Blood Lies

by Sharon K Gilbert

  The duke joined his nephews and gazed at the rubbings. “This imagery crops up over and over where Redwing is concerned,” Drummond told the men, “and they care little for God’s true design. They seek to counter his order with their own seeds of chaos. Knowing Lemuel’s true colours now, I fear these carvings you found, Laurence, may be part of another or perhaps the same ritual.”

  “You may be right, Uncle. I’ve seen these same images elsewhere—and recently,” Sinclair responded. “Beneath the abbey at Branham. Why would Lemuel carve such demonic images? Even if he was mixed up with some ritual, why put them on his own door?”

  Kepelheim reached over and took two of the pages. “Perhaps it is a charm against detection or to attract power. This one is a spiral labyrinth. I’ve seen its like in some of the old books, and I’m sure Malcolm has as well. These circular mazes were quite popular during the Druidic period and even earlier. Charles, you asked me at Branham about the older maze beneath the current one. I believe its contour is much like this image. I wonder what we’re supposed to take from all this.”

  Aubrey sighed and returned to his own chair. “Is it a ritual? Matthew, did you learn anything about the doctor’s personal life, outside of these strange carvings?”

  “All that I found upon his person is contained in the small drawstring bag, sir. Yes, that one, Lord Haimsbury,” he continued as Charles held up the black bag.

  Sinclair looked inside. “A calling card, a sovereign, and a pen. I’ve seen these pens at the stationers in Harrods. Very expensive. They’re from America, actually. A man carves them one at a time.” He unscrewed the cap and a slip of paper fell out. “Well, hello,” the superintendent whispered as he unrolled the small bit of paper. “It’s in code. Written in very small handwriting. Block letters, possibly to disguise the writer. You know, I think it’s a Vigenere Cipher.”

  “You are familiar with codes?” Kepelheim asked. “Oh, wait, silly me! Of course, you are! Tops in Mathematics, but you also studied encryption at Cambridge, did you not?”

  Sinclair laughed. “Martin, did you examine my entire record whilst dogging my steps?”

  The tailor smiled and nodded. “Perhaps, and if I may say so, Charles, you’ve cause to be proud of your time at Cambridge. All your dons and professors considered you quite a scholar with a logician’s mind. Save for one don, that is.”

  “The French tutor?” he asked, smiling.

  “Yes, but in your defence, he seemed quite the snob to me.”

  Sinclair picked up the pen. “Languages were never my strong suit, but numbers, now that is different. This code is a tough nut to crack, though; primarily because there’s so little of it. It may require a key word to decrypt. Wait, perhaps not.” He used the pen to scribble on one of the sheets of paper, copying out the message, crossing out letters and then entire words.

  Meanwhile, the duke took the calling card and read out the name. “Hannibal Alexander, Esquire? Now, why is that familiar?”

  The tailor sat forward. “I’m not sure, Duke, but it strikes me as familiar as well.”

  Dryden spoke. “I imagine you’re thinking of Hannibal Alexander, the shipping tycoon, sir. New York based. Runs a fleet of steamships that are reputed to be the fastest in the world.”

  “Ships that transport what, Mr. Dryden?” Charles asked, looking up from his puzzle.

  “Whatever will sell and make him more money,” came the agent’s reply. “Passengers, of course, though Alexander’s line boasts only three luxury liners, but also foodstuffs, merchandise, chemicals, weaponry. Even slaves.”

  “That is disturbing,” the tailor noted.

  “That is the truth of the world,” Sinclair responded darkly as he finished with the pen.

  “Charles, have you uncovered something?”

  The detective had begun to stare at the page. “Perhaps. Though it makes no sense. Here’s what I get: Hermetic upon syon sum. Assuming I’m right, would Hermetic refer to Hermes? And ‘sum’ is Latin, of course. First person singular of the irregular verb ‘to be’, is it not? Am I missing something?”

  Paul took the page and stared at the strange phrase. “Might this hint at the Hermetic orders so popular these days amongst the poets and writers? The Golden Dawn, perhaps? Taken together with the Fibonacci spiral Matthew found near the cottage, and the spirals carved on Lemuel’s door, perhaps it does.”

