“Aye, I know that group of men and that battle. I was there with my late husband and the duke, though he had to leave soon after.”
“Really?” the detective asked. “I’d hear your stories when you’ve the time, Mrs. Mac. Beth, can you climb? I could carry you, if you wish.”
Her colour had improved a bit, but she still seemed unsteady on her feet. MacAnder answered for the duchess. “I’d not want her to fall, sir. Do you mind?”
“Not in the least,” he said, lifting her easily into his strong arms and mounting the steps. She’d chosen to leave her drawing room sleeping quarters in favour of the small apartment she used as her own whenever at the castle.
“I’m in here,” the duchess said as Sinclair reached the first door beyond the landing. “I think Grandfather’s put you in the apartment opposite. My father’s former rooms.”
“Yes, so he said,” the marquess answered as he followed the housekeeper into the beautiful suite.
“Sir, if you wouldn’t mind carrying her into the bedchamber,” MacAnder asked. “It would make it easier, just in case. Once there, I’ll look after her. My lady, your foot looks a bit swollen still. I’ll make you a mugwort and potato poultice. It should ease up soon after.”
He carried her through the connected private parlour and set her upon the bed. “There you are. Mrs. MacAnder, would you mind fetching the duchess a pitcher of cool water?”
The housekeeper smiled knowingly. “I’d be happy to do so, Lord Haimsbury. And I’ll need to find my dried herbs, too—to add a tincture to the poultice you know. I might be away for fifteen minutes or more.”
Charles waited until the good-hearted housekeeper had left them and then he sat beside Elizabeth on the bed. “She’s a kind woman. Beth, is it something I’ve said?” he asked, taking her hand gently. “You’ve not been yourself since we left the tea room. I fear that our conversation upset you.”
She sat back against the cushions of the bed, and he could see tears playing at the corners of her dark eyes. “No, Charles, you’ve said nothing wrong. It really is a headache, and I suppose the foot is beginning to bother me. That’s why I nearly stumbled at the table downstairs. A little sleep will help.”
“Darling, if you’re not feeling well, we could postpone our talk until tomorrow. You’ve been through much the past few days, and I don’t wish to push you too quickly.”
She looked worn out, and her eyes appeared weary to Sinclair, but she offered a genuine smile nonetheless. “Truly, Charles, it’s only a mild headache. Nothing more. Let me rest for an hour, and then after, you and I can view the loch from the rose gardens along the western cliff.”
He longed to kiss her properly, but chose instead to kiss her fingertips lightly. “One hour,” he whispered. “An eternity. Rest now, my darling. But if you change your mind...”
“I won’t. And I shall be counting the minutes of that hour, even as I dream, Captain.”
He kissed her hands and left, shutting the door and tripping happily down the staircase, the taste of her skin lingering upon his lips as they widened into a delighted smile. As he made the turn toward the main flight of the case, he found the duke waiting, concern blazed across his tanned features. “She’s fine, sir,” he assured his uncle. “Her foot’s bothering her, that’s all, but she’s in good hands.”
“I can see that,” Drummond replied with a wink. “We’re all getting together for a drink, lad. Come, join us. She’ll keep.”
The detective offered his uncle a broad smile. “But will I?” he asked, noting a bright twinkle in Drummond’s eye. “So, is this an informal meeting?”
“It is, if you’ve the time,” his uncle said, perceptively. “I’ve told Paul and the others to meet us in my library. I’d like us all to go over Matthew Laurence’s findings together, and Risling’s brought some items from London he wants us to see.”
As their number was small, the duke chose to convene the meeting in a small parlour just off the private library, where his Irish setters, Molly and Max, slept near the fire. “Come in, Charles,” he said to Sinclair. “Paul, fetch us all some brandy, won’t you?”
The earl located several filled crystal decanters in a nearby cabinet and poured four glasses of the brandy and then a sherry into a fifth. “Risling, I remember that you like claret, but this brandy is superb. And I know our armoury specialist has never met a sherry he doesn’t like. Particularly that brunette one in Marseilles. Oh, wait, I suppose our tailor will also want some,” he said as the door opened. “Martin, brandy or sherry?”
