Blood Lies

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Really?” the detective asked. “Martin, perhaps I am suspicious due to my profession, but given Connor’s letter, is it possible that this holiday was but an excuse for the late duchess to meet Trent? It breaks my heart to learn the truth about their marriage. Elizabeth has told me several times just how close the two of them were, and how the entire family celebrated together at Branham each Christmas.”

  “So she likes to remember,” the tailor said mysteriously. “Forgive me, Charles, but there is much that the sweet duchess does not recall clearly. I’ve told you before that her mind has been tampered with, and though we’ve not enough time for me to explain fully, let me tell you this. Redwing has managed to manipulate Elizabeth often in the years since her birth. We’ve tried to protect her, but all too often, the enemy’s schemes have caught us unawares. That Christmas, when she posed for this painting, was filled with both joys and terrors. It was the first time we saw the wolf, but not the last.”

  Sinclair removed the marked coat and waistcoat and changed into the second pair of trousers, which Kepelheim had finished that morning. “A perfect fit,” the tailor remarked. “You begin to look like the peer of the realm that you are, my friend. I’ve also finished the waistcoat that matches, but the coat requires another night’s work. If tonight you again find yourself unable to sleep, then perhaps I will sew whilst you and I talk, eh? Now, what was I saying?”

  “The wolf. You said it first appeared that Christmas.”

  “Yes, so it did, but I think our dear one had seen it before—as had her father, for both seemed particularly shaken by it. Connor became very protective of Elizabeth after seeing the wolf on the moors, and much of her mirth disappeared, and she began to suffer terrible nightmares and migraines.”

  “Like the ones Connor mentions? Martin, Elizabeth suffered from both a migraine and a nightmare only last evening.”

  “A nightmare, really?” the tailor asked. “Did she admit this to you? She is often somewhat reticent when it comes to discussing the spirits haunting her. But she did retire with the headache after supper,” he added. “Forgive me, Charles. I know you are in love with Elizabeth, and it seems to me that she returns that feeling. Did she readily admit the dream to you? If so, its content may prove vital.”

  “In a way. I knocked upon her door after I left the library, and when she did not answer after several attempts, I entered the bedchamber. I could hear her muttering as if in a dream, so I wanted to check on her. It took several attempts to waken her, but she opened her eyes at last, and they were filled with terror. Once she calmed, she told me she’d dreamt of attending a masked ball and that a shadowy prince kept asking her to dance, but that I rescued her.”

  Kepelheim smiled as he folded up the garments. “How telling. She looks to you for such rescue, I believe. Our Elizabeth does not offer her trust or her heart easily, Charles. The fact that you have won both says much about your strength of character.”

  Donning his coat, the detective gazed at the portrait, his mind on the beautiful girl he’d met so long before—and the remarkable woman she’d become. “Does she still see the wolf?” he asked, thinking about the massive grey male and picturing Beth as a small child at its mercy. The thought made him shudder.

  “Probably. Are you cold, Charles?” the tailor asked as he turned up the sleeves, examining the fit of the earl’s borrowed suit coat. “Yes, that is quite a good match for these new trousers. Lord Aubrey’s clothing fits rather well, though your shoulders are three-quarters of an inch wider, and each forearm a trifle longer than his. You’re also half an inch taller. I shan’t tell him, though,” he said smiling. “You are lost in thought.”

  “Was I? Sorry, Martin. I was just thinking of Elizabeth as a child.”

  “Ah, yes, well, I can see why you might,” he said, gathering up his measuring tape and sundries. “You must try to forget that letter, Charles. And never tell Elizabeth about it. If she knew that her mother’s affair with Trent began long before Connor’s death, it would tear her apart, I think.”

  “You can trust me, Martin. I only want to protect her. I just don’t understand Patricia! How could she fall for a bounder like Trent when she had Connor Stuart as a husband? The man adored her.”

  “Love is a strange emotion that defies logic and measurement. And only rarely is it an even match. Tell me, Charles, if your wife still lived, would you love Elizabeth any less?”

  “In truth, no, I would not, but that is an unfair comparison, Martin.”

