“And my son?” Aubrey asked. “How does Paul feature in your calculations?”
“We’re not sure, but perhaps your great-grandmother’s bloodline provides a clue.”
“My great-grandmother was adopted, Robby. You know that. How can we know what her bloodline was?”
Martin stood once more. “As Keeper of the Lines, I believe I can provide a provisional answer to that question, my lord. Henrietta Stuart was indeed adopted by the MacAllen family before marrying your great-grandfather, but my investigations last year led me to the Sinclairs as her true forebears; in fact, to a very important Sinclair. Your great-great-grandfather, Lord Haimsbury,” he told the young marquess. “And you already know his loyalties.”
Robby Sinclair nodded slowly, and his friend Connor Stuart touched his friend’s forearm compassionately. “Robby, lad,” the earl spoke softly, “we canno’ choose our parentage, but we can rise above it. You’re a man ta’ make your honourable forebears proud. One twist in the tree does not mean that all branches bend.”
“I know,” Sinclair whispered.
“How is Henrietta related?” Aubrey asked.
“She is listed in an old church record as the seventh marquess’s daughter, through a liaison with a young woman named Louise Spaulding. The girl worked at Rose House in the kitchens. When the already married marquess learnt of her pregnancy, he sent her to a convent, which he regularly endowed. The Sinclairs have a long Catholic history, and a few continued to practise the rituals, right up through the 1780s, when the family cut all ties with the Catholics. Poor Louise died giving birth amongst this Carmelite Sisterhood. The prioress, Mother Marie Therese duBois named the baby Henrietta Charlotte Marie Sinclair, and placed her with the MacAllens. I made copies of the documents I uncovered at the convent, which included several letters to Louise from Sinclair.”
The earl walked to the young marquess and placed a comforting hand on Haimsbury’s shoulder. “Some might claim that your ancestor acted with compassion, for he made certain of the child’s welfare, but it stings, regardless. I know. We always want to think the best of our kin. But this means your family and mine are tied even closer together, Robby, which makes me very happy. In addition to our many other blood ties, we also both descend from the seventh marquess, making your son and mine cousins many times over.”
Sinclair glanced up, smiling. “You’re right. I must choose to see the positives in this.”
The earl returned to his seat. “Martin, this group in Austria. Do they also foresee a need for a world king soon?”
“They do. I’m convinced that Lord Kesson and Lord Haimsbury are right, and their conclusions have terrifying implications. Lord Haimsbury, you must begin safeguarding your son at once. I believe Charles is the key to all of Redwing’s dark plans. They have been controlling the bloodlines of your families for centuries; in an effort to produce one perfect human child. He is called the King to Come, the Flesh of Fire, but most often, this perfected child is known as Arthur Reborn, the King amongst the Dead.”
As the meeting continued, the members argued over Kepelheim’s report, discussing possible directions and plans they must now follow.
Unbeknownst to the circle members, their speeches, plans, and arguments were overheard; for hiding behind a tall shelf in the corner of the library, a small boy listened, his sea-blue eyes growing wider with each startling revelation, wondering just who this Redwing group was and why they wanted his blood.
Twenty-nine years later, Charles Sinclair opened his eyes, and it all made sense. “I heard it all, Martin,” he told the tailor. “Your meeting that night at Rose House. I overheard it.”
Kepelheim’s mouth opened in shock. “What did you overhear? And how? That room was soundproofed. Nothing reached beyond its doors.”
“Yes, but I’d gone to the library to find a book I might read to Paul. Father had arranged a shelf I could reach and filled it with simpler books on science and mathematics. But also poetry and fiction. There was a book in German—a fairy tale—that I planned to read to him. He’d been consigned to bed because of a fever, so I thought I might cheer him up.”
The tailor smiled proudly. “Is that so? You always had such a remarkable mind! At four-and-a-half, you not only comprehended English at the level of a ten-year-old, but you also spoke and even read a little French, German, and Italian. Your mother and Victoria used to work with you, as did your governess.”