  “But why mix up such a word with a Latin verb, unless it is a clumsy reference to the Lord, the Great I Am,” Kepelheim pondered aloud. “Perhaps there is a second layer. Here, Charles, let me see it a moment.”

  The tailor’s hand took up the pen and began to scribble out many copies of the translated phrase. He then began to cross out letters as he rearranged them.

  Sinclair gasped. “It’s an anagram!”

  The tailor smiled as he completed the phrase’s rearrangement. “Assuming that the original message also has four words like your translation of the code, then it would read: Your prince summons you. Oh, my. Who is this prince? The prince of darkness?”

  Charles’s dark brows rose in arched dismay. “I pray it is not. Hamish and Maggie Campbell both mentioned that many of their neighbours believed Lemuel in league with the devil, that he’d been touched by Satan in some way, but I thought them superstitious. Perhaps, the belief is due to more than just the man’s bizarre appearance. Matthew, did you find anything else? Anything relating to his ties to Redwing?”

  “Nothing else, sir. And the shooter seems to have left little behind other than imprints of his right boot.”

  “Is there a maker’s mark of any kind?” the detective asked. “Did you measure it?”

  “It is ten and one quarter inches long precisely, sir, from tip to back of heel. But no marks that I could perceive in the mud. It had rained the previous morning as it often does here in the autumn, but not enough for the ground to receive a deep enough imprint to discern any markings. I am sorry, sir.”

  Sinclair smiled. “Mr. Laurence, your investigative techniques surpass that of many police detectives I know. You’ve nothing to apologise for. The boot measurement aids us, however. That would fit a man of six feet or taller. A rarity in most families, ours aside, since my cousin and I are both well over that, and our esteemed uncle is one inch beyond it.” He looked at the tailor. “Is that not so, Martin?”

  “You are correct. In my line, I have cause to measure many a man’s height, and it is rare indeed to find one who rises to six feet. The Stuart and Sinclair bloodlines are a beautiful exception to that rule.”

  “We are exceptional in many ways, I’m learning, though I shall keep my short hair, Cousin,” he told the earl with a wink. “So, was Lemuel summoned by this prince?”

  “I’d say the answer to that is yes, Charles,” Kepelheim posited. “The traitor told you that he’d abducted the duchess because of what? Blackmail? That doesn’t ring true if one considers the carvings and this strange message. No, I think Solomon Lemuel was compromised long ago.”

  Sinclair turned the pen over and over in his hand. “I wonder if these pens are used by other agents in Redwing to deliver messages. Hiding the slip of paper into the cap is a secure and simple means of transporting important information without using a telegraph. As I said, these pens are quite expensive, so they might even be reused.” He turned toward his cousin. “I say, Paul, might we also use this to send false messages to known Redwing assets?”

  “That is a very good idea, Cousin,” the earl said, taking the pen from Sinclair. “I wonder how many of these pens are imported into England each year. I’d wager that number is small, if he carves them one at a time. I’ll have one of our New York agents look into the company. What’s the name again, Charles?”

  “Waterman, I think. E.L., or maybe L.E. Waterman. I nearly bought one of these last time I was in Harrod’s, but at the time its price was well beyond my budget. Now, I could buy an en
tire box without so much as blinking,” the detective answered. “You have agents in New York?”

  “Of course,” Aubrey said easily. “The circle has agents in just about every country, but we have over a hundred in America. Matthew, you’ve done some really, excellent work here. Fine work. Martin, could you and Malcolm look through our books for images like these rubbings to make sure we’ve not missed something? I’d like to know if the door is another message board of sorts.”

  “I shall get on it this evening.”

  Malcolm Risling had brought a small leather satchel along, which he now opened. “The duke mentioned earlier that I’d brought a few items with me from London, but first, Lord Haimsbury, allow me to extend my condolences on the loss of your friend, Sir Robert Morehouse.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Risling. Seldom do crimes shock me, but this took me by complete surprise. Is the Yard still calling it suicide?”

