The Blood Is the Life

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “I’ll find a way to break it, Mr. Baxter, but not until next week. Allow her to enjoy her special day first.”

  “It is a special day for you both, my friend!” Kepelheim insisted, as he refilled their glasses. “Mr. Baxter, have your men reported further incursions of those wolf creatures since last month? Trent’s men might still be behind those mysterious bells, but also the deaths of the animals. These hybrids have a powerful hunger.”

  “So I’ve come to understand, Mr. Kepelheim, and I am very glad that the little duchess did not have to witness their ferocity! I must say, the sight of Mr. Reid’s magnificent balloon rising into the clouds above was something most gratifying.”

  Charles reached over and grasped the butler’s forearm. “Baxter, it was the sight of you, Kepelheim, and so many other brave men that I shall cherish until my last days. You safeguarded our passage to those heights. I never heard how you dealt with their bodies. Did you bury them?”

  Kepelheim answered. “Burnt them, of course. A hideous smell, I can tell you! We counted forty in all, and we searched every pocket before adding each to the pit. Very few had any papers, only one or two, which I brought to you at the castle. One wonders at their science, for the aberrations were startling!”

  “Foul creatures!” Baxter huffed angrily. “Misfits—all of them! Monsters with one driving instinct: to kill.”

  The tailor nodded. “Well said, Mr. Baxter. There is a guiding hand behind these animal mixtures. These were monstrous beings, Charles. Tall, stout, hairy like a wolf, and massively muscled. They demonstrated little knack for strategy, however, which was to our benefit. We had a good long look at their—oh I suppose one might call them malformations—for each had claws, not fingernails, and their canine teeth were long, strong, and sharp. The wounds you’ve described on the horses does not sound like the work of these creatures, however. If Marsden thought it the work of a rat, then the culprit possesses finer, sharper fangs than Trent’s hybrids.”

  “But where do these creatures originate?” Charles asked, sitting forward. “If they’re a devilish army fashioned by Redwing, then where is this army’s birthplace?”

  “A sensible question,” Kepelheim said, turning towards Arthur. “Poor Mr. France must wonder what we speak of—such hideous criminal elements are not part of Metropolitan Police training, are they, Inspector France?”

  Arthur shook his head. “No, sir, they are not, but I’ve seen creatures such as you describe—and only recently. In Whitechapel, in fact.”

  “Really?” Kepelheim asked, his face filled with interest. “Where? When?”

  “Only last night, sir.”

  Sinclair set aside his wine. “You saw them?”

  France nodded. “I did, sir. My wife Brenda had just finished packing up all our belongings, and I was loading the crates and furnishings into a large wagon that your staff provided for our use. Thank you, by the way, sir.”

  Charles’s face widened into a bright smile. “On the contrary, Arthur, it’s I should thank you. By accepting a position as Beth’s bodyguard, you’ve removed a heavy weight from my mind. Besides, you were born for this, lad. I’ve known few men with keener investigative skills. And your aim’s almost a match for mine.”

  France smiled, a bit embarrassed. “Thank you, sir. I’d not wish to challenge you to a shooting match, but you’re kind to say it, Superintendent.”

  “Not for long,” Charles replied.

  “Sir?”

  “The rank. I’ve tendered my resignation to Monro. Superintendent becomes my former title soon.”

  “Oh?” France replied, clearly surprised at the news. “Well, as I said, I’d packed up the wagon and was walking back towards our house when I saw something flash past me—like in my side vision, you follow? I turned to see what it might be, and what do I see but a very large man, completely naked, sirs, his body covered in blood, and his mouth—or maw—or whatever, open as if panting. Like a dog or a wolf does. This thing had thick hair over most of its body, like a wolf, but it was clearly a man. It stood on two legs, its arms upraised, and then it howled! Such a pitiful sound, sir. It sent chills down my spine!”

  “I can imagine,” the tailor whispered. “Do go on, Mr. France. What then? Did it see you?”

  “Yes, sir, it did. My first instinct was to protect my family, of course, and I reached into my coat to draw my weapon. Then I remembered it was still inside the house, so I rushed back in to fetch it. Armed with the revolver, I ran out to meet the thing, but the man—or I suppose I should say more rightly that monster—was gone.”

