with what I knew of Beth’s father. I may be wrong, but if Connor thought his wife required nursing, he would have asked Price to hire someone. But it’s more likely that Connor simply would have left government work and remained at home.”

  “Martin, do you think Redwing prefers a male child?”

  The tailor grew pensive for a moment, his gaze falling on a large oil painting, hanging over the drawing room fireplace. “That’s you, Charles. The infant in that portrait. Did you know that?”

  “No, I’ve not yet had time to inventory all the paintings. This one has no plaque beneath it, though some do.”

  “I should be pleased to walk through the house with you one day and help in that endeavour, but yes, that is you in the painting. The woman is not your mother, however, nor the man your father. They are the late Lord Aubrey and his wife, Abigail.”

  Charles turned to gaze at the portrait. “I cannot believe I failed to notice that! I met Lord Aubrey in ’79, of course, and I had the honour to get to know him a little—prior to his death. Paul favours his mother.”

  “Yes, he does, and strangely enough you look even more like Robert Stuart than Paul does. The late earl’s sister was your grandmother, you know.”

  “I remember hearing that. It makes me a possible heir to the Stuart dynasty.”

  “It does indeed. Katherine Stuart had black hair and light eyes, and your father inherited the hair; though his eyes were brown like his father’s. The painting was commissioned when Robert and Abigail were named your godparents.”

  Charles rose and walked to the fireplace, touching the canvas as if trying to connect with his past. “I wish I could remember that. My childhood, I mean.”

  “No more hints or dreams?”

  “Some strange dreams,” Sinclair admitted. “Ephemeral at best, for they’re with me upon waking and then fade. Paul suggested I start writing down all my strange experiences and dreams. In truth, they’re beginning to add up to a disturbing picture.”

  “Ah, yes, I can see how they might,” Kepelheim agreed. “Charles, don’t try to solve all these mysteries in one day. Allow yourself time to adjust. I worry about your mind, my friend. If you push to remember too much too quickly, it could do damage, I fear.”

  “Seven years, Martin. Seven years of my life have been stolen from me! How can you ask me to slow down?”

  Kepelheim crossed the room to stand beside his friend. “I understand your passion, Charles, but we need you. Beth needs you, and if your mind regresses because of dredging up these ancient memories, then...”

  “Then I may prove useless to her cause. I suppose you have a point, but it is frustrating.”

  “Yes, I imagine it is, for you are a man of action, much like your cousin. However, you are also a remarkable thinker. Use your mental skills and deductive reasoning to ascertain our enemy’s plans.”

  Sinclair sighed, touching the portrait once again. “I’ll do my best, Martin. I’d like to think that Uncle Robert and Aunt Abigail look down upon us now and cheer us on in this task. One day, I shall get to meet them both.”

  “And before that day, you will recall more of your childhood. For now, continue to prepare for your new bride—and your child. Have you looked at the old nursery yet?”

  “No, not yet. I’ve had little time, and in truth, I’m still adjusting to the idea of being a father again. But it is a happy adjustment, I assure you. Beth will make a wonderful mother, and I can picture a little girl with her eyes.”

  “Or a boy,” the tailor suggested. “Well, I must be off. I stopped in only to say hello. Now, spend the afternoon relaxing, for the hours twixt now and Sunday morning will fly past!”

  Once the tailor, left, Sinclair decided
to take his friend’s advice and spend the afternoon reading. He entered the newly furnished and soundproofed library, glancing through the volumes left upon the shelves by his father.

  “So many books,” he said aloud, unaware that Matthew Laurence had entered the room.

  “Your father’s collection rivals even the duke’s, sir.”

  Charles spun ‘round, his face breaking into a smile. “Laurence, you startled me. Does that gift come naturally, or was it honed in the Drummond household?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. My father insisted I keep a soft step, so perhaps it is both.”

  “You are a man of understatement. I hear from our housekeeper, Mrs. Partridge, that we are now fully staffed, and I know that you are to thank for it, despite the difficulty with Miss Trumper.”

