Baxter took a bite of his softened biscuit. “No, sir. For Duke Richard had been killed in a duel, and he bore that large bullet wound still, upon the pale aspect of his ghostly brow.”
Kepelheim took three more biscuits from the plate. “Yours is not the first account of seeing that ghost, Mr. Baxter. I myself have heard it from others—a few of them guests—who have described seeing this wounded apparition and also hearing his haunting violin, usually those who stay in or near the east wing. So, did you ever make it to the attic?”
“I did, sir. And when Mr. Fordham asked what had detained me, I told him of my experience. That good gentleman advised me to remain silent about it to Duke George, but Fordham confessed to having seen the ghost as well. Many times.”
St. Clair glanced up as Mrs. Stephens brought him a plate of crisp bacon. “For you, Superintendent. If you don’t mind my sayin’, sir, you look like a man who enjoys a full English when he can get it.”
The detective laughed. “Do I?” he asked, taking a small bite of a thick slice. “Oh, my! This is amazing! You know, my housekeeper is a wonderful cook, Mrs. Stephens, but I’m not sure even her bacon is as delicious as this.”
“I add brown sugar to the skillet, sir,” the Scottish cook said proudly. “And the meat’s cured right here on the estate. You’ll not find better anywhere in the kingdom.”
“I’m sure,” he said, finishing the slice and wiping his hands on a linen serviette. “Mr. Baxter, you said you’d experienced numerous, strange encounters. Did any of these occur near the duchess’s nursery?”
The butler’s head tilted to one side, and his left brow arched high. “None that I experienced, sir, but two of the nurses said as much. They reported hearing strange voices and seeing—well, I suppose one might call them multicoloured illuminations—that danced upon the ceiling. The first, a Miss Bellringer, became so rattled by the peculiarities of those rooms that she tendered her resignation and moved to Bournemouth. The second, a Miss Taylor, I believe. Is that right, Mrs. Alcorn?”
The housekeeper had been refilling teacups and she paused a moment. “Miss Tyler, sir. A bit too young to be a nursemaid, I thought, but Mrs. Larson wanted to give her a try, for she was an only child and needed the work. You understand, Superintendent, that these girls weren’t wet nurses but rather served as companions to my lady. The little duchess was two years old by then and these girls weren’t much more than children’s maids, who kept watch on her, supervised play time, helped her to dress, and were trained in basic nursing care by Dr. Price.”
“But both saw something inside the nursery?” he asked.
Baxter added two sugar cubes to his fresh brew. “So they said, sir. Miss Taylor—I mean Miss Tyler, of course—once reported seeing a very strange man at the window.”
“Standing outside, in the garden?” St. Clair asked.
“No, sir. She said that he was inside the room. Standing beside the little duchess’s bed, though of course at that time, my lady was the little marchioness.”
“Of course,” St. Clair muttered, his mind fixed on solving the riddle. “But this person stood inside the room?” the detective persisted. “An intruder, perhaps?” he asked, though he felt certain after his own experience within the strange apartment that what the maid had seen was far more mysterious if not malevolent.
“I do not believe so. Now, as to your earlier question, my own experiences generally occurred within the east wing. The apartment I’ve mentioned was most often the locale, but the winding stairs are most dangerous and, shall we say...active? Do not ever attempt them without a candle or lantern, sir. The faces, for one thing, not only watch you, but they have been known to speak.”
“Faces?” St. Clair asked. “What faces are those, Mr. Baxter?”
“The ghosts’ faces,” he answered evenly. “Not Duke Richard, sir, but other ghosts. One might even call them... Demonic. If one believes in such things. I, for my part, do, sir.”
“As do I,” St. Clair heard himself say. “Or I begin to believe.” Charles munched on a slice of bacon quietly, pondering something Elizabeth had told him the previous evening about Trent and the tunnels—that he had accessed them from the east wing. Finally, he leaned toward the butler to ask, “Mr. Baxter, has anyone else ever stayed in that east wing apartment, or has it remained shuttered?”