  The agent handed several newspapers from a variety of publishers around to his companions. “These are dated from Sunday morning and on, and as you will see from the headlines, most in the press do not believe the reports. That being said, the official government conclusion is suicide by accident.”

  “What?” Charles asked, dumbfounded. “By accident? Whose hogwash is that? I pray it isn’t something Warren said, else I shall have to tender my resignation immediately. Policing requires honest leadership, but that sort of claptrap is beyond all imagining!”

  “It is what the Home Office is calling it, sir. Warren has expressed his own doubts in similar fashion to your own, I might add.”

  Kepelheim thumbed through the pages of both The Star and The Gazette. “Simon Keepe appears to believe there is subterfuge at the Home Office, Charles. And...” he paused as he turned the page, growing strangely silent as he read to himself for a moment.

  “And?” the superintendent coaxed. The newspaper before him lay unopened on his lap but he glanced down now. Seeing the photograph and headline, he snatched it up and also began to read. “Why that gossiping old maid!” he murmured. “James, does your paper also include this trash?”

  The duke had been quietly reading to himself as well, and he looked up over his spectacles. “If you mean the long article about your interesting relationship with my granddaughter, why yes, it does.”

  The earl switched from his copy of The London Daily News to glance over his uncle’s shoulder. “The Policeman and the Peeress,” he read aloud. “Oh, and there’s a lovely photograph with this caption: Ripper Investigator Charles St. Clair in intimate congress with duchess.”

  Charles snatched the newspaper from Drummond and slammed it to the carpet. “Damn that infernal reporter! I shall hang O’Brien up by his pencil!”

  “Now, now, son,” the duke cautioned. “Keep your head. This story’s been all over London for the past couple of days. I’ve just kept you from seeing the papers. Besides, you’ve had other things on your mind, Charles.”

  “This tripe doesn’t worry you, Uncle?”

  “Why should it? Read on, and you’ll see what I mean.”

  Kepelheim retrieved the discarded newspaper and continued. “It’s by a man named Michael O’Brien. Apparently, a man who may have to mind his pencil when our marquess returns to London.”

  The detective sighed, still seething with anger.

  “Ah, but the photograph is rather nice. Forgive me, Charles. Yes, well, here is what the article says: ‘This reporter witnessed a remarkable event on the morning of Saturday last in Whitechapel. Elizabeth Stuart, Duchess of Branham, a well known and much beloved peeress who only recently returned from France, entered the Leman Street station house—on her own—and immediately commenced a secretive conversation with our own Superintendent Charles St. Clair. The two whispered together, and the stalwart detective referred to the lovely duchess by her Christian name, an assured faux pas. However, since we first reported on this in our Saturday evening special, an astonishing truth has come to light. After sending a telegram of inquiry to the duchess’s own family in Scotland, we have learnt that our Charles St. Clair is, in fact, Charles SINCLAIR, heir to the marquessate of Haimsbury and the duchess’s own cousin. This may explain not only the abrupt return of the lady from France but also her surreptitious departure from Leman Street on Saturday afternoon in the new marquess’s company. Is there a wedding in the wings for Scotland’s Stuart dynasty? Stay tuned to future installments to learn the truth as it is revealed to us.’”

  “Has Beth seen any of these?” the earl asked. “Perhaps that is why she has been so strange all day.”

  “No, I’ve kept all the papers to myself,” Drummond replied. “That bit about contacting her family, well, the telegram was sent to me, so you can blame me for letting the cat out of the bag, Nephew. I sent back word that Charles’s name was misspelled and that they should check with Scotland Yard to confirm that. Then, I sent a wire to Warren letting him know all about your inheritance. I also sent the same to Salisbury and the queen.”

  Charles stood near the fireplace soothing the dogs, who had both jumped at his irritated exclamations. “You sent it?” he asked. “Sir, I am sorry for allowing those hacks to print anything that may be misconstrued...”

