St. Clair sat up, leaning toward his friend. “So you’ve at last finished with your little nap, Cousin,” he said amiably to hide his concern. “No, I’ve taken no bullet, but I’ve given you some red policeman’s blood to mingle with your Scottish blue.”
Paul looked at Price, who nodded. “This brave man has given you much blood this night. Your wound was far more serious than Mr. Kepelheim first surmised. It is only this gift which has saved you.”
“Then I owe you my life, Cousin. And fine Scottish blood it is, too, I’ll wager. Surely, we are related if we can share such intimate gifts.”
Price touched the detective’s arm. “The earl must rest now, but so should you, Mr. St. Clair.”
Paul tried to sit up, but pain shot through his shoulder, and he fell back onto the cushions, his face white. “I’m sorry, Beth! Tell me, Charles, what is our situation? Do you think us safe here for the night?”
St. Clair did not believe them safe anywhere currently, but he answered as honestly as he dared. “It is nearly ten, so it would prove difficult to move even if you were well, Lord Aubrey. I would spare you the truth, but you would only find it out eventually, so here is where we now stand. Your man Galton sent a coded message by wire shortly after we arrived here, which was then conveyed to myself and Mr. Kepelheim by way of your childhood ‘enemy’, good Mr. Baxter. I do not think that gentle giant bears you any ill will, Lord Aubrey. He did in fact seem quite distressed at your condition. He is, even now, outside with every man who can shoulder a weapon, watching out for you and us. A brave man that.”
“Outside? Watching out—wait!” Paul repeated, his blue eyes darkening. “What did the note say?”
“That there is fresh danger coming our way. Galton told us to flee, but in your condition that is impossible, and before you insist we go, I can tell you that Elizabeth will not leave without you.”
The earl’s face exhibited a range of emotions but fell at last into resignation. “You’re right. I know this stubborn woman, St. Clair. My dearest love, I know you,” he told her gently. “But if I died now, I would do so, content that you are by my side.”
“You will not die, Lord Aubrey,” Price said, standing up at last. “You have passed the danger point, and I am glad to see it. Now, I shall partake of a little supper, and you, my lord, must also have a few morsels. Your Grace, perhaps you would bring a small cup of broth to him? I perceive a soup tureen on the tray, which our good Mrs. Alcorn has delivered without a word. A lovely and sensible woman, is she not?”
Elizabeth ladled a cup of the beef broth into a china cup and helped Paul to sip some. “Careful,” she warned him. “A few sips and then you must sleep.”
He obeyed, and once Paul had fallen into a deep slumber, Elizabeth gave a cup of the hearty broth to St. Clair. “You, too, must gain nourishment. Your part in this is larger than you may know. I cannot thank you enough, my Captain. Once again, you have come to my rescue.”
“And your Captain is glad of it, my lady,” he said, taking the soup. “It looks like he’ll sleep now, Beth. Perhaps, you should also try to rest. Go to your apartment. I can keep an eye on him.”
“I won’t leave him—or you,” she said. “If I am to sleep, then I may do so on that settee in the corner. I don’t take up much space, and I want to be here, if Paul—or you should have need of me.”
He longed to hold her, but he feared appearing callous, so the detective satisfied himself by touching her hand. “I’m sure the earl will rest better, knowing you’re nearby.”
She looked at him now, her dark eyes brimming with tears, her hand trembling beneath his own. “Thank you, Charles. For everything. For believing me. Yes, I should try to sleep. I shall see if Mrs. Alcorn will bring us some blankets, and I’ll make certain the fireplace is stocked with wood.”
“I can do that, Beth.”
She smiled. “I didn’t mean I would literally bring in the wood, Captain,” she replied, tilting her head toward the bell rope by the mantelpiece. She pulled the long velvet rope, and in a moment Mrs. Alcorn appeared.
“Would you ask one of the footmen to stock the wood box with plenty of kindling and logs, Mrs. Alcorn? And, if you have some blankets that I might place on the earl—and offer to our guest, also?”
Alcorn called to a young man who had just passed by her, a shotgun in his hand. “Mr. Priest, would you fill the drawing room wood box with fuel before you join the others? My lady, I shall fetch those blankets. If there’s anything else you need, just ring.”
She closed the doors, and Beth turned back to the detective. “Do you think me lazy for doing that?” she asked, and he could see that she meant the question seriously.
“I think you employ a great many people who might otherwise have no job at all, Elizabeth. And they clearly love and admire you. As do I.”
She kissed his forehead and removed the empty broth cup, placing it on the tray nearby. “My father always said that, too. That our estates employ many people. I try to be a fair and understanding employer; though, it’s rather hard to think of myself that way. As an employer, I mean. I always feel more that they take care of me, not the reverse.”
“They do so because they love you. Now, your eyes grow tired, as do mine. Let’s see if we might not sleep for a few hours.”
She kissed his forehead once more, her lips lingering for a moment, and then walked to the earl’s sofa and kissed his cheek before curling up on the settee. By the time Mrs. Alcorn returned with several quilts, the young duchess had already fallen asleep. Alcorn draped a red and yellow quilt across the earl and then a smaller blue one across Elizabeth. She brought two green ones to St. Clair. “You look as if you could sleep for days, sir.”
