“I rather doubt it, Baxter. Can Mrs. Paget pack me a sandwich or a few boiled eggs?”
“Of course, sir. I rather thought the dark stripe this morning,” the efficient butler said, holding up a charcoal coat and matching trousers. The cloth bore a subtle stripe of pale silver through the weave, which Kepelheim deemed ‘fit for a marquess’.
“If it’s a fabric that’s readily cleaned, it’s perfect, Baxter. As you’ll soon discover, my occupation takes me into environments that are apt to stain rather badly.”
“I’d assumed as much, sir. I’m accustomed to removing blood from a gentleman’s clothing. However, I pray the blood you bring home from this moment forward is not your own, sir.”
“As do I, Mr. Baxter,” Charles answered. “I’ll carry the Sir John Bennett watch, of course, and I’ll need my CID warrant card. For the moment, I’m still a Scotland Yard superintendent.”
“I’d already thought of that, sir, and I set out your ICI warrant card as well. Just in case.”
Fifteen minutes later, Charles descended to the main floor by way of the newly installed lift. As he exited through the scrolled safety grating, his cousin met him, dressed in finery of his own.
“I’d feared you might try the stairs, despite Emerson’s warning. Have you decided to be more compliant?” the earl teased.
Aubrey wore a light grey suit in worsted, Merino wool with a matching waistcoat. A pocket watch of chased silver, hung from a fine chain that ended in a curious fob that looked like an eagle.
His cousin took note of the item. “Is that new? Don’t you usually wear your father’s watch and fob?”
“Yes, but it’s being repaired. This is another of Father’s watches, given to him by President Grant during his final week as British ambassador to the United States.”
“That explains the fob. Our country owes a debt of gratitude to your father, Paul. And to you as well. Is there any news of Beth?”
“Possibly,” the earl said brightly. “Sir Thomas is following its trail, though I doubt it will prove fruitful. If Romanov does have her, it’s likely she’s in one of his houses.”
“And what of this lead?”
“Slender at best. A physician in Bethnel Green told Superintendent Keating at J Division that he’d treated a woman answering Beth’s general description, but many women in London have dark hair. The duke put up a five hundred pound reward whilst you lay unconscious, and we’ve followed many a false trail. Galton will make a thorough search of it. The Lord allowed you to see and speak with her in this Sebet Babi realm; therefore, she is alive. Hold onto that truth, my friend. Trust in our Lord to protect her.”
“That is my only thought right now, Paul. She’ll come home. I know it.”
Sinclair paused momentarily at the front door to take a small parcel from Baxter, containing two beef sandwiches, half a dozen boiled eggs, two apples, and a jam tart. “Is all this for me?”
“Mrs. Paget worries you’ll go hungry, sir. She suggests sharing with Lord Aubrey should it prove too much.”
“She’s a dear woman and very thoughtful. Thank her on my behalf,” Charles told him as Baxter helped him into a dark grey Chesterfield overcoat.
“I’ve put your gloves in the right pocket, sir. As you rarely wear a hat, I’ve not fetched it, but I’d be happy to select one, if you wish.”
Sinclair actually smiled. “Baxter, you take very good care of me. No hat, but I appreciate the thought.”
With a quick word of goodbye, the two cousins emerged from the main doors of Haimsbury House, bound for Whitechapel.
Inside the crested coach, they exchanged words about Lorena MacKey. “I wish we’d been able to talk with MacKey last night. I hated waking her, though, by continuing to knock. When you stop there this morning, was she awake?”
“I stopped, and I fear we missed our chance, Charles. Lorena’s gone.”
Sinclair’s dark brows rose in concert. “Gone?”
“She must have left during the night, possibly before we called there to look at Beth’s room. It may explain why she didn’t answer your knock.”
“We have to find her, Paul. Lorena’s in danger, whether she knows it or not. I will not have her end up like Morgan!”
“She may have run because of me,” Paul suggested.
“Regardless of why she ran, we must find her,” Sinclair said, a nagging worry creeping along his scalp. Something very bad is coming. “Two women now elude us, Paul. Beth and Lorena. It’s all connected somehow, but I can’t reason why just yet.”
