Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “Yes, I’m aware of those reports,” the earl replied, exchanging glances with Reid. “Many of the local citizenry suffered hallucinations on Sunday. Poisoned water caused by a granary. Have you determined the cause of the fire yet?”

  Shaw had known the Stuarts for over three decades, beginning with Duke James in the Crimean War and later as a Chief Constable in Belfast. He’d learnt when not to ask for clarification on a matter, and the former army rifleman instantly recognised the earl’s intentional shift in topic as such a moment.

  “No, sir, we’ve found no cause for the fire anywhere within the house. It has gas lines, of course, but there’s no piping to the fireplaces—only the sconces. All these appear functional and in good working order.”

  “Might arson be involved?” Aubrey asked. “Someone broke into the house a week before this happened. He could have disconnected a pipe.”

  “Perhaps, but then why didn’t the fire occur earlier?” Shaw argued.

  “The house stood empty for days. No one was inside to light a jet,” Reid suggested.

  “No, it won’t do,” Shaw declared. “I cannot believe a leaking gas pipe would take an entire week to ignite, and then do so only when the duchess was inside. Unless, of course, she lit the match.”

  “I assure you, my cousin would not have done so. She came here against her will. If a match was lit, then her abductor is to blame.”

  “Perhaps, but this is all conjecture, Lord Aubrey, and I do not like conjecture, only facts. Mr. Lintel here has five years’ experience with house fires, and he’s as good as any at reading the evidence. He tells me that gas is not involved, and it is his estimation that most compels me. I fear the precipitating factor remains unknown.”

  “Yet we do not give up, sir,” Lintel added, apologetically. “My men are still tryin’ to determine the cause of the fire, and who, if anyone, might have been inside when it ignited, my lord. We believe the duchess must have escaped, assuming she was ever in the house.”

  “We pray that you’re right, Mr. Lintel, and that my cousin escaped before it began, or, as you say, was never inside,” Aubrey noted seriously.

  “As do we all, sir.” Shaw added. The elder man stroked his chin beard thoughtfully. “That’s a nasty looking bit of evidence,” he said, bending to examine the iron post. “Is this where Haimsbury fell? This post?”

  Paul nodded. “It is. Mr. Lintel may have told you, but when we arrived at the house, it was already ablaze. Sir William Trent lay upon the ground, clearly dead. You can see the large area of stained grass, just over there,” he said, pointing to a section of the yard marked with four, red canvas flags. “He was covered in shards of glass, having crashed through the first floor window. You can see the window up there, Captain.”

  “Yes. It’s smashed rather badly,” the Irishman agreed. “I suppose this Trent fellow jumped to escape the fire. Foolish thing to do, but if the stairs had already become engulfed, it may have been the only exit.”

  “A fatal exit, if that’s what happened,” Reid observed. “However, we don’t believe he jumped, Superintendent. As you can see, Trent’s body landed too far from the house, and his other injuries are inconsistent with a mere fall.”

  Paul looked at Reid. “Injuries? Edmund, is Trent’s body in your dead room? I admit that with all the other stresses in the past two days, I allowed that important detail to slip.”

  “I had my men convey it to Leman Street as soon as you and Emerson left with Charles. Sunders finished the autopsy yesterday. He’s included some interesting observations in the final report. I’ll show you when we go back there,” he said to Aubrey privately. Then glancing at the shorter fireman, added, “Mr. Lintel, here, seems to think the duchess was never inside. I pray he’s right.”

  “As do we all,” Shaw agreed, clearing his throat. “Well, it’s evident that you three men can handle all this without me. Lord Aubrey, if it’s amenable to you, I’ll be going. I’ve an appointment at the palace. I promised the queen I’d bring her up-to-date on the investigation. Then, I fear, I have to meet with several other brigade officers. We’ve had a string of suspicious fires in recent days. Three in the city alone, including one at Broad Street Terminus and another near the Royal Mint, for goodness’ sake! Her Majesty worries we might have an anarchist cell operating in London, and I fear she may be right. I’m available, however, should you have any questions.”

