Castle Rouge

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  I bent down to snatch up the pen and scrawl the address of my New York rooms on the corner of the map.

  “Come to the castle, Pink,” she cajoled me. “You may yet find that the chase is worth the time.”

  Our hired carriage climbed the hill crowned with stone buildings and spires. Besides the huge bulk of Prague Castle, there were the towers of three major churches, the Archbishop’s Palace, and other famous buildings as well, a city unto itself.

  Behind and below us the sturdy Charles Bridge with its ancient facing honor guard of thirty stone saints dwindled to a dull gray strut across the sparkling pewter waters of the Vltava River.

  Prague’s red tile roofs surrounded the occasional blue-green copper roofs of churches like an incarnadine sea lapping at stately stones. I thought of the blood-dark drops dripping in the unseen tunnels, of Paris with its catacombs of tightly packed bones. It was as if the buildings and streets were only the skin of a city and the people that thronged them mere lice infesting the exterior while the city’s true heart throbbed within and below, in the graveyards and empty spaces beneath, where death deposited its souvenirs as if all the living souls swarming above eventually sifted into dust and drained into the hidden undercurrents below.

  But one could not sell newspapers with such morbid fancies, so I took out my journal and began a description of my latest visit to a royal palace. They would gobble that up like oatmeal in Schenectady.

  If one did not know the evils committed in the city after dark, this day was simply one of many in a Prague spring. The scent of flowers floated on the air like a bridal veil.

  When we arrived, Quentin Stanhope sprung forward to open our carriage door like a Prince Charming dressed as a diplomat in tailed coat, striped pants, and vest.

  My time in Europe was accustoming me to sweeping up to grand edifices like I owned them, whether they be cathedrals or castles. I was almost ready to pay a visit to millionaire’s row in Newport, Rhode Island!

  I was not surprised when we were ushered into the same throne room we had visited before. The King was there, still very grand operaish in his gold-braided scarlet uniform, but the Queen was absent.

  Clotilde’s vacancy allowed me to imagine Irene in her place. Really, she was born for the role of queen of something, except she was much too independent-minded to ever make a docile European queen, as I think every American woman is, or should be.

  A dapper man in striped pants, morning coat, and monocle waited with the King.

  “Come sit,” the King ordered as only kings can do, managing to sound both jovial and demanding.

  We perched on various tapestry-covered sofas and chairs near the room’s sidewall. I almost felt we should be observing a ball in progress, with dancing figures swaying in a Viennese waltz over the inset marble floor, through the gleaming marble pillars, past the empty gilt-and-velvet throne.

  First Quentin introduced the dapper gentlemen to the ladies, as he was known to the King and himself.

  “May I present Baron Bezová of Bohemia, who is most protective of the Rothschild interests in this quarter of the world.”

  The Baron was in his well-fed fifties, with rosy cheeks and steel-serious blue eyes. The man’s affable smile pressed the gold-rimmed monocle deeper into his left cheek as he bowed to us.

  I was fascinated! Would the small, clear, full moon of glass stay in place if he sneezed? Although the monocle looks like an affectation to us barefaced Americans, I did understand that many noblemen of Germanic and Anglo descent inherited monocular vision—clear as crystal in one eye and quite blind as a bat in the other, just as hemophilia also ran, excuse the expression, through some of the royal bloodlines of Europe.

  “Miss—?”

  “Pink,” Irene said decisively.

  The Baron blinked, and I truly thought he’d lose his monocle. But neither smile nor eyeglass budged.

  “She is a protegé of yours, Madame Norton?”

  “An associate,” Irene said, smiling also.

  “I must offer my sympathy on the mysterious disappearance of your former…associate, Miss Huxleigh.” His smile had vanished. “But, I have good news about your husband.”

  “News!” Irene repeated, as if the word was foreign.

  “Good!” Quentin repeated, for her benefit.