  “I’m very sorry to have misjudged the girl, sir, but am pleased that you find the staff satisfactory.”

  “Laurence, I know it’s considered bad form for me to ask you to chat with me, but would you? I’ve hundreds of questions, and truly I know of no one else I might ask. Would you sit?”

  The young man thought for a moment and then perched upon the edge of a rather severe chair. “Certainly, sir. Thank you.”

  “Come now, I’ve no problem with your sitting comfortably. But look, if I make you self-aware in my manner, then tell me to get stuffed.”

  “Sir?”

  “Ignore me, Laurence. It’s just that in two days, I shall be wed to the most beautiful woman in all England.”

  “And Scotland, sir,” the young man added. “Let us not forget that.”

  “Aye, she is that!” Charles said, slipping into a Scottish accent. “Funny. I’m told I once spoke with a northern brogue. I’m banned from the other house today, you see,” he said, his mind returning to the present. “Beth’s having her final fitting, and Adele is there so she can practise walking as Kepelheim provides accompaniment. Can you tell I’m a happy man, Mr. Laurence?”

  “May I say, sir, that you deserve it? And since you have taken notice of the books, I would suggest you examine a certain leather-bound box, up high on that shelf,” he said, pointing to a tall, Chinese cabinet in the corner of the room. “The duke asked me to make sure you saw it. He says it is part of his gift to you—though only a small part. Shall I pour you a claret or anything else before leaving you to it?”

  Charles was taller than Laurence by over three inches, but even he had to stand on a stool to reach the mysterious box. “No, nothing at present. I’m filled to the brim with Mrs. Paget’s delicious luncheon. Where did you find her? And did I hear that we have two cooks?”

  “We do, sir. The ladies are sisters and served together at their last house, that of the Earl of Granddach, an old friend to the duke and your great uncle, I believe. They asked if they might join your staff together, and the duke thought it a good idea. I hope that meets with your approval.”

  Charles laughed. “Two cooks! I shall get fat eating here every day. Oh, Laurence, has Mrs. Wilsham’s apartment been completed?”

  “It has, sir, and I believe she will find it very comfortable. It is across the hall from the nursery. I hope that is all right, sir.”

  “That is perfect, Laurence. Well done.”

  The young man left, closing the door, and Sinclair settled into a leather chair to see what the duke had sent. He opened the box, and inside was an envelope marked with his name. Beneath were numerous other letters and two small books.

  Opening the letter from James, he read:

  My Very Dear Nephew,

  I hope Laurence remembers to show this box to you before your wedding day, because I believe it will help give you insight into the incredible woman you’re about to marry. Since losing Connor twelve years ago, Elizabeth has been more like a daughter to me, and her happiness and safety are uppermost in my mind and heart. I know that you have gone through seasons of doubt regarding whether or not your love for Beth is best for her, but my beloved nephew, once you read these letters and the diaries inside the box, I know you will realise it was always meant to be.

  Much love and prayers for your happiness,

  Uncle James

  Sinclair read the letter twice, still finding it remarkable that he had found his true family once again. Setting the duke’s letter to one side, he glanced at the others, sorted neatly into stacks by year and tied with white ribbon. Every envelope was addressed to the duke, but as the years passed, the hand that wrote them grew evermore firm and refined.

  They’re all from Elizabeth! he realised, his heart filled with joy at finding a chance to look into her mind as a growing girl. He untied the first stack of letters, written during ‘76 and ‘77. Some came before her father’s death, whilst two came after. The first was filled with the joy of a bright child looking forward to seeing her grandfather again.

  4th September, 1876

  Dearest Grandpapa,

  My new tutor says I must call you Grandpapa, because Grandfather is not correct. Is that true? Father (I am to call him ‘Papa’, isn’t that silly?) bought me a new pony for my birthday this year, but he is too fat, so Mother (Mama, I suppose) says I must let him be for now. Father has left for Turkey, and I am all alone once more. Mother suffers great headaches, but Mr. Baxter keeps me company and listens to me practise my piano.