  The others grew pensive. Finally, Baxter broke the silence. “You’re very brave, sir, for one so young. Lord Haimsbury, is it possible these creatures are behind the horrible crimes in your quarter?”

  “Possibly, but I can assure you that no one investigating, save France and Reid, would believe that a hell-hound committed the crimes. Arthur, this man most definitely looked like he was part wolf? That is your assessment?”

  “It is, sir. Only partly, though, for it mostly resembled a very tall, muscular man. He seemed in pain, though, sir. I cannot explain why I say it, but that was my impression.”

  Baxter cleared his throat and sat back against the chair, causing the leather to creak. “There is a story, sirs, that Lord Aubrey asked me never to repeat, but I think he would now approve of my recalling it for your ears. Twas the time Lord Kesson and our Duchess Elizabeth—when she was very young—encountered a great wolf at Branham.”

  “What?” Charles asked. “I’ve not heard either the duchess or the earl speak of this. Where did this happen? When?”

  France looked puzzled. “Who is Lord Kesson?”

  The butler took a long drink and then refilled his glass once more. “To fortify myself,” he explained. “To answer your question, Mr. France, the Duke of Drummond is also the Earl of Kesson amongst many other distinguished titles, and so his late son Connor Stuart—the little duchess’s father—took that as his courtesy title at birth. It was the fall of ‘74. The little duchess—then holding a great courtesy title herself for one so small, that of Marchioness of Anjou—well, she would have been six. Her father had come home for a short stay following a six-month posting to India. I tell you, gentlemen, that wonderful man adored his daughter. Twas a shame his sons never survived.”

  “Baxter, I’ve only just learnt about those sons,” the marquess answered. “Does the duchess know?”

  The butler’s eyes grew moist. “No, sir, she does not. Her father made us all swear never to tell her, and even the graves were moved to a different part of the cemetery after she was born. And they are unmarked. Look for three small crosses in the northwest corner when you are there. Those tiny graves tell a woeful tale. Indeed, those were tragic days, my lord. Tragic. There were two sons that we know of, but it is likely there was also a third who passed to our heavenly Father. That third, small grave holds no body, only a letter written by the earl to the child he never knew existed. It was by far the saddest of three funerals, I can tell you that. And Lord Kesson, I think because of those losses, threw all his love into his daughter. He would have remained beside her every moment, were he not required to serve our country abroad. You may know this already, Lord Haimsbury, but His Lordship also travelled the world hunting down Redwing scum. Perhaps, you wondered how our estate rounded up a small army so quickly, sir, but that is due to Lord Kesson. He formed us into a military camp each summer, and every servant had to learn to use a variety of weapons. I bless that man for keeping us in trim! Last month was not the first time we were so rallied. The first was that summer in ’74. When the wolf appeared.”

  The butler sipped once again, his greying brows climbing up his forehead as he did so. “It was the autumn of the year, and the marchioness—our little duchess now—as I said, was six. His Lordship challenged her to a race into the centre of the maze; something they often did together.
Sirs, the little marchioness knew that formation with all its twists and turns better than anyone, and she easily beat him, though his legs were long and quick. His Lordship stood taller than even you, Lord Haimsbury. Six feet and five inches tall he was! A great, manly gentleman! I was standing on the lawn when the race began, for we’d served luncheon in the rose garden. Duchess Patricia had retired with a headache, something which afflicted many of her days, I am sorry to say. I was setting the lemonade glasses onto a tray, when I heard the little marchioness scream.”

  Suddenly, the door to the library opened, and all four men jumped at once. Baxter nearly dropped his wine, but being quick with his hands, managed to keep hold of the stem.

  It was Aubrey, and he shut the door behind him. “Sorry to startle you, gentlemen. Charles, is Beth all right?”

  “She’s sleeping,” he said as Baxter poured the earl a glass of claret, emptying the second decanter.