Martin Kepelheim set down his teacup and nodded to the butler. “Tell him.”
Baxter took a deep breath. “Yes, sir. Someone did. In fact, he insisted upon that apartment being his own. Sir William Trent.”
“I’d thought as much,” the detective replied. He looked at the clock that hung over the kitchen’s large fireplace. “Well, my friends, the morning moves ever forward, and I fear I must leave this very interesting conversation. I promised the duchess that I would tour parts of the estate with her today, and I mustn’t disappoint. Mr. Baxter, thank you for your company and your revelations. Martin, I imagine I shall see you again soon.”
“At breakfast, in fact, which will be at ten?” the tailor asked Baxter.
The butler stood and looked to the cook. “It appears we are near to that time, sirs. I hope you understand that our customary hospitality would be more punctual than today’s. If you would be so kind as to wait another half hour or so, I shall recruit several of the maids to help set the table. It is highly inappropriate for ladies to serve in a great house, but as our footmen are all engaged, I hope you will not mind.”
St. Clair rose and clapped the tailor on the shoulder. “I think we can find something to occupy us until then, Baxter. For now, we shall get out of your way.”
As they reached the servants’ staircase, Charles tapped Kepelheim on the back. “Shall we take a look at that east wing?”
The tailor nodded. “I thought that might be the real reason you wanted to leave the kitchen, but we can take only a few minutes. And say nothing to the duchess. She has her own tales about that wing, and they are far worse than Baxter’s. She strikes me as vulnerable just now, so it is best she not be reminded of them—for as you will soon discover, our Elizabeth has an unreliable memory, which may not be entirely organic in nature.”
“What do you mean by that?” the detective asked.
“I mean that her dear mind may have been tampered with.”
“By Trent?” he asked as he followed the tailor through a narrow hallway off the kitchen and toward a closed door that resembled a closet.
“Yes, quite possibly by Trent, but I think even earlier than that by...well, by entities not entirely human.”
“What?” St. Clair gasped.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re curious to know what I mean by that, but consider what we saw in the nursery last night. Would you call that flickering light material or spiritual?”
“I’m not sure,” the detective answered honestly. “Neither and both.”
“A fair assessment. Ah, here we are. Welcome to the winding stair, Superintendent. Light your candle, won’t you?” he said as he opened the ‘closet’ door. The interior looked like a large open rectangle of inky blackness, but as they stepped through, light seeping from beneath the door at the landing above combined with St. Clair’s small flame to reveal the outline of a narrow flight of stairs, which ended at a large door painted in black enamel.
“It is rather intimidating, is it not?” the tailor noted as he led them up the steps. “Let me see,” he continued as he stopped before the closed door. “This leads into the ground floor of the east wing, I believe.”
St. Clair stood behind the tailor, holding an unlit candle. “Really? Why would the staircase end here? I see no other flights.”
Martin wiped his brow with a white kerchief. “It does not end, but you will understand in a moment. This is part of a bizarre case that the family refers to as ‘the winding stair’. I would have led you to the main staircase or even the lift, but we cannot access the ea
st floors from there. More on this later, but for now let me see if I can recall the way. You heard Mr. Baxter refer to this case as a ‘wooden maze’; well, that is an apt description. I have traversed this case only thrice before, and each time left me winded and disoriented, so beware. Also, it helps if you do not look at the walls.”
“Mr. Baxter’s ghostly faces?” the detective asked.
“Oh yes, but also a nauseating sense of movement. Just keep your eyes ahead as you walk, but be sure to glance at your feet from time to time, for the steps are tricky.”
Charles watched the tailor, who, rather than walk through the door to the main floor, turned toward the wall to his right and pulled a long bell rope in the corner of the landing. Instantly, a hinged door sprang inward, and a foul odour filled the air.
“We go in here. I’m glad you thought to keep that candle, my friend. Now remember, do not look at the walls.”