  The tailor’s eyes softened. “Is it? Perhaps, to Patricia, Trent embodied all she’d lost in Ian. She’d loved Paul’s elder brother dearly, and his death devastated her. She married Connor at her father’s insistence, but she never truly loved him. Trent may have offered her another chance for romance. I do not say that I agree with it, but I believe I understand it. My friend, do not think on it today. I have already given the letter to the duke, and he will decide how to deal with its contents. As to the cipher, well, I’ve decoded that.”

  “Have you?” Sinclair asked. “What did it say?”

  The tailor paused, his mind pondering how best to explain. “I do not have ample time to apprise you of the many events that led up to your father’s death and your subsequent disappearance, but the coded message seems to indicate that the late earl knew more about your father’s murder than we did at that time.”

  “His murder? Do you know for certain that it was homicide?” Charles asked, his blue eyes wide.

  “Allow me to speak to you more of this later, my friend. I know that the duke prefers he tell you. As to the letter from his son to Patricia, if he feels it might provide important information to our circle, then he will bring it up at the next full meeting, but if not, he will likely remain silent on it. He wishes only to protect Elizabeth.”

  “I’m only glad she didn’t find it,” Sinclair said. “The way she laughs in that portrait is how I want Beth to live life from now on, as though nothing drags at her heart. That the sun always shines and no wolves linger anywhere nearby.”

  “You are so like your father,” Kepelheim said proudly. “As I’ve told you, he and Connor were very close friends. In fact, they were born the same year, two months apart. Both attended Harrow and then Cambridge. I shall tell you more of that another time, but as I started to explain earlier, the portrait of our dear one is actually the access to a secret exit that leads to an underground passage. That passage comes out several miles from here. Drummond is a cautious man, and he needs to be. I’ve used that exit twice, and once was that Christmas, but we’ll have to continue that part of this discussion later. Remind me after supper. For now, we mustn’t keep Della waiting, else both her heads will be sad.”

  Charles smiled, his hand on the tailor’s shoulder. “Thank you, Martin, not just for welcoming me in my freshman days with the circle, but also for being a friend to me and to Elizabeth. I count few men as true friend, and you are amongst that small number.”

  Kepelheim blushed, his greying hair tinging with crimson. “You honour me, Lord Haimsbury. Did the duke tell you that there are portraits of your forebears here and also in London? In the small gallery, on the second floor, you will find a magnificent painting of your father and mother. And, I expect there are portraits in many other locations, for unless I am wrong, your estates are many. As are your enemies, so make sure of everyone on your staff and fortify your secret rooms, as has the duke. He is a man from whom you can learn much.”

  The tailor unlocked the door, and once open, found—not to either man’s surprise—the very woman of whom they had been speaking, bending down as if to buckle a shoe.

  “Lord Haimsbury! Mr. Kepelheim, oh, I had not realised anyone was in there. Is that another library? My! But this house has interesting secrets—and so many books. My shoe, it has come undone.”

  “So it has,” Kepelheim noted dryly. “Would that a needle and thread might repair it, bu
t alas, I am no cobbler. Do you require our aid, Doctor?”

  She put her foot down, turning it to show off her trim ankles. “No, it seems fine now. Silly of me! Lord Haimsbury, would you help me to find the dining room. I’m all turned ‘round now.”

  Charles left with the serpent on his arm, shooting Kepelheim a quick look as he led her away from the door. Immediately, the tailor locked the library and dashed to find the duke, lest the key mysteriously disappear.

  Back at 76 Leman Street, Inspector Frederick Abberline had just arrested a Whitechapel landlord named John Bellingham, for it was the unfortunate publican who had witnessed the arrival and sudden departure of the ‘Man with the Cane’, as the police now called him. Fred hoped that a swift, successful interrogation would lead to solving the east end murders, and unmask the fiend all now called Jack the Ripper.

  “So, where is it you killed her?” Abberline asked again. “We know you did it, Bellingham. Her blood’s all over your clothes!”

  The middle-aged man with the shock of red hair wiped at his bulbous nose and began to weep. “I tell you, sir, it weren’t like that t’all. I were on my way to the Ten Bells to ‘ave a talk wif me old barmaid, Sally Tambor. You know ‘er, Inspector Abberline, sir. Sally’s a dancer now over at the Cambridge. Wif the nice legs an’ all.”