“Do you have any more of that lovely port we had last night?” he asked the duke, who nodded. “Oh, good. Then, I shall be happy to have more of that, Lord Aubrey. It has such a lovely bouquet. Is our butler joining us?”
The earl searched through the large liquor cabinet, turning at this question. “I think Matthew wanted to gather up all the evidence he collected this morning. From what he’s told me, I fear our trust in Lemuel was far more foolish than previous thought. James, I don’t see any of the port. Shall I go to the cellars?”
Charles had been watching the earl curiously, and he now began to laugh. “My, my, Cousin! This is all too much! To think that a peer of the realm is happy to serve as wine steward is quite more than I’d ever expected when I first entered your world ten years ago.”
“I’m not sure how to take that,” Aubrey complained with a mischievous grin. “I’m quite good at choosing wines, actually. I worked in a Spanish vineyard once as part of an assignment. You’d be surprised at how accomplished I am at discerning the chemical properties of fermentation.”
“I’ve no doubt about it now,” Charles replied with a smile. “But I must tell you that when I first learnt that the young girl in my keeping was in fact a duchess and the ‘Paul’ fellow she kept asking for a viscount, I had quite a different picture of you in my mind.”
Aubrey handed the glasses to the men and then sat. “Martin, I’ve given you sherry for now. Once my cousin is finished telling us all how peerage classes should behave, I shall fetch you that port, though I’ll probably have to decant it first.”
At this last, Sinclair burst into loud laughter, and soon all the men laughed so hard that they wiped their eyes of happy tears. “Truly, Cousin,” the marquess told them, “I am so very glad that the Stuart men are nothing like how I pictured you. I’ve met far too many peers in my life, most of them lower ranking, of course, but invariably they are pig-headed and self-absorbed. Many believe themselves above the law, and most see Whitechapel as a recreational extension of their men’s clubs, rather than home to hard-working individuals who unload their expensive wines, Argentinian beef, Indian spices, and Spanish fruits. The docks of the east end feed the fatted cats of the west, and they receive very little compensation for it. I feared Beth’s family would be the same, and I am so very happy you are the opposite. It makes me feel as if I can actually fit into this family. Truly, Paul, James. I could not be happier.”
The men clinked glasses, and the duke raised his high. “I shall toast to that, Nephew. To never being a fatted west end cat.”
Sinclair began to laugh once more, and he raised his own glass. “And to knowing the chemical properties of fermentation. No doubt that long mop of hair is part of the secret.”
The earl swiped at his auburn locks, pulling the hair behind his right ear. “The ladies love it, Cousin,” he said with a wink. “Is that not true, Malcolm?”
Risling, who wore his hair longer than even the earl’s, shook his head. “Leave me out of this, else I shall have to relate the tale of the amorous cow, and I doubt you want that known, Aubrey.”
The earl’s left brow arched. “You would do that? Well, despite my friend’s imputations, Charles, women find it quite romantic. Very Jane Austen. You should give it a try.”
Charles sat forward, ready to challenge this, but the door opened again, and the butle
r entered, carrying a large canvas bag, which he set next to the duke. “Sir, forgive me for interrupting, but if you and your guests are ready, I shall be happy to offer my report.”
The duke looked at his nephews. “Paul, why don’t you pour our agent a glass of brandy?”
Laurence stepped forward. “Please, sir, allow me to do that.”
Drummond stood, placing a hand on Matthew’s arm. “Sit down, son. Right now, you’re a circle member not a butler. We’re all equal in this service.”
Aubrey poured the young man a drink and set it before the startled servant. “James is right, Matthew. Now, what did you find? Were you able to locate the farm?”
The butler nodded toward the canvas bag. “The items we uncovered are all inside there, sirs. The farm, I fear, is a loss for the most part. Both the Campbells were dead. Shot. And the barn and other buildings set afire.”
Charles picked up the bag, opened it, and began to explore the contents. “Shot at close range?” he asked. The butler nodded. “Executed, no doubt,” the detective continued. “Just as Lemuel was executed. Redwing is eliminating any and all evidence, which means they fear that we might discover their ultimate aim in all this. The Campbells seemed genuinely kind, but clearly they were complicit in some way. Did you find anything else at the farm?”