They passed through the hidden door into pitch blackness. “Shine your candle on our feet for a moment, Superintendent, whilst I get my bearings,” Kepelheim said. “Yes, there. Do you see them? Those steps ahead move in a circular pattern, but they lead nowhere. I know this, for I used them once. There is another set over there. Keep to the left. There is a nasty drop beyond the false stairs.”
“Who would have built such a death trap?” the detective asked.
“Perhaps a better question is, what would have built it? This house has been owned and used by ten dukes and duchesses since Duke Henry, eleven if you count our dear one, and not all have served Christ. All right, this is the end to the first flight, I think,” he said, turning a wall-mounted, silver candlestick toward the left. “Yes, this is it.”
Another hidden doorway opened, and they passed through it. This case wound around like a spiral, and each step seemed to Charles more shallow than the one before it.
“I fear my large feet are not designed for these small steps.”
“Ah, but our dear duchess’s tiny feet have passed along these treads more than once. That blessed woman braved this maddening passage many times as a little girl.”
“You will tell me all about this eventually, I hope,” St. Clair said as the tailor paused before another black-painted door.
“I will, yes. I imagine you will soon hear all the many truths about this strange house and its residents.” He touched the black door, his ear to the wood. “Yes, this is the second floor. Let us hope the door is not locked.”
Kepelheim turned the knob, which yielded easily, and he pushed the door open. “Ugh! This hideous wing holds more than secrets. It is the same foul stench that hung about the nursery last night.”
Charles followed the tailor through the door and to the right. “Third door from the far end?” he asked, and the smaller man nodded.
The hallway’s many painted doors lined the sides, and St. Clair counted them to himself. “I count seven doors on this side, so logically it would be the fourth from this end, correct?”
“I believe so,” Kepelheim replied, moving forward, “if indeed we may rely upon logic in such an illogical design.”
Charles kept the candle high as they walked. The first three apartment doors stood open, as if inviting the men inside, each one revealing sumptuous but somewhat dusty suites with shuttered windows and cold fireplaces. They stopped at the fourth door, which was shut. Kepelheim tried to turn the knob, but it would not budge.
“Perhaps, it was locked after Trent disappeared,” Charles suggested. “I suppose we should go back down.”
The tailor touched the door. “It feels wrong,” he muttered. “It may have been locked in ’79, but I suspect there is more to it. Something is wrong about this entire wing, I think. If we have some time this evening, perhaps Mrs. Alcorn will lend us her keys, and we can return, eh?”
“You would make a fine detective, Mr. Kepelheim.”
Martin smiled. “Who says I am not one already? But if so, I am a hungry one, so let us find our way back to the main floor and discover what else Mrs. Stephens has prepared. Now that you have walked through that manic staircase, do you feel brave enough to return through it to the kitchen? I fear that the far entrance to the east wing is sealed. It is what I hinted at earlier.”
“Sealed? By whom?”
“The Duke of Drummond ordered it done to keep his granddaughter from returning here after her mother’s death, though I seriously doubt that it impeded her.”
St. Clair smiled. “She is determined, is she not?”
“Yes, but our dear one’s courage of heart has been known to take her into danger. I shall show you the doors later, but for now, we must pass back through that wooden maze.”
Whilst Charles and the tailor listened to Baxter’s ghostly tales in the kitchen, Elizabeth had finally gone to her own apartment on the first floor, finding Alicia sleeping soundly on a velvet sofa in the luxuriously decorated parlour. Tiptoeing past the sleeper, the duchess passed through her bedchamber and entered the large, private bath where she turned the tap to start hot water flowing into a blue and white, hand-painted porcelain tub.
“Oh, my lady!” the maid exclaimed sleepily as she leapt up from the couch. “Do forgive me. I would have done that for you, if I’d known you had come up, my lady. I fell asleep awaiting news about the earl. I’d have slept in my own room if…”
“Nonsense, Alicia. I’m glad you slept. We’ve far too many people with bleary eyes already this morning. Whilst I bathe, though, would you set out something new for me to wear? I have just noticed that my clothing is stained with Lord Aubrey’s blood.”