Martin reached for the brandy decanter and poured two glasses, handing one to Sinclair. “Continue. You were hiding in the library as we discussed these matters. Charles, didn’t that terrify you? We as much as said that Redwing intended to make you its pawn!”
He nodded, his face remarkably calm. “I overheard all of it. I remember, Martin. And I’m beginning to remember other things, as well. My father was convinced that I formed the heart of Redwing’s plans, and he told me so. He and Connor took me aside at Branham the following spring whilst we visited. They warned me that I must report to them at once, if I noticed anything strange, or believed myself followed or watched. Connor kept close to me during that visit. I hadn’t realised it at the time, but he was acting as my bodyguard.”
Kepelheim sighed. “Yes, he was. Connor Stuart feared for you—as did your father. In fact, Connor later asked the circle to hide you away somewhere, but before we could agree as to how to accomplish that, your father was killed, and you were taken. It was a hellish time, but the Lord worked it all together for His purposes, didn’t he? He brought you back to us. And now, you’re engaged to the daughter of both twins.”
“And we have a child on the way,” Sinclair added, sitting up. “Is this the son Redwing has been looking for? Planning for?”
Victoria had been uncharacteristically quiet during the entire session, but she now stood and drew a shawl about her shoulders. “It is an unborn child who knows nothing about his or her blood and only wants to be loved. Let us leave off all this talk of bloodlines and Redwing for now, shall we? It’s late. Charles, you should get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day. If Beth is awake, let her know that we all love her. Did she say anything more about Romanov’s visit?”
“Only that he asked her to supper. Her memory of it is unclear, and I had no wish to push her on it. She’d fallen asleep by the time I came back down.”
“Good. I like the idea that all this is the Lord’s work, Martin. Too often, we dwell on Redwing’s plans, but our Saviour also has plans, so it is in those I place my trust. Goodnight, Charles. I’m very glad you now stay with Beth inside her bedroom. At first, I’d thought it highly irregular, but it occurs to me that you’re probably already joined as husband and wife in the Lord’s eyes, so hang convention. Just don’t tell my brother that I said that. He thinks me a prude, you know.”
Sinclair smiled and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Tory. Goodnight, Paul. Martin, thank you for helping me recover my past.”
He left them both and climbed the staircase to Beth’s apartment, passing through the parlour and into the bedchamber, where he found all three dogs, Samson, Bella, and Briar, lying upon the broad bed, as if the trio had signed a pact to protect the duchess whilst she slept. This canine fellowship formed a ring around the duchess, who breathed rhythmically, softly, peacefully; a Bible in her hands. The three dogs glanced up briefly as Sinclair approached, deeming him ‘friend’ and quickly returning to their dreams. Smiling, Charles checked the window locks, then sat beside her, gently touching the velvet quilt where it curved over her abdomen.
“Goodnight,” he whispered to his unborn child. “May our Lord bring you rest as you grow. I love you—both of you.”
“Charles?” she whispered, turning slightly towards him.
“I’m here, little one,” he told her, kissing Beth’s soft cheek as he held her hand. “And I shall never leave your side. Not ever again.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Saturda
y, 17th November
Charles arose at eight and ate a leisurely breakfast with Elizabeth, who then left for her grandfather’s house, along with Victoria and Paul. The three of them had plans to make, Beth told her fiancé, and last minute shopping to accomplish before that night’s costume ball.
Realising he had the day to himself, the marquess dressed and decided to look in at Scotland Yard, where he intended to finalise the last of his unfiled paperwork before meeting with Laurence regarding his costume. However, an unexpected visit from Commissioner Monro and a subsequent celebration delayed him by nearly an hour.
“Tomorrow’s the big day,” the amiable police commissioner said as he shook Sinclair’s hand. “I’d not expected you in today, Charles. Last day as a free man, and all that.”
“I prefer to think of it as my last day as a lonely man, sir. Is there something you wished to discuss? Commissioners don’t generally stop by this floor without a purpose.”