  I felt a weight lifting off me like a heavy Persian lamb cape. I hadn’t realized until now that I’d feel like a dog leaving for home with Nell and Godfrey still unaccounted for.

  “Indeed.” The Baron continued to bow and beam, but it seemed automatic, mere politeness. He bent to lift a small black case like a doctor’s bag onto the marble-inlaid table before the sofa. “These papers arrived by messenger yesterday from Transylvania. The transaction your husband was sent there to conduct, has been signed, sealed”—here he pointed an immaculate fingernail to the great wine-colored blob of wax imprinted with some intricate device—“and delivered, as you see. Count Lupescu has authorized the sale of his land for a price amenable to him and our own interests. You see your husband’s signature on the bottom paper, and the date, but two days ago.”

  Irene leaned over the document, skimming tight paragraphs of tiny manuscript in three languages: English, German, and possibly…Transylvanian? That’s what they looked like to me, but Irene was now studying the two signatures at the bottom of the long parchment page.

  “This one is Godfrey’s hand, his signature.”

  “You see, Madame. Business is transacted. All is well. He will soon be home…or at least back in Prague.”

  “When?” Irene demanded breathlessly.

  “Well, when the train schedules allow.”

  “There was no message from him with the document?”

  “The document is message enough.”

  “Not for me.”

  The Baron’s smile, and monocle, drooped a bit. “Transylvania is a primitive country. Communications are not so swift or easy as in cosmopolitan cities like Prague. The paramount thing was to conduct the business and procure the document. This your husband has accomplished. Returning himself will be the easiest part of it, believe me. The Count, and all Transylvanians, are stubborn souls for having fought the Turk for centuries. To them we owe our sovereign security here. They are slow to relinquish anything that belongs to them…land, pride, knowledge about themselves. Mr. Norton has accomplished a difficult task. You should be proud.”

  “I am proud, Baron. What I am not is reassured. My husband writes frequently when he travels and such communications suddenly ceased more than a fortnight ago.”

  “Irene!” The King spoke for the first time. “You are not used to the slow pace of life in these backward countries. Even in Prague, we know we are not Vienna, or Warsaw, or Paris. And I understand that in America you are even faster-paced. Such impatient people, the Americans. How you slipped away from Prague and myself that time as if running from the very devil!” He almost shook an admonishing finger at her, smiling all the while. “You must allow for the tempo of the place. We are not vivace, we are lento.”

  She looked from the King to the Baron. I saw her always straight spine stiffening even more with suspicion. No wonder! I was getting mighty curious myself.

  I glanced at Quentin, who had become as still and watchful as a polecat. He caught my eye, and his look was not encouraging.

  Irene, meanwhile, had all the lines. “You say I am simply to wait and see when Godfrey will return to Prague?”

  “As we will,” the Baron assured her.

  “Much could go wrong, if it hasn’t already.”

  “The papers—”

  “The papers merely prove that the Transylvanian Count was persuaded to sell his lands to the Rothschild interests. My husband’s signature could have been imitated. I doubt it was, but I find it most alarming that he sent no accompanying letter to anyone with this document. That is not the way a barrister conducts business. That is not the way Godfrey does things. He is a…devout letter writer. If not to me, then to you, his co
ntact in Prague. You cannot tell me, either of you, that you do not find this sequence of events suspicious.”

  They were silent.

  “And what of Nell, of her disappearance from Paris?”

  They both glanced at me without thinking, and in that glance came a terrible truth: that they thought she had replaced Nell with me, after all, and that one woman who served was as good as another. I felt it. Irene felt it. Quentin felt it. But our hosts did not.

  I stewed in the indignation of being considered interchangeable. One woman who took notes or who took men to bed was as good as another. They were parts to be played, to be replaced when needed. That wonderful word which the British use—and I admit that the world, even I, has some use for the British now and again—says it all. Supernumeraries. Unknown, unnamed actors who play the nonspeaking roles in all the great dramas of history, expendable in battle and riot scenes, unimportant except for adding the impression of mass to the unreality of the scene. Bram Stoker knew these unsung nonentities well, having stuffed the stage of the Lyceum with them. But without them, you don’t have the making of an epic for the heroes to shine in.