  “I’ll contact you regardless,” the earl said, offering his hand once more. “Thank you, Captain Shaw. I’ll let my uncle know how thorough you and your men have been.”

  “Please do, my lord, and remind His Grace that we’ve not yet finished that chess match. He’ll know what I mean.” He reached for Edmund’s hand. “Good day, Inspector Reid. I wouldn’t remain too long, if I were you. Looks like we’ll be getting more snow before the day’s out.”

  The thin, former army man turned about and followed Columbia Road towards Birdcage Walk, where he hailed a hansom. The earl and Reid looked at one another and then to the stout fellow in the felt hat.

  Unlike the portly brigade officer, Paul Stuart rarely wore a hat, and his chestnut hair blew about in the easterly wind. “Shaw’s right. It does look like snow. Tell, me Mr. Lintel, what makes you so certain that the duchess wasn’t inside when the fire broke out?”

  Lintel had known very few peers in his forty-six years, but what few he’d met were arrogant to the point of extreme frustration. The only exception to that rule was Charles Sinclair, but the police superintendent wasn’t raised with wealth and privilege. Lintel assumed that was the deciding factor; therefore, he forced a patient smile, assuming the earl to be nothing more than a spoilt dandy in a hand-tailored suit.

  “My lord, I assure you that my men and I have sifted through every particle of ash on both the upper and lower floors. We found no sign of...” He paused, decidedly uncomfortable. “Well, sir, we found no body; nor was there evidence that the duchess was ever inside the house. It looks to me as though your information is incorrect.”

  Aubrey glared at the man, his clear blue eyes grown cold and still. Reid had seen that same look on the earl’s face many times, and it only appeared when Paul Stuart neared the end of his patience.

  “Mr. Lintel, to put it simply, you are wrong. If you cannot find a solution to this puzzle, then I will. I’m going up there.”

  “Sir, it is too dangerous,” Lintel warned the earl. “The support beams ‘twixt the floors are ready to give way. I’ve told all my men to keep out from this point forward, and they’ve years of training in how to walk amongst such damage.”

  “Then you may remain out here, Mr. Lintel, but I warn you, do not try to stop me!” Aubrey declared and pushed past the fireman to enter the ruined home.

  Lintel rushed after, intent on removing the foolish peer, but Reid drew the officer back. “Let the man look, Bert. Lord Aubrey is not like others in his class. He has experience that even you and I lack.”

  Paul stepped carefully through the door frame, where pieces of splintered wood had collapsed into a heap on the narrow porch. The interior was dark and smelled wet and smoky. The charred walls of the foyer to Sinclair’s old home were almost unrecognisable. The earl had visited the house dozens of times since ’79, and seeing the substantial damage struck him very hard. It was like reaching the end of an era, and he prayed that it held no dark omens regarding his cousin’s recovery.

  Most of the wall coverings had burnt, but a few fragile scraps of trellised ivy and floral paper remained; each brittle fragment now curled and peeling with blackened edges and water stains. The oak staircase had once been considered beautiful, and Amelia St. Clair had always pointed out the intricate carving on the newel post and balusters. Paul touched the post’s figural cap, and the fragile carcass crumbled beneath his leather glove. The floral stair carpet was installed in the summer of 1879 as a gift from Amelia’s parents, but its woolen threads
now showed evidence of smoke and water damage, spoilt even further by the muddy impressions of firemen’s boots. The entire case leaned precariously towards the western wall, and several of the steps were broken; the railing had split into three pieces, two of which lay upon the foyer floor.

  “This is terrible, Edmund,” Stuart said as they walked through to the kitchen area. “So much worse than I expected. I’m very glad Mary isn’t here to see it.”

  “As am I,” the round-faced detective inspector agreed. “I spoke with her yesterday, and all she could talk about was how the old photo albums and books were spared, because Charles removed the furnishings and storage crates to the Haimsbury dower house after the housebreak. Paul, it gives me no pleasure to say this, but it looks as though Lintel is right. There’s nothing to indicate the duchess was here Sunday night. Trent must have taken her elsewhere.”