Monro laughed, his full cheeks rounding into fleshy apples. “Sit, Charles, sit. I confess to ulterior motives. I’d asked your commissionaire, Mr. Barton, to bring word to my office should he see you in the building. I’d like to speak to you about this resignation. In fact, I believe I can change your mind.”
Sinclair returned to his desk chair, sitting opposite his superior. “Not a chance of it, sir. I prefer this new opportunity with the duke and my cousin.”
“The ICI, you mean,” Monro answered. “Word of it’s spreading throughout Whitehall like wildfire. Lots of whispers and conjecture. Inner Circle Intelligence. Has a nice ring to it.”
“You’re familiar with the circle, sir?”
“Quite,” the commissioner answered. “The duke can tell you of our adventures in India, years ago. Long tale, really.” He glanced about the room, as if measuring it. “This office is rather small, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. I rarely spend time here, sir,” Sinclair answered, trying to discern the man’s true purpose.
“So I gather. You prefer acting, rather than observing. Pencil-pushing must be a chore for a man like you.”
“It isn’t my favourite part of the job.”
“Look, I don’t want to lose you, Charles, and neither does the Home Secretary. We’ve spoken at length with the Prime Minister, and the three of us have come up with an idea that might just entice you to remain with the force. In a new position, of course.”
“Forgive the impertinence, but I can think of no promotion that could accomplish that.”
“But this is no ordinary promotion,” Monro argued. “Sir Robert Morehouse served as liaison ‘twixt the Met and government, but we’d like to expand that position. Give it a cabinet seat.”
Charles stared, wondering if he’d heard correctly. “Did you just say cabinet seat, Commissioner? How is that possible?”
“It would be an adjunct position, of course. If truth be told, Salisbury intends to offer you a role with the cabinet regardless. You’ll be head of this ICI, I take it?”
“I’ll be Director-General, yes.”
“DG of the ICI. Another nice ring, and the sort of thing these civil servant types like. But being in that position will allow you to observe crime throughout the kingdom.”
“That’s the idea. Of course, the inner circle has always kept watch on criminal elements in England, so our core activities will not alter,” Sinclair explained.
“Lord Aubrey and his many agents have delivered a wealth of intelligence over the years,” Monro replied. “He’s kept Salisbury out of many a foreign pickle. That’s what you can do for us, Charles. Warn the police whenever Redwing—or other criminal elements—might engage in crimes like Ripper.”
Sinclair stared. “Are you naming Redwing as Ripper, sir?”
“Perhaps. I met with Duke James yesterday, and he implied that very thing. Your uncle and I go back a long way, Charles. I spoke with him about this offer, and he thought you might be interested. You may speak plainly. Are you interested?”
Charles had no idea just how to respond. He’d promised Elizabeth that he’d work from home after the wedding. How would this new position affect that promise?
“I’d like to speak with my family first, Commissioner. This explains the telegram from Lord Salisbury that arrived yesterday. He asked to speak to me after the wedding.”
Monro stood. “I hope you’ll think long and hard on this, son. I understand that the ICI is warranted as an independent organisation, but your counsel will enable government to make informed decisions. Besides, it would have made your father proud. He always said you’d be important in England’s highest tiers one day.”
“I promise to give it full and proper consideration, sir.”
Shaking his officer’s hand, the commissioner smiled. “Do that, but make sure the answer is yes. See you at the wedding tomorrow.”
Monro left, and Sinclair sat once more, bowing his head to pray. “Lord, if this is a temptation from Redwing—some part of their master plan—please, help me to discern it. But if it’s from you, then help me to see it as your door, opening. I’ve no wish to be anything more than Elizabeth’s husband, but I am willing to do whatever you ask of me.”
A hand knocked, and the detective’s head lifted. “Yes?” he asked, wiping his eyes.
“A few of us were hoping to visit with you, Superintendent,” Haskell said, grinning. “If you can spare the time, that is. Come with me. Third floor lounge.”