He took one of the quilts and smiled at the housekeeper. “I believe I could, Mrs. Alcorn, but I’m not sure it’s wise. I have worked as a policeman for over thirteen years, so it’s not easy to allow other men to stand guard whilst I rest.”
“I understand, sir, but if you’re to be ready for any battle that may come, should you not avail yourself of sleep before it does come?”
“Yes. You’re right, of course. You are a wise woman, Mrs. Alcorn. Very well. I shall see if my eyes are as weary as you perceive them to be. Goodnight, Mrs. Alcorn. And thank you.”
She tucked the quilt about his shoulders. “Goodnight, Superintendent.”
She left quietly, and in less than five minutes, St. Clair had fallen into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hours passed, and Beth slept peacefully on the small settee near the earl. Only once, did Aubrey stir during the night, calling out softly for her, and she quieted him as moonlight bathed the room in silver, returning to her own couch once he’d fallen back into dreaming.
From his own makeshift bed, St. Clair watched Elizabeth, wondering how their lives would change now. How his would move with hers. He tried to return to sleep, but it was a fitful effort, for his thoughts were consumed by questions, and his right arm ached each time he turned. From time to time, he could discern footsteps and hushed voices as the men who watched the grounds exchanged information, a bit of food, a joke, or simple words of encouragement. As a policeman, Charles found it difficult to let a troop of civilians stand watch over his welfare, and he prayed the Lord would keep them all safe until they could escape to Scotland.
But it was her safety that concerned him most. Though Elizabeth knew it not, Charles had slowly been falling in love with her for many years. The last time he had met with the young duchess had been four years earlier at the earl’s London house, a chance meeting for only a few moments, but those moments had forever altered her image in his mind and heart. He remembered how lovely she’d already become at sixteen years of age. At that time, he was estranged from Amelia but still legally married, so he had said nothing, though he’d longed to do so. Now, as a widower, the law no longer stood in his way, but did he dare to im
agine becoming her husband? He was but a common detective, and she walked with peers and princes.
Finally, falling back into a restless sleep, St. Clair dreamt of Whitechapel; of chasing Jack the Ripper, the demonic slayer of trusting women. But each time he came close to catching the elusive killer, he found himself investigating yet another murder—more and more, with each successive victim more horribly mutilated than the one before until the streets ran red with blood and gore. But worst of all, the final woman’s body was that of Elizabeth—torn into thirteen pieces, her beautiful body ripped open—her dark eyes dead and dull.
He awoke, drenched in sweat, the room still as the grave with only the sound of the mantel clock and the steady snoring of the Labrador near Paul’s couch. Unable to sleep now, he checked Elizabeth, and found her sleeping peacefully. Glancing outside, Charles could see the waxing moon shining high in the trees, so he decided to walk.
The house was eerily quiet, making the sharp echo of his boot clicks on the enormous foyer’s black and white tiles seem that much louder. He stepped outside and found Baxter and Kay standing guard alongside Kepelheim and several other men. The butler tapped Kepelheim on the shoulder as Charles approached.
“Shouldn’t you be asleep, Superintendent?” the tailor asked. “It is two hours yet ‘til dawn.”
“I’ve slept enough,” he said, his hands in his pockets. “Chilly out here though. You’re a fine one to talk of sleep, Kepelheim. How long since you had some?”
“I’m an old man. I don’t sleep much any longer. Isn’t that so, Mr. Baxter? Sleep is for the young.”
The butler nodded. “I’ve not enjoyed many nights with deep sleep since turning sixty, so I suppose that’s true. As we age, we men begin to think of our mortality, do we not? One day, I shall sleep in Christ, but for now, there’s too much work to be done.”
Standing on the edge of the wide, marble-pillared portico, Charles could see the west gardens and some of the north, where he could just make out the tall shadows of what must be the western edge of the hedge maze. “Is that where you spent an entire afternoon last summer, Mr. Kepelheim?”
The tailor laughed. “Indeed. When it is light, perhaps, we might wander through it, Superintendent. There is a beautiful reflecting pool at the centre along with a circular bench and an impressive knot garden. It is worth seeing, if you can find it.”
“The duchess tells me that she can almost run it blindfolded.”
Baxter smiled—a rare thing for him. “She can at that, Mr. St. Clair. Ah, you should have seen her as a little girl. Such a love for life! We’ve missed her these past four years, though the duchess came home each May for the fete and every Christmas, of course. My lady has always made all who work at Branham feel like this is our home, too. She is a rare flower.”
St. Clair smiled, thinking of Beth as a little girl, but then he recalled her strange tale of the ‘Shadow Man’ who spoke to her with thoughts. “Baxter, do you know which window belonged to Beth when she was, oh, seven or so? She told me a story about something that she saw out that window, and I’m curious to examine a statue she mentioned.”
Baxter took up his rifle and turned to Mr. Kay, the underbutler. “Kay, I shall be a few moments. See to it that Priest keeps watch in my place. Mr. St. Clair, if you’ll follow me, sir, I can show you that very statue.”