  I was born to be a supernumerary, and Irene, but we were not willing to play the roles we were born to.

  And we weren’t about to do so now. It looked like I was about to extend my stay in Europe out of sheer indignation. That’s all right. Indignation is a reporter’s life blood. And my instincts were telling me that where the bland denials and the status quo rules, so does hypocrisy and wrongdoing.

  “Then,” Irene added, “there is the matter of the international links to the Jack the Ripper slayings in London. Paris and Prague have both been the scenes of similar killings of women, and in Prague an infant was slain, too.”

  “I’m afraid,” the King said, looking away, toward his empty throne, “that I am not much involved in these sordid police matters.”

  The Baron nodded. “These killings that dominate the sensational press have little import on the life of the citizens otherwise. The matter has been contained in Paris and Prague. We did not allow the blood-hungry press to exploit the tragedies in these cities. London, being the first site of such heinous crimes, was lamentably slow to take control of the public’s venal interest in the details. We all know that such atrocities are nothing new in the world, and such examples should be kept from the public, lest they panic.”

  “But these crimes are connected!”

  “My dear Madame Norton, there is no proof of that. We can point out similar crimes in all these cities, recent and many years old. Man is not perfectible, alas, and—”

  “And women usually pay the price,” she finished harshly.

  He slapped his hands together and sadly shook his head. “I suggest you concentrate on finding your unfortunate friend. I also suggest you wait here in Prague for a reunion with your husband. I pray that you will not be too impetuous to do so.”

  Irene glanced incredulously to the King.

  He was brushing lint from the immaculate red wool expanse of his gilt-swagged chest.

  “And the Baron de Rothschild in Paris—?” she began.

  “He is entertaining the Prince of Wales and many others of great moment at his country house of Ferriéres. I would not care to disturb him at the moment.”

  “The Prince of Wales and the Baron de Rothschild commissioned me to follow these crimes to their source.”

  The Baron shrugged. “Perhaps next week, when I can wire the Baron and your husband is back.”

  “Perhaps next week, three or six or ten more women will be dead, Baron.” Irene rose. “And my husband will be back sooner than next week, because I will see to it.”

  The King stood, in both tribute and relief at her impending departure, I think. “Ah, Irene, no woman has such fire as you.”

  “You should know, Willie, and you should remember the outcome last time. You got your royal fingers burned.”

  “By the way,” the Baron said as she turned to leave, “I would not put false hopes in Sherlock Holmes. He, too, has been…advised to leave the matter alone.”

  “I have never put my hopes in Sherlock Holmes, or kings and princes, Baron, but in myself and my associates. Good day.”

  We left. Rather, Irene left, and we followed.

  Quentin walked beside me as we trailed her out through the grand halls. He looked as grave as I have ever seen a man. She never missed a turn, and we were soon facing into a Prague midday of sunshine and golden spires.

  “Your husband’s signature on the papers was authentic,” I said finally.

  “Yes. I have always believed he and Nell were alive. I have just not known where, and why. We will have to find this Count Lupescu, or perhaps Bram Stoker will do so for us.” She looked at Quentin. “They obviously do not want us to investigate these Prague crimes further. So even more obviously that is our first step.”

  “Agreed,” he said. “Where do we begin? You know more of this matter than I do.”

  “Your husband,” I put in, “mentioned one killing of a woman in a letter to you. It was published enough in the city for him to hear of it.”

  Irene nodded. “They can’t hope to keep everything quiet. As the King says, Prague is not a complete backwater. It is more forward-thinking than Transylvania!”

  “Why would the Baron de Rothschild seek your aid in Paris and silence it in Prague?” Quentin wanted to know.