Moments later, Sinclair entered a parlour filled with men in blue uniforms, laughing amongst others in street dress. The fellowship of policemen and detectives pulled their comrade into the room, and soon every hand reached out to shake his; each man offering to buy Sinclair a drink. By the time he left Whitehall, he could hear the tower chimes ringing out half past two. Charles hailed a hansom and headed for Queen Anne House.
Arriving inside the grand home, he handed his hat to Miles and asked after Elizabeth.
“The duchess and Lady Victoria have not yet returned, sir,” the butler answered. “They sent a message about an hour ago, stating their intent to have luncheon at a tea room on Regent Street. Shall I ask Mrs. Smith to prepare something for you, sir?”
“No, I’ll eat later, if that suits our cook. Nothing fancy. I imagine we’ll have sandwiches and all that at the ball tonight. What time are we to leave, Miles? Do you know?”
“The prince is sending a coach for you and the duchess, which arrives at half past eight, sir. You’ve plenty of time before then. Mr. Laurence asked if you might stop by Haimsbury House today, if you’ve a moment. I believe there are questions regarding the lift.”
“Yes, I imagine that will work. In fact, I’m to stay there tonight. My aunt insists that anything else would be bad luck. Very well, Miles. It’s a sunny day. I’ll walk.”
“The sun does shine, my lord, but signs point to snow. I’ll fetch your warm overcoat, sir.”
Bundled into the woolen Chesterfield, Charles crossed through the stately gardens of Queen Anne Park, heading for the stone gate that marked the entrance to his own estate. As he reached the gazebo on the other side, a voice called out from within.
“It looks like snow.”
Charles stopped, surprised to find a tall man with dark hair sitting at an ash table. No one had been there a moment before. “So I hear,” he said politely, walking up the steps to the gazebo’s interior. “I don’t believe we’ve met. May I ask your name?”
The man smiled broadly. “You don’t recognise me? How sad. But I’m sure you’ll remember eventually, Charles. Remembering is something at which you’ve grown quite proficient, is it not?”
Ignoring the man’s reference to what had happened the previous night, Sinclair persisted. “Your name?”
“You are a typical policeman. All questions, few answers. I’d tell you my name, but they can be misleading. I suppose, it depends on which lan
guage one speaks. English. German. Romanian. Russian. French. Hebrew. Akkadian, Sumerian. Of course, all language descends from the original tongue, does it not? That ancient, primordial gloss, which is no longer heard—not here on Earth, at least. Sit, Charles. I would speak to you.”
Sinclair remained standing, his blue eyes narrow. “Despite your word games, I’ve yet to hear your name. English will suffice. I shall be forced to call for security, if you cannot comply with such a simple request.”
“Will you lock me up inside your cells? Your police tactics fail with my kind. I suppose that’s partly my fault, but look how well it’s worked out for you. You’ve certainly grown into a grand man, Charles. No wonder she finds you so attractive.”
Charles thought about drawing his service weapon, but he doubted the creature would succumb to bullets. “You speak in riddles. I presume you are a Watcher?”
The man smiled again, his eyes glittering like a snake’s. “Very good. You have come a long way in a short space of time. The inner circle rats told you about our kind, I imagine. Yes, I am one who keeps watch. There are many of us, keeping track of human events of all types. Marriages in this place and that one. Deaths. Births. This man, this woman. This child.”
“Child?” he pressed, still standing. “Which child might that be?”
“Boy or girl, lad or lassie. It is not yet known. Our vision into the future is limited—a consequence of humanity’s free will choices, I fear. The Almighty One cheats, if you ask me. Surely, if we engaged in a fair fight, then he would not intentionally limit us. But then our limitations are minor compared to your own.”
The man stood, and Charles saw that he was nearly seven feet in height. “Keep her in your sight at all times, Charles Sinclair. Do not trust my brother. He pretends to do good, to side with the Almighty, but he lies. In fact, most of us do. However, Anatole is to be pitied. He doesn’t realise that his tongue is forked. He believes himself on a path to good—to redemption, but he is a fool. Trust in me, Charles. I can fulfill all your dreams. I can return all your memories to you and help you recover all you have lost.”
The Blood Is the Life Page 42