The west garden featured hundreds of spectacular roses, edged by annual plantings, many of which had already faded, and there were brick paths that led through a variety of perennial beds, alive with spectacular grasses, ornamental trees, and bed after bed of asters, daisies, delphiniums, coneflowers, penstemon, monk’s hood, salvia, dahlias, and phlox. Even in the moonlight, Charles could see how beautiful the gardens were—no wonder Kepelheim longed to see them.
Baxter led on, passing through an arched wicket gate covered in white star clematis, which filled the air with a sweet honeysuckle fragrance. “The north garden is this way, sir. My lady’s childhood rooms overlooked the northwest statuary park that leads into the maze.”
They walked on, St. Clair marveling at the size and majesty of the grounds. “How large is the estate, Mr. Baxter?”
The butler thought for a moment. “Well, I suppose it depends on how one defines that term. Officially, the village of Branham is part of the property, though the family long ago signed an agreement with the townsfolk to permit a locally elected council to govern. Most of the farmers in the area are tenants. I imagine that if one included all the original land, then it would amount to a quarter of the county.”
“Good heavens! I shudder to think what the annual upkeep is on all that property.”
“It is sizeable,” the butler said simply. “You understand that I am not privy to the final figures, of course, but it most likely runs into the neighbourhood of fifty to sixty thousand pounds a year—but that includes the salaries of all the staff as well as maintenance of all the Branham properties, some of which are in France, and I am only guessing, of course. Those expenditures also include a small school and infirmary on each property. There are six in all, I believe, if one includes the homes in New York and Dublin, both of which are shuttered now.”
“New York? Really?”
“Oh, yes, it has been part of the family since Duke George married Countess Carlotta, the only child of Count René de Oradour. Duke George was my lady’s grandfather, of course. He made a successful match with the countess, for the two of them seemed to love each other, despite the many troubles—but then that is a tale for another time.”
“That’s an interesting way to leave it,” the policeman answered with a smile. Charles tried to process such an enormous annual budget with so many employees and houses in France, Scotland, Ireland, England, and even America to maintain. He’d considered his own salary of five hundred pounds a year a tremendous sum compared to other policemen and professional men, but to imagine that the Branham estate paid a hundred times that amount every year truly shocked him.
“How does she manage it? I mean, is the estate self-sustaining? Forgive my prying, Baxter, but it is just such a large amount!”
The older man laughed softly. “So it is. I can say this much, for I know it to be fact, the estate is self-sustaining because of several wise alterations made by my first employer, Duke George. The duke combined a number of the vegetable farms into large, livestock enterprises, and he updated the old family herb farm, where many of our own medicines and some for the army are now made. We also have a vineyard that produces several prize-winning wines, and a small brewery that sells to the county and even to many London taverns. Duke George made similar alterations in the other properties, and he sold off two that he felt were beyond improving. But the old duke also invested in a diverse portfolio of stocks, which he was kind enough to open to all in service who wished to contribute. Each month, a small sum is withheld from my pay packet, and over the four and a half decades since, I’ve managed to accumulate a nice retirement account. I believe the earl could tell you more. Ah, here is the statuary park.”
The pair had wound around to the north face of the mansion to find themselves in a grand garden lined with life-sized statues of the dukes and duchesses who had reigned over the centuries. The pathway turned to the left, and pale marble likenesses lined either side of a long, brick walk that fed into one of four entrances to the enormous hedge maze. Baxter turned to face the house and pointed up toward the second storey.
“There, just above us, sir. If you count up to the third window, you will be looking into my lady’s childhood rooms. Three windows overlook this spot from that apartment, the two directly above us and the third to the right of them—our right, of course. Was there a particular reason you wished to see it, sir?”
St. Clair counted up, and he could see two, large oval windows and one rectangular. The oval to the far left showed a light burning. “That is her bedroom? There, to the left where we see a light?”
“Actually, I’d like to do that, if you don’t mind, Baxter. If someone would guide me, that is. I fear this huge house is as much a challenge to me as the maze is to Mr. Kepelheim. So, if I were standing in front of that window, overlooking these statues, I would see which one?”
“Both of them, sir.”
St. Clair turned, making calculations in his head. The first two statues, one of a duke on the left and the other his duchess, stood on shallow bases, and the duchess statue could stand no taller than five and a half feet.
“Baxter, how tall are you?”
“Well, sir, the last time Dr. Price had cause to measure me was last year, and he made my height at six feet and two inches.”
“I thought as much. That’s close to my own height. Would you mind standing beside the statue of the duke there?”
“Not at all, sir. This is Duke Henry, sir, the first Duke of Branham. Do you need to know how tall it is?”
“You are quick, Baxter, yes. That would be very helpful.”
“It is six feet precisely, sir. We had cause to measure it many years ago, when it required repair.”
That must be the statue Beth referred to. Now to see if it is visible from her window.
“Thank you, Mr. Baxter. If you have no objection, then, I shall find Mr. Priest or another footman and investigate why a light burns in the nursery.”
“Very good, sir.”
Blood Lies Page 19