  “But then why was he here at all?” Aubrey asked, turning to face his friend. “No, Beth was here, Edmund. Trent’s taunt to Charles made clear reference to this house. He wanted to hurt my cousin in the worst possible way by making this the site of his crime. But I doubt we’d find evidence on this level. Trent’s body crashed through the upper storey window. We could see the broken glass as we arrived. It was all over the yard. No, if Beth was here that night, then he must have taken her into one of the bedrooms.”

  The fireman had followed them into the house and now bent to pick up a piece of broken crockery. “If the superintendent did have his property moved, sir, then the removal men missed a bit. Looks like the lid of a little butter dish.”

  “I’ve seen enough down here,” Stuart declared, heading towards the staircase. “I’m going up.”

  Lintel blocked the earl’s path. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but that is a very foolish idea. I cannot permit it.”

  “I neither seek nor require your permission, Mr. Lintel.”

  “Don’t interfere, Lintel,” Reid ordered the brigade officer. “I’ll come with you, Lord Aubrey.”

  Lintel grudgingly stepped aside, and the Scottish earl gingerly traversed the treacherous staircase, keeping his weight upon the side closest to the wall for better support. Once on the landing, he went straight towards the room with the broken window.

  “Charles and Amelia used this as the master,” he told Reid. “Albert’s nursery is down the hall at the end. Such a sad little room. I remember Charles would sometimes go in there and sit for hours. He’s never gotten over his son’s death, but then what man could? Did you ever visit?”

  “A few times, though I never came up here,” Edmund replied as the two of them entered the modest bedchamber. “I was at J Division until early this year, but called on Charles once or twice to report on investigations, most of them related to Ripper.”

  “A dark reason to call on so gentle a man,” the earl answered with a sigh. “Charles and I used to retreat up here, to get away from Amelia quite frankly. She was a considerably disagreeable woman, and she latched onto me like a starving leech each time I visited. Most likely, trying to further ingratiate herself and her family into ours. Charles was never like that. Truly, I think he’d be content, even now, to live a simple life. Though, the Lord has designed him for leadership, he craves solitude. He’s like Beth in that way.”

  “I never met Sinclair’s late wife, but if she latched onto you, as you say, it’s likely she mistook your naturally polite manner as familiarity,” Reid suggested.

  “Or an open invitation for something else. I never told Charles, but Amelia flirted overtly with me and with my father, if you can imagine it. My father was too kind a man to say anything, but he was sixty-five at the time and my mother still lived!”

  “Charles never noticed?” Reid asked.

  “If he did, he chose to ignore it. Charles hated challenging his late wife, not for any lack of backbone, but because he is a thoroughly good and gentle man. Whenever I’d visit, he’d suggest coming up here to smoke. It offered privacy and a relief from Amelia’s constant flirtations.”

  “Charles doesn’t smoke,” Reid argued. “I have never seen him smoke anything, Paul. Not a pipe, not a cigarette, not even a cigar. Nothing.”

  “Nor have I, but I’d light one of my cigars to make sure we weren’t intruded upon. Amelia was persistent, but she detested smoke. I suspect my poor cousin had to air this room out as soon as I left, but it invariably worked.”

  The earl began a slow survey of the room, stopping now and then to run a knife blade along exposed wall lath or betwixt floor planks.

  “Did you see this morning’s Daily News?” Reid asked as he conducted a similar search in one corner.

  “Do you mean the Berners Street attack?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Galton mentioned it in my briefing this morning.”

  “I’d thought you and the duke too busy with the search for Elizabeth to pay attention to other matters. I confess, I’m surprised that you have the emotional presence of mind to consider anything beyond that.”

  The earl shut his eyes for a moment. He pictured a block of ice and slowly counted to five. It was a long-practised and familiar exercise, taught to him by his father. This simple but effective mind trick allowed him to postpone emotional responses like heartache or despair. If Beth is dead, then I shall grieve then. Not now. For now, I stay focused.

  “We manage,” he told Reid, turning his thoughts towards matters he could control. “The Berners Street explosion merits investigation.”