  Irene gazed out over the picturesque rooftops of the city. “We can’t know what the Baron de Rothschild wishes, since he is not here. And we don’t have time to waste seeking his official approval. What is clear is that this particular local Baron, whoever’s interests he serves—and I suspect they are primarily his own—and the King are terribly afraid of the truth, so that is what we must uncover.”

  “Brava!” said I.

  Irene turned to me, surprise warming her deep brown eyes.

  I laughed. “It’s a mistake to let me know I’m not wanted somewhere. Easiest way to get me to stay.”

  She nodded.

  “Where do we begin?” Quentin asked.

  “At the brothel where the latest woman was killed, and where you met Bram Stoker.”

  I was stunned. “You still think he could be the Ripper?”

  Now Quentin Stanhope was stunned. “Irene, if you thought that, why did you—?”

  “You have not heard all the various and sundry theories on the Ripper’s identity, from illiterate immigrants to the British royal family and all stations in between. But I am not concerned about Bram at the moment. He is, after all, safely out of the city and following his heart to the highlands of Transylvania. The man I am interested in is the furtive fellow who was described in the brothel only moments before the dead woman was discovered. One fact we do know is that James Kelly fled Paris and was identified en route here.”

  In the carriage returning us to the hotel, Irene explained to Quentin the suspicious role the one-time incarcerated lunatic, convicted wife-killer, and upholsterer by trade had played in Paris.

  “The man is utterly mad,” Quentin agreed when she had finished, “and could indeed be the Whitechapel Ripper. But how do his activities and whereabouts connect to those of that fiendish cult you uncovered in Paris?”

  “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Sometimes I think that he has always and everywhere acted alone, and that his presence at the final cult orgy in Paris was accidental, more from his following us than us following him. He did seem to be…mesmerized by Nell.”

  Quentin’s already swarthy face darkened with an angry flush. He looked quite lethal in his way. “It is unthinkable that this man or his demented cohorts could have her. Yes, let us find him if he still dares to remain in Prague, and I will have the truth out of him in no time.”

  “He may be unwilling to talk,” Irene cautioned.

  “That is of no consequence,” Quentin said so shortly that neither Irene nor I wanted to ask exactly why.

  All the dark and savage mystery of the East w
as in Quentin’s face at that moment. From the tales he had told of their unbelievably barbaric ways, I had no doubt that Quentin Stanhope knew their methods well, and would use them.

  I wondered what Nell would think to know she had inspired such deep but relentless loyalty. I know that I might wonder whether the defender was worse than the despoiler.

  38.

  Shades of Whitechapel

  I never meant to stab you as I sat by you asking you to forgive me and you answered no. I took out my penknife and meant to frighten you, but something seemed to come over me and I went mad and stabbed you.

  —JAMES KELLY’S LETTER TO HIS DYING WIFE, 1888

  FROM A JOURNAL

  Back at our hotel Irene gathered up the sketch of James Kelly while Quentin made a smaller sketch of the Chi-Rho pattern she had overlaid on the east bank of the city.

  She took Nell’s portfolio with the two papers under her arm. Wearing Nell’s black faille surprise dress, all its frivolous pink facings buttoned shut, she resembled a ghost of her long-time companion.

  The same thought must have struck Quentin, for he paused to look long and hard at her before he opened the suite door to release us on greater Prague.

  “I am not a man much attuned to female fashions, or male, for that matter, but haven’t I seen that gown before, Irene?”

  “It is Nell’s,” she said, biting her lip a moment after. “When it came to clothing that would travel well and quickly, I found Nell’s wardrobe far more practical than my own. Even Pink’s checkered coatdress resembles the garb Nell wore when she vanished.”

  Quentin bent the same unnerving stare on me and my gown, then finally nodded and opened the door for us. “I’m not surprised that Nell has served as a good model for her friends in her absence. She would be most pleased,” was all he said.

  I wasn’t about to say that I doubt Nell and I considered each other friends. Men must have their illusions about women, or we would all go mad.