  “Nice legs! I’m sure you’d be the one to notice a woman’s legs, Bellingham! We’re going through your pub and your rooms above right now, and if we find even a scrap of evidence to tie you to these murders, we shall charge you, and your legs will soon be dangling from several yards of hemp rope!”

  “Naw, sir! No’ me, sir! All I done was to see this ‘ere fancy gent leave the lady’s body, just laid it right down, like ‘e were puttin’ ‘er to sleep. I swears it! That man, wif the cane, sir. ‘e done it. ‘e even bent down like an’ kissed ‘er, din’ ‘e?”

  Finding the man’s continued obstinacy infuriating, Abberline swung a wide arcing, roundhouse punch, knocking the startled publican off his chair and onto the wooden floor.

  “You keep lying to me, Sonny Jim, and I’ll charge you right now! Admit the story is a lie!”

  Bellingham lay on his side, iron manacles around both wrists, his arms reaching toward each other behind his back, chaining him to the sturdy chair. He wept sorrowfully, so much so that even the men in the other cells, who had been taking turns catcalling and shouting for a rope—for the Ripper fiend was much hated in the borough—now grew quiet, perhaps wondering if the real murderer might actually be a supernatural fiend who could disappear into thin air.

  “Tell ‘em, John!” shouted a tow-headed teen arrested that morning for vagrancy. “We go’ a ghost, we do! Don’t let Bobby Whiskers ‘ere abuse you o’ yer rights!”

  Abberline turned and glared at the youth, making his point without a word. Then, softening his tone and nodding to two constables to upright the prisoner, the seasoned policeman leaned in close. “Look here, son. We want to make it right for the women of our borough who’ve lost to the knife and the cut. If there’s a toff on our streets taking our women to the grave, then we need a better description than a man with a bloody cane! Did you hear anything else, son? Did he have a watch? A stick pin? A fancy boot? Or better yet a name! Give us that, and we’ll see about unlocking those irons.”

  The publican’s face glistened with sweat, and his shirt—not all that clean to begin with—had turned from grey to black. “Look, sir, I…”

  “Does he have a name!?”

  The man gulped. “He never give me a name, but ‘e give me that message, and—no, wait! That ring what ‘e wore! Great big silver one, i’n’ it? Wif some white bird all enamel-like. The kind o’ ring some judge’d wear from one o’ them fancy men’s clubs. Tha’s right. I seen tha’ bird afore. Back o’ Greasy Johnny’s place. Toffs an’ all. Comes and goes like they owns it.”

  “Is that John Kenneth’s place? On, uh…, Constable?”

  The lad on the right spoke. “Church Street, sir. It’s in an alleyway. He’s right. We’ve seen a lot of rich men go in and out. Slum tourists, we figure. A ring like that might stand out even amongst such a group.”

  Abberline sighed, his mutton-chop sideburns heaving up and down. “Very well, Mr. Bellingham, we’re going to look into your story, but if we find nothing, then we start again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-Three

  Luncheon finished with several puddings, including cake and strawberry jelly, which made Adele stand up and sing. Paul relished every moment with his beautiful child, but the conversation planned with Elizabeth weighed heavily on his heart now. Adele clearly noticed her brother’s mood and suggested they all come hear her play her newest music, which she had brought for the occasion. Elizabeth longed to confess her sins to Paul, but how could she disappoint Adele, who only wanted everyone around her to be joyful?

  Adele played a Chopin, hardly making any mistakes, and then Beethoven’s Moonlight, flawless if a trifle slower than needed, and she finished by playing a heart-rending version of Mozart’s Lacrymosa from the Requiem mass—in an easy piano arrangement. All applauded, Paul most of all, and she bowed dozens of times, throwing kisses as if from a stage.

  Charles had seen strange looks pass betwixt Paul and Beth, and he feared she planned to speak to the earl regardless of his own insistence that he do so first. Sinclair saw the duchess leave quietly, heading for the upper floors, and when Paul followed and Adele right after, Charles ran to the girl and knelt before her as if to beg.

  “Surely you will not leave before playing just one more song for your new cousin? Della, no one has fingers like yours that can play a sonata and gobble up cakes all in one day!”