“We found wolf tracks, Lord Haimsbury. Running circles all ‘round the smaller of the two cottages. And strange symbols written upon the exterior walls and beneath the windows. The fire obliterated most of it, but I’ve drawn what I could discern from the remains.”
He handed the marquess a small book containing his notes and sketches. Charles thumbed through the pages and stopped at one with several pencil drawings, his brows pinching together as he concentrated. “These remind me of old cuneiform texts I studied back at Cambridge.”
The tailor reached across, setting his glass of sherry to one side. “May I?” he asked. Sinclair handed him the book, and Kepelheim peered at the curious writing. “Oh, yes, I’ve seen their like as well. You have a good eye, Superintendent—I call you that, of course, for we now follow the skein of crime, do we not? These are indeed cuneiform, and whilst I know a bit, I am no expert. Malcolm, what do you think? Have you come across these in your studies?”
Risling took the pages, and held them up to the light. “I’ve seen all of these at one time or another as symbols upon stele and a variety of jar seals. Mr. Laurence, where did you find this one?” he asked, pointing to a star-shaped sketch.
“Beneath the window of the smaller cottage, sir. There were many wolf tracks leading up to the window and away from it, mixed in with bootmarks. Small bootmarks.”
“A child’s?” Sinclair asked.
“Perhaps, sir,” he answered.
“A woman’s, then?” Sinclair suggested, and the Londoner’s face grew serious.
Risling continued. “If the bootmark is a woman’s, then this takes on a very interesting aspect. This symbol is a rare one, and I’ve seen it several times, but most recently just today. And you won’t like hearing where I found it, gentlemen.”
The pencil drawing showed an eight-pointed star within a circle, centred by a circumpunct. “Where was that, Risling?” the duke asked.
“Here, sir.”
The others gasped, but Charles did not seem surprised. “Let me guess,” the detective said. “You saw it at the southwestern entrance.”
Malcolm Risling’s mouth opened in shock. “Why yes! How did you know, sir?”
“Because that is the door from which the doctor abducted Beth, most likely because no one would wonder why he parked his carriage there, since Beth’s temporary invalid room lay within that wing. Also, the guards kept watch upon the front entry but not the southwest, I noticed.”
“No longer,” the duke assured them. “We’re adding twenty extra men from Briarcliff. I wired Paul’s butler Henry earlier today, and they arrive tomorrow morning. The entire estate will be watched now.”
“Good,” Sinclair remarked. “I imagine any group of men under the earl’s tutelage will be formidable indeed. Despite his hair.” Everyone laughed, and the detective smiled. “But to return to our speculation, if this symbol is part of some ritual, then perhaps Lemuel thought to protect his mission by inscribing the image on the ground. I assume that’s where you found it.”
“Yes, it is,” Risling replied. “Superintendent, your intuition is matchless. Your reputation as a consummate investigator is well-earned. Yes, after we arrived, the duke told us about the abduction, so when I had a moment, I walked through that area to see if there might be any images. Redwing often uses these ancient symbols, as you say, Lord Haimsbury, to protect a mission or enhance its power.”
“What does this image indicate?” Sinclair asked. “I fear my experience with semiotics at Cambridge was scant.”
“It is a representation of the goddess,” Risling said simply.
“Which goddess is that?” the duke asked.
“That is an excellent question, sir. There are many names for the same fallen entity, but also many individual goddesses. This particular symbol is a call to one that has been worshiped for as long as mankind has walked upon the earth. She’s been called Ishtar, Astarte, Anath, Isis, Venus, Aphrodite, even Diana. She may also be the same entity the Celts worshiped as the Morrigen, though the connexion is slender. Some call her a goddess of war, but others of love. It is difficult to say what the purpose was here, but since it is well known that our battle is against Redwing, I doubt if it is war, for that aspect is ongoing.”
“Love then,” Drummond said, glancing at Sinclair. “And if it is love, then how are we to interpret this?”