  “It’s neither here nor there, son. I’m not bothered by it. Beth’s been the topic of many a scandalous press report these past four years. Ask her about the trash written regarding some Hungarian prince—oh, and there’s also the supposed elopement with an American rail baron. In fact, Beth’s been married off more times than the queen has given birth! All fabrications. The Paris newspapers often made up stories just because she refused to grant interviews, and public fascination there ensured any edition with her name in the headline sold record numbers of copies. Besides, I’m glad your true name is being spoken all across England. I’m proud to call you my nephew.”

  “You are too kind to me, sir. I shall endeavour to learn from your wisdom regarding our press, but I reserve the right to deal with O’Brien and his American compatriot, Mr. Dam.” He glanced at the mantel clock which had begun to chime. “I hope you will forgive me, gentlemen, but I promised to tour the garden with our duchess in a short while, and I hope to write some letters first. With these reports lining birdcages in every household, I owe Lady Martha Morehouse a note of condolence and explanation, and I’d like to write to Reid as well regarding the investigation into Bob’s death. I may even extend my thoughts on O’Brien’s article to his employer, T.P. O’Connor. Though I’ve had very little influence on that ambitious man in the past, perhaps my new title will supersede my former one in his eyes. With your permission, sir. I shall see you after my walk with Beth,” he said, bowing to his uncle.

  The earl looked a bit uncomfortable, but as they had decided to allow Elizabeth to make her own choice regarding her future, he said nothing.

  James Stuart waved his hands, the grin widening across his face. “Write your letters, son. “Enjoy the view, but be back for music later. Beth’s promised to play for us.”

  Charles bowed again. “Thank you, sir. Gentlemen.”

  He left the room, and Martin Kepelheim set aside the newspapers and stood. “My congratulations on a match well played, Duke. Not only did you defuse and thoroughly disappoint the press’s ink-spattered salvos, you turned it to your nephew’s advantage. This may even put a crimp in Redwing’s current plans, for they probably hoped we’d cower after the attempted abduction. Instead, you go on the attack. You are a masterful player, sir.”

  Drummond laughed. “I’ve been playing against that foul group for most of my life, Martin—as have you. Oh, I heard back from the queen this afternoon, by the way. She’s delighted to hear about Charles. She always had a soft spot for Robby Sinclair, I think. It hit her hard when he died, and only a year after Albert passed away, too. I sometimes wonder which man she mourns the most.”

  “Wasn’t the queen born ten years earlier than the late marquess
?” Risling asked.

  “Nine actually, but it never seemed to matter to Victoria,” the duke remarked. “Charles’s father and she were quite close, though she was already married when they met for the first time in ‘48. Robby was just turned twenty and had inherited his father’s title and attended the House of Lords ceremony. A bit of costumery foolishness, if you ask me, but the queen was there, and I can tell you that her eyes lit up like I’d never seen them do! Robby was a gold-plated looker, like his son. She’ll no doubt be happy to meet Charles. As I said, she’s already expressed great joy that our lad’s been found. When we all get back to London, we’re in for a round of parties, or my name’s not Stuart!”

  The tailor laughed. “Then, I shall have to make sure our new marquess is properly attired before those parties commence. And speaking of such, I should probably look through my music, if the duchess is to play this evening. If she is recovered from her headache, I might even convince her to sing. Malcolm, you and I shall peruse the stacks after the musical concert, later. Dryden, I imagine you’ve brought us news of a more practical kind, judging by the steel boxes the duke’s men unloaded from your wagon. I look forward to examining your cargo.”

  Dryden smiled. “The latest from America, Martin. Whitworth rifles with Davidson telescopic sights, the new Browning model Winchester repeaters, and a new type of explosive that puts TNT to shame. The earl and I will be practicing with them tomorrow morning on the duke’s range, if you’re up.”

  “Oh, my! American weapons. How exciting,” Kepelheim whispered, feigning foppishness—a mannerism that often disarmed his opponents and had become somewhat of a habit after decades of practise. In truth, Kepelheim could handle many weapons with ease. “I wonder if you and Risling would be interested in helping me choose a light weapon for myself. But first, let’s choose a better wine. Matthew, you’ve come a long way since you first took up Brannan’s old spot. Why don’t you accompany me to the cellars where we shall all see if there is any more of that delicious port.”