  “It seems I shall have to make another trip to that fine cellar,” the butler said, gazing wistfully at his own empty glass, for he had gulped down the last. “Lord Aubrey, I was just telling the wolf story from when the little duchess was six. Shall I go on, sir?”

  Paul sat next to Charles and nodded. “I think it’s a tale now best told to our friends. And when you’ve done, Baxter, I’ll share my evening, which oddly enough follows that theme. But go on, I’ve not heard your version before. Only Cousin Conner’s.”

  The butler took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Where was I then—oh yes! As I was saying, the race began. I was stacking glasses, and then I heard the scream. I’ve mentioned our military precision, gentlemen, and it was those months of drilling that ignited into a rush of men brandishing weapons of all sorts—hedge clippers, rakes, pitchforks, and several with drawn pistols, for His Lordship kept four to six men armed and on duty at all times. Even Mrs. Alcorn, who was then acting as our housekeeper’s assistant, came flying into the north garden, a fire poker in her hands. The earl was already inside the maze, and we all rushed in, but the marchioness’s screams continued, growing ever more shrill with each repeat.

  “I tell you now, sirs, that I was absolutely terrified. Never before in all her life had that child screamed. Not once. Not even once—not even when a snake crept into the dining hall one evening—no, not the snake Lord Aubrey left in my pantry, no, not that one—but I tell you this: that darling girl was stalwart and unflappable; unlike her mother who screamed at the sight of a button falling off one’s coat. Well, I loved Duchess Patricia, so I say it with affection, but she was imminently flappable. No, sirs, I had never heard that child scream before, and it was that which so terrified me! I’d barely made it past the first few turnings in the maze, when she darted past me, legs all a-blur. Then, to my astonishment, that brave child wrenched the fire poker from Mrs. Alcorn’s hands and ran back towards the centre of the maze, shouting something about her father and how dare that wolf hurt him!”

  “She ran back into the maze?” Kepelheim asked. “That dear lady has the heart of a lion!”

  Charles thought of her actions the night the wolf attacked in Scotland, and how Beth had stood up to that hideous, supernatural beast, putting her own life on the line, to save Adele. “She does at that,” he said proudly. “But then what happened?”

  Paul continued the story. “I think I can help with this, Baxter, for my cousin told me what he saw. Connor had raced Beth into the centre of the maze, and as usual she won. It was when she reached the centre, that she saw an enormous grey wolf. Connor later told me that he’d once seen that same wolf in Scotland as a boy, and he recognised it the moment he saw it. A massive silver grey with immense legs and head and eyes of crimson fire. When he heard Elizabeth scream, he ran towards the middle—for in truth he knew the maze as well as Beth, but he always let her win. He told me that she stood as if frozen; the wolf not more than three feet from her. Terrified, Connor ran to Beth, ordering her to run back to the house. Then, he blocked the exit so the wolf could not follow.

  “Now, here is where it becomes even more chilling, my friends. Connor told me that the wolf actually spoke to him—but not with its mouth. He heard the words inside his head, and it told him that he would die very soon, but that Elizabeth was his and only his. Connor said he found that he couldn’t move, as if his limbs were pinned to the ground somehow. But all he could think of was Beth and her safety. After that day, he took to carrying his pistol with him at all times, but we now know it would have done no good had he been armed that day. Connor learnt that lesson too late, two years later in Scotland. But that day, as he faced this thing inside the maze—unable to move—suddenly Beth came flying back into the centre, darted past him, and she stabbed at the wolf with the fire poker. Connor said the creature gave a great cry and vanished into a pillar of fire and smoke. It was at that same moment that Mr. Baxter and the others arrived. Connor had collapsed, and Beth was kissing his face.”

  Baxter had begun to weep. “So she was, sir. That precious child had indeed rushed back into the fray, and she’d won. I did not see the wolf, myself, but I saw the pillar of fire and smoke, and it was like a door to another world had opened and shut. Most strange, sirs.” He turned to the earl. “Lord Aubrey, I beg your indulgence for telling the tale, for I know I promised never to repeat it, but…”

  Paul smiled at the butler. “But Charles and our company have need to hear this tale, Baxter. I only asked you to keep it to yourself to reduce any risk that Beth might hear of it. She had no recollection of the encounter, and I hoped to keep it that way. But despite our attempts to shield her, she must have recalled something. After the attack in Scotland, the duchess told us she’d seen such a wolf before. But why do we talk of wolves, Charles? What did I miss?”