Risling shrugged. “I’d imagine, since from what you’ve told me, the intent was to force our new marquess and the duchess together, that the purpose lies beyond love.”
“What do you mean?” Sinclair asked, casting a glance at his cousin. “What lies beyond love?”
Malcolm finished his sherry with a sigh. “You’re right, Lord Aubrey. This is very good. Perhaps one of the best I’ve had in many a year. Sherries are sweet and seductive, my lords, as is the goddess to her pagan acolytes. Her idea of love is hardly what Miss Austen would consider romantic. It is one of seduction, control, and power. Redwing has but one goal that relates in any way. They desire an heir to inhabit, one born from the line of the twins. That is their purpose for using this symbol. Monday night was a full moon. It was, in fact, a specific full moon known to the pagans and witches as a ‘blood moon’. Its power when associated with the goddess assures fertility and a son to those who conjoin beneath her light. Redwing not only wishes for our duchess to marry a particular cousin, but they wish to ensure that a son is born of that union. I believe this symbol was meant to ensure their success.”
Aubrey’s good humour faded completely, and he jumped to his feet, pacing. “Fertility?” he asked, glaring at Charles. “Blood moon? Is there more to this tale than we know? Why would this ritual involve fertility?”
Sinclair felt like vomiting. “I cannot say,” he whispered, his eyes riveted to the duke’s face. “Both Elizabeth and I had ingested some hallucinogenic agent, but if that symbol was made by Lemuel, then it supports his connexion to Redwing. As I told you after Mr. Laurence rescued us and returned us here, my failure to protect Beth is my own. I take all blame. All of it. If anything happened whilst she and I were drugged, then that also is my fault.”
“A curious statement,” Aubrey replied. “But...”
“But nothing, Paul,” the duke interrupted. “We are merely guessing now, which is self-destructive at this point. For all we know, Lemuel left that symbol there to set us to fighting. We’ll speak no more of this now. Matthew, what else lies inside that bag?”
The earl swallowed his anger and touched his cousin on the shoulder. “Forgive me, Charles. I am out of sorts, but even so, there is no reason to take
it out on you. I thank the Lord that you and Beth survived that night uninjured. And you mustn’t assume any blame. Redwing is the perpetrator of this evil, and you merely fell into their carefully laid snare.”
“Paul, you needn’t apologise. I understand how you feel. I wish it could have turned out otherwise, that it could have been you riding to her rescue, but...”
“But at least Sinclair kept her safe and got her away from Lemuel,” the duke finished for him. “Charles, you are to be thanked, and I know Paul feels the same. Risling, didn’t you tell me that you had news from London?” he asked, trying again to change the subject.
“I do, sir, but that will keep. Are there more items Mr. Laurence wishes to show us?”
“There are, sir. Once we learnt all we could from the farm, we rode to Dr. Lemuel’s home. We found a number of things that may tell a story. Inside the bag, Lord Haimsbury, you’ll find several sheets of writing paper.”
“Ah,” Sinclair replied as he continued to look through the canvas bag. The detective held up the rubbings of the door from Lemuel’s home. “What are these, Risling? Not cuneiform, but they look oddly familiar.”
Laurence explained. “They’re charcoal rubbings taken from the doctor’s front door, sir. I noticed carvings upon the wood and thought this a good means of duplicating them.”
Aubrey stood behind his cousin, overlooking his shoulder and peering at the papers. “That one’s a pentagram. The others are less clear. Circular patterns of some kind. Perhaps...a nautilus? Strange, given Beth’s nickname for you, Cousin.”
Dryden finished his brandy and cleared his throat. “What nickname is that, sir?”
“She calls him Captain. Has since ’79. Apparently, our little duchess sees my cousin as the embodiment of the mysterious Captain Nemo.”
“I’ve never quite understood the connexion,” Charles admitted. “She told me I looked lonely when she first met me, which in truth, I was. However, I think this image is supposed to represent the golden mean, which appears also in nautilus shells. The perfect proportion of creation. 1.618, also called a Fibonacci spiral or Phi. It is a pattern repeated again and again, throughout God’s creation. A sign of order and incomparable beauty.”
Blood Lies Page 37