  “Special Branch is looking into it, actually. We’ve been ordered to ignore it. I was referring to the constable found dead in Hyde Park. Suicide, according to the coroner.”

  “A police constable? I missed that one. Who was it?”

  “Alvin Goode. I never met the man,” the inspector continued. “The paper said he joined up in ’86, and that a witness claimed Goode had been melancholy and moody of late. He purchased a revolver last Thursday, which is considered evidentiary of suicidal intent. However, the weapon was found fifteen feet from the body.”

  Aubrey stared at the policeman. “Fifteen feet? Surely, a pistol doesn’t leap so far once fired, no matter how inexperienced the handler. You say the fellow’s name is Goode? Edmund, would you be able to obtain a copy of the report?” Aubrey asked.

  “I might. It’s E Division’s case. Austin Askew’s the inspector in charge.”

  “I know Askew. If I have time, I’ll meet with him later today. I don’t want to be away from the house too long. Della’s very upset about all of this, as you can imagine, and she’s losing sleep over Charles’s condition. If I don’t find ways to occupy her time, she’ll spend the entire day at his bedside. In a very short time, she’s come to love him dearly. Edmund, if he dies...”

  “That won’t happen, my friend. Charles Sinclair is a fighter!”

  “So he is,” Stuart whispered, picturing the ice block once more. “Wasn’t Mary Kelly’s funeral on Monday?”

  Reid leaned over the sill of the broken window and gazed down at the snowy yard. “That’s a long way to fall,” he muttered. “Kelly? Yes, it was. Fred Abberline and I attended to see who else might be there. Sadly, we were the only mourners. I’d expected George Lusk and his Vigilance Committee to show, or a Star reporter, but it was a very lonely service.”

  “Poor girl,” Paul said as he returned his knife to the right pocket of his coat. “When we’ve the time, I’d like to see the Kelly photographs and review the autopsy results. The duke wants us to meet later today. Are you able to come?”

  “He sent a telegram. I’ll do my best to make it,” Edmund answered.

  “Good. If you do come by, bring the Kelly file with you.”

  The soft-bellied fireman had decided to join them, and he huffed as he entered the smoky room. “I’ve examined the entire main floor again, my lord, and found nothing new. Have you discovered anything up here, sir?�
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  “Nothing yet, Mr. Lintel,” the earl answered, his manner gentler. “I hope you’ll forgive my manners. I’m very worried about my cousins, and this house is our only lead to finding the duchess.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The Scottish peer moved to the hearth, whose chimney served both bedchambers. Bending down, he raked at the collection of wet ash with his gloved hand. “This room was always cold, when we retreated up here, Edmund, no matter how bright the flame. I’d always assumed it a result of poor chimney design, but knowing what I do now about my cousin, I wonder if it wasn’t more. It may have been a spiritual coldness that permeated the room—perhaps even the entire house. Shadows follow him, Edmund, much like they do Beth.” His hand stopped, and Stuart collected a handful of ash. “Hello! What are these?” he asked, showing the other men. “See here? Pearl buttons and what looks like a scrap of burnt silk amidst fragments of bone. Not human, though, thank the Lord.”

  “How can you tell, sir?” Lintel asked. He moved closer and placed a smudged pair of spectacles on his plump nose. “Surely, only a surgeon can determine if a bone is human.”

  “Not in this case,” Aubrey told him plainly. “This is baleen. Commonly called whalebone. I’ve seen enough to recognise it at once. It’s used in corsets.”

  The inspector smiled at the fire officer’s perplexed expression. “Well, you have our attention, Lord Aubrey. Do you care to tell us how you know that?”

  “Let’s just say I have experience in the production of certain ladies’ fashions. You’ll get no more from me on that, Inspector. Not today, at any rate, but look here, gentlemen. Many fine coils of steel wire, also used in corset design. Why would steel and baleen be in the hearth, unless her corset burnt here?”

  “Which means someone removed it,” Reid suggested darkly. “William Trent always had unnatural inclinations towards the duchess.”