  The marquess glanced at his pocket watch: half past midnight. “Paul, we talk of wolves because France saw a hybrid in Whitechapel. I’ll leave you to hear the tale from him, for I must now bid you all goodnight. I’d love to stay and talk until dawn, for this company cheers me much, but I’m weary to the bone. Goodnight, all. I’ll see you at the church.”

  Paul walked Charles to the door. “Is Beth really all right?”

  “She is,” he assured the earl. “She sleeps now, and tomorrow we wed. I hope you’ve put off your trip to Egypt for now.”

  “In fact, I convinced Salisbury of it at the ball tonight, but it is only a postponement. I’ll keep watch tonight along with Inspector France. And I’ll tell you my tale about Dr. MacKey tomorrow. For now, go home! And enjoy your last night of freedom!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  18th November

  Elizabeth slept until quarter past eight, rising only when Alicia Mallory insisted the duchess must ready herself for the wedding. Worried that her cousin hadn’t joined the family for breakfast, Della crept into Beth’s room, peering ‘round the door. Seeing Elizabeth already awake, Adele rushed in to kiss her.

  “Do hurry, Cousin Beth!” she sang, bouncing onto the edge of the bed. “Today is your wedding day! Are you thrilled to be getting married?”

  “How could I not be?” the duchess replied as she kissed her little cousin. “Have I missed breakfast?”

  “Mrs. Smith served it early,” the girl answered. “But it wasn’t much at all. Toast and oatmeal with fruit. Aunt Victoria says we mustn’t fill up before going, because we’ll have so much to eat afterward. I had three slices of toast as a precaution, though. Mrs. Smith promised to send up a tray for you. Do hurry, Cousin Beth. We’ll be late, and I want to see Winston before the service begins.”

  “I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that, Della. We arrive after everyone’s seated. Alicia, could you run me a quick bath? I’ll start brushing out my hair.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the maid answered, turning the taps to the porcelain tub. “Shall I arrange it the same way? Like we practised?”

  “The curls or the fishbone braid? Which looks better?”


  “Either, my lady. We can try both, if you wish. They cannot begin the ceremony without you, after all.”

  Laughing, Elizabeth unbraided her hair and used a boar’s hair brush to smooth the persistent waves. The waist-length locks shone in the morning sunlight.

  “Shall I?” Della asked, taking the brush and stroking the raven strands. “Your dress is so very pretty. I like it much better than the one you wore last night.”

  “As do I, darling. Has it warmed up?” Beth asked.

  “A little. Mr. Miles said it might snow,” the girl answered happily.

  “Snow?” Elizabeth whispered, a slight headache starting in her right temple. “I pray not.”

  “I love snow,” Della said. “There. All ready for the new style.”

  Beth gazed at herself in the dressing table mirror, a strange memory teasing at her thoughts. A mirror. Why does that bother me? As she stood, the room spun a bit and Beth gripped the table, fighting an intense wave of nausea.

  “Cousin Beth?” Della asked her, reaching to steady the duchess. “You stood too quickly. Paul says the blood can fly out of your head, when you do that. Sit down again until it returns.”

  Beth obeyed, sitting upon the upholstered bench.

  The door stood ajar, and Mary Wilsham entered, carrying a silver tray, laden with a pot of weak tea, one slice of dry toast, and a bowl of oatmeal. After Gertrude Trumper’s vociferous announcement regarding the pregnancy, Mrs. Meyer had spoken with the household servants and explained the full truth of the matter. Everyone understood and now went out of their way to make certain that the duchess never traversed stairs or walked alone. The cook prepared special meals, and Wilsham took great pains to make sure Elizabeth ate a little something at each meal.

  “Here, my lady. I’ve brought a bit of breakfast. Try to manage a few bites of the oatmeal. It’ll fortify ya for the day an’ help that little one ta grow.”