“Of course, my lady. The earl is better, I hope.”
“He is. Much better, thanks to our good friends and many prayers. He now sleeps soundly, and the stitches in his wound are holding.”
The maid opened a large cedar-lined closet and withdrew a blue silk, day dress. Elizabeth had started to unbutton her blouse and glanced up. “No, not another dress. Some trousers, I think. And no corset, please. How I detest that tortuous device! A simple chemise will do. We shall be rummaging through the tunnels this afternoon, and I’ll need to climb, so sturdy footwear. My riding boots will suffice, if you cannot find my gardening shoes. I don’t care, really. Whatever you think will work, Alicia, so long as it is practical.”
It was nearing eleven by the time the duchess joined St. Clair and Kepelheim in the breakfast room. Her thick, dark hair was still damp and braided down her back, and she wore woolen trousers in a dark blue gabardine twill along with a white silk blouse and dark brown waistcoat. The trousers were tucked into brown riding boots, which rose to her knees.
St. Clair stood, a broad smile upon his handsome features as she entered the room. “My, my, Duchess. You make a charming groom.”
Elizabeth laughed and sat opposite him at the sumptuously laid table. “I shall make you pay for that remark, Captain, but I am famished now, so it will have to wait. How is the earl this morning, Mr. Kepelheim?”
The tailor was enjoying a bowl of oatmeal but had also risen when the duchess had joined them. Sitting now, he returned to his feast, spooning in some brown sugar as he answered. “He is much improved, I think. Dr. Price is with him now, but the earl seems more alert, which is good. He will need at least another day before we may safely move him, however. The good doctor has cleaned and redressed the wound to make sure all bleeding has stopped, which praise our wonderful Saviour, it has, but someone as restless as Lord Aubrey is likely to reinjure himself if not restrained by a soft hand.”
“I shall do my best, Mr. Kepelheim,” Beth said with a smile. “Charles, should we postpone our walk until tomorrow?”
“Whatever you wish,” St. Clair answered. “If you prefer to remain with the earl, I can try to find the tunnels on my own.”
“You would never manage it, I fear. Even were I to draw you a map, those turnings are disorienting. Perhaps, we could leave around tw
o. Of course, if Paul is worse, then…”
“I think Lord Aubrey will only grow stronger, dear lady, so long as he follows instructions,” the tailor interrupted. “He must rest one more night, at least, and afterward, the doctor says we may all take the train or a boat or whatever the earl thinks is best. For my part, I have beautiful fabrics with me, so I shall make use of Mrs. Alcorn’s sewing machine, I think, whilst we wait.”
“She will be happy to show it off, Mr. Kepelheim,” Beth said. “It is the latest model. Charles, are you well this morning? Your face is rosier by far, I might add. I am very glad of it. Your contribution to the earl’s recovery can never be valued. In truth, you saved his life.”
Charles had more of the bacon and eggs, advised by Kepelheim and Price to eat plenty of iron, which both would provide. They had also recommended he take a packet of raisins with him on his field trip to the tunnels later. “I am very glad of it, Duchess. And I am much recovered, thank you, and ready to explore these caverns. You’ve but to say the word. I shall, however, bring my revolver.”
“I hope you will,” she answered, taking a bite of toast. “All right. I’ll check in with Paul and Dr. Price, and then we shall decide when you and I may commence our journey into the labyrinth beneath our feet.”
St. Clair looked to Kepelheim, and the men exchanged worried glances. Both knew that the tunnels would be the perfect place to stage an ambush.
CHAPTER Twelve
7, October, 1888
Sir Robert Morehouse shuffled through the mound of paperwork his secretary had left on his desk. Since retiring from active police work as a chief superintendent, Morehouse had joined the Home Office as a specialist in domestic crime, working directly with the Police Commissioner, Sir Charles Warren. This day found him trying to locate a memo he’d received a day earlier from Inspector Edmund Reid regarding a new theory on the Ripper.
“Carson! Where is that memorandum from Reid?” he called into the small office just outside his own. “I say, Carson!”
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