  She burst into peals of laughter again and threw her arms around his neck. “Very well, Cousin Charles, I shall play another little Mr. Johann Strauss, if you like. And perhaps a Brahms, but then, you must play the left hand on the next piece. It’s very difficult, and it is all I can manage to play the right.”

  Charles agreed, and Adele sat once more, her tapering fingers placed in position, her head high, and she began to play a waltz. Her style was fluid, though hesitant in places, but she finished the long piece with a flourish, which brought another round of praise and applause. Next, she played an Intermezzo in E Flat by Johannes Brahms, an elegant piece that lasted for over five minutes, and though Charles tried to concentrate on his young cousin’s skillful rendition of the beautiful opus, his mind was fixed on what Beth must now be saying to the earl.

  As Adele finished the Brahms, and seeing that Paul and Elizabeth had not yet returned, Charles suggested they play their duet. She nodded her head and took his hand, and the pair walked to the grand piano. “This is the one that’s difficult for me,” Della explained. “The notes move so very quickly toward the end that I get all mixed up.”

  Sinclair had studied piano for five years at Harrow and three at Cambridge. As a mathematician, he found the instrument beautifully precise, and playing often allowed his mind to work through puzzles and equations. He glanced at the musical selection Adele had chosen, a gypsy csárdás, a traditional Hungarian folk dance that began with a slow tempo but then drove to one more quick-paced, a difficult piece to be sure, but one that—to Charles—seemed deliberately placed. Surely, this was pure coincidence, but all he could think of for a moment was the gypsy music at the cottage and that gut-wrenching sense of panic when he awoke next to Elizabeth. His mind felt pulled back into the dream as violin music echoed in his ears, accompanied by the howling of wolves, and suddenly all blood drained from his face as the room spun and his vision telescoped into blackness.

  “Charles,” he could hear Adele say, patting his cheeks with her small hands. She sounded far away, as if from some other place and time. “Charles! Cousin Charles, are you all right? You don’t have to play the left hand, if you don’t wish to. I can try them both.”

  Kepelheim had jumped from his chair and now stood be
hind Sinclair, and Charles could hear his Uncle James calling for Mrs. MacAnder and sensed the duke’s strong hands joining with the tailor’s to help him to a chair. As he sat, his vision cleared momentarily, and he could see Lorena MacKey’s face, her green eyes boring into his, and he suddenly knew that she had caused it. Witch, he thought, realising all at once that she was everything that Kepelheim had said, but perhaps far more. For there was a deep malevolence to her face—as if she had been unmasked—though only for his eyes to see. He could hear her speaking at his elbow, telling Kepelheim to pour cool water, as her hands unknotted his tie and touched his face.

  “He’s so very warm and his pupils grow black and large. I fear he may have been accidentally poisoned,” she said, but he could also hear her thoughts, deep inside his mind.

  The room grew hot and close, and his heart pounded in his ears. He heard the violin music again, and the wolves howling all about him, their voices nearly human. The doctor spoke words of medicine and concern to the company with her mouth, but with her thoughts the witch spoke only to Charles, and the words rose above the phantom violin’s haunting refrain like a descant.

  Do you see now, Lord Haimsbury? Do you dare make your plans against me—against Trent? Our Prince protects us both, and his plans will find fulfillment. Already, he works in your mind. There is nothing you can do to stop our plans. There is no one you could tell who would believe what you now hear me say. You, pitiful human, are an island, deserted and alone. And we shall use her as we wish, for nothing you may do, no plan you devise, no prayer you may speak, can stop us!

  Charles thought he perceived a looming Shadow, standing behind the woman, and he tried to gain his feet, reaching out toward it. Was it William? Or the Other, the Prince? He leaned toward it, but suddenly he was falling into blackness, into utter despair, into hell.

  “Catch him!” he heard Kepelheim cry, just as he blacked out.

  Two floors above, in the quiet of Paul’s apartment, as Della played the Strauss piece, Elizabeth sat, her face like stone, wondering how to begin her confession. Paul paced about the room, convinced her desire for secrecy was intended to reveal his deception regarding Adele. As his mind raced to all possible outcomes, he suddenly fell to his knees before her and began to tell all.