  My music lessons are rather boring, but I want to play for you at Christmas, so I practise. Father is coming home in a few months, and we shall visit you then. It’s quite dull here, especially since Mother is so often away. When she’s not down with her migraines (I hope I spelt that right – it is a new word), she spends time in Hampton, despite the cool weather.

  Do you ever see shadows that talk? I hope not, for they are truly terrifying (another new word). There is one that speaks to me each night. He is tall and often stands near Duke Henry’s statue. He is much like the man from the park. I shall tell Father about it when he comes home, but until then, I mustn’t mention it to Mother. She says it is all in my imagination, and I’m never to speak of it again.

  Love,

  Beth

  My, her command of language was certainly mature for an eight-year-old, he thought as he re-read the letter. The Shadow Man had already begun to torment her, and she equated him with the man from the park. Perhaps, they are the same entity. How could Patricia refuse to believe her own daughter?

  Charles found it impossible to understand such willful blindness, particularly as it caused Elizabeth more danger.

  A second letter arrived the following week.

  15th September, 1876

  Dearest Grandfather,

  Mother is very sad now, and I do not know why. My new tutor has left also. I tried my best to be a good pupil, but I suppose I failed somehow. Mother left yesterday, but she promised to return in a fortnight. Baxter keeps me company, and he is teaching me all about the brewery. His father worked there, you know. May I come to visit you soon? I miss you, and though I’ve written many times to Cousin Paul, he has not replied. I know he is busy with government work in Paris, but I hoped to talk to him.

  You asked me if I dream. The answer is yes. The dreams frighten me, Grandfather. So many faces, like heads within dozens of shadowy mirrors. What could they mean?

  Forget what I said about being lonely, Grandfather. There are many here who love me, so I should not complain.

  Yours with great affection,

  Beth

  She sounds so very sad in this letter. So lonely. How could Patricia abandon her only child for weeks at a time? he wondered, growing quite irritated. Is this ordinary for the aristocracy, or is it more likely that she was already seeing Trent?

  Charles read the letter’s date again, calculating backwards from Della’s birthday of June, ’77. September of ’76. Nine months before—Paul must have been working in disguise at the time, under the name David Saunders—when he met Cozet
te. That must be why he never wrote. I wonder if he knows how desperately Beth tried to reach him.

  Elizabeth had written again in April—after her father’s death.

  9th April, 1877

  Dearest Grandfather,

  Mother is sad all the time, but not because of me. She cries every night, and she sleeps much of the day. I am better and am now able to walk again, but I’m not allowed to ride yet. Mr. Baxter often reads to me. He is a lovely man, is he not? Mrs. Halpern visited yesterday and brought a cake for my birthday. You remember her from last year’s fete. She and her very kind husband entered the sheep that won the contest.

  Please, please, come to see me soon. There is a man I hate who wants to visit us all the time. I don’t like the way he looks at me. He reminds me of the Shadow Man, and he frightens me, Grandfather. When he thinks me not looking, he stares at me—like he could gobble me up! And he has friends who remind me of—of animals. One is exceedingly tall with long arms like a spider. His eyes glow red when no one else is looking. Sometimes, he stands outside my bedchamber. I can hear him breathing, whispering my name over and over. No, it is not my feverish mind imagining this. It is true. All true, though Mother says I make it all up.

  I must go now. Mother is calling me, but I shall write again when I am no longer ill. If you hear from Paul, please, tell him that I love him. He is my Scottish knight, and I’m very sorry that Mother was unkind to him. If he will come visit me, I promise to be good.

  Love,

  Beth

  Her final words nearly broke Sinclair’s heart. She’s alone again and thinks Paul’s absence is because of something she did! Unconsciously, he began to pace the room, irritation taking hold and banishing his former good mood. This would have been in the months following Connor’s murder by the wolf, when Elizabeth’s leg was injured. The Shadow Man—and a clear reference to Trent, but also to this spider creature!

  “My poor darling,” he said, tears staining his cheeks. “How terrified you must have been, but how courageous! I wish I could have known you back then, little one—helped you.”