“A hunch?”
“A dread. Tell me about this murder in Whitechapel. Reid sent for you, I take it.”
“Yes, but the constable explained very little. Poor lad looked ready to lose his breakfast. He said the scene’s quite bloody, but then, it may be the boy’s first murder. He did know the victim’s name, however, which explains why Reid sent for me. He’s a man Galton and I have been watching for nearly a decade. Gerald Dryden, 5th Earl of Hemsfield. He served as banker for the Irish branch of Redwing for six years, then suddenly moved to Spain in September of this year to broker an arms deal. I’ve no idea when or why he returned to London, but Deniau will be annoyed, as its his net that was slipped.”
“Was Hemsfield a Round Table member? Is he on Ida’s list?”
“No, I’d remember that. However, I’ve never believed Ross’s list is complete. My information indicates London’s branch has three tiers. An outer level with seventy members, a middle with thirty-three, and both these lower tiers are directed by a secretive, third tier called The Round Table, acting somewhat like a board of governors. Trent led this exclusive group, which begs the question: who is his replacement?”
“Perhaps, that’s the reason for the war,” Sinclair said, his eyes on the Bank of England’s twelve-pillared portico as they drove past.
“War?” Aubrey asked.
“Civil war. It’s what Anatole warned me about. Both in person and through Lorena MacKey. He said the Round Table members would begin to fight amongst themselves, but that the infighting is but a symptom of spiritual battles in the hidden realms. Paul, when I was trapped inside that stone maze, the very air was thick with anger. What if rebellion manifests as more than just warfare against God’s throne? What if it’s ingrained in the very essence of those who hate the Lord? They’d spy, plot, and make plans like a band of deceitful courtiers. One would betray another, with all choosing a side, leading to uprisings and wars just like in our own world.”
The earl smiled. “Your eyes are so much clearer than mine, when it comes to spiritual things, Charles. I envy that.”
“Envy is an appropriate word, though I know you mean it well. Envy and greed lie at the heart of all rebellion. Something very dark is coming, Paul. I can feel it. Can’t you?”
“Darker than we’ve already experienced?”
“Much darker,” Sinclair observed, his eyes still. “Susanna Morgan told you that Trent and his companions committed the Ripper murders to provide the spiritual capital to free a Watcher from his prison. Lorena told me something similar. Raziel plans to release thirteen of these entities! If Ripper’s crimes shocked and dismayed, then imagine what is to come!”
“Elizabeth told me something akin to that recently,” answered Aubrey. “She called it moving shadows, scuttling about like spiders with plans. Her dreams return whenever the enemy draws near.”
“Shadows,” Charles whispered, taking a deep breath to clear his thoughts. “I read through some of Beth’s journals last night. She mentioned in several that her nightmares returned, and it always coincided with the appearance of Prince Rasarit Grigor. Do we know what happened to him?”
“No idea, and I shan’t miss him. I can have Deniau look into it, if you want. Grigor may have fled to France after what happened to Trent.”
“Or he may have killed Trent. If so, the
n Rasha is stronger than we thought.”
Aubrey’s smile disappeared completely. “I’d not considered Rasha as a possibility. He always struck me as a coward, but if you think he may have killed Trent, I’ll go to France tonight.”
“No, Paul, I need you here. Let Deniau search for Rasha. We’ll announce a reward and plaster his and Beth’s photograph all over Paris. If either is there, someone will report it to the police.”
“Perhaps, but I’d feel better if I investigated it myself, Charles.”
“Anatole told Lorena that Beth is safe. Somehow, that’s keeping me sane. If we’ve heard nothing more by the end of the week, then you can go to France. In the meantime, let Deniau handle it.” The marquess knew his cousin’s mind. Aubrey hated the idea of standing idle in England, if there was even a chance Beth might be in France, but Sinclair felt certain she was still in London.
“Rasha isn’t the only one mentioned in Beth’s diaries, you know. She speaks of her love for you many times. She called you her knight. Paul, I truly believe Beth would have married you, had you asked her two years ago.”
“No, she would not,” he declared, but showed no sign of anger. “That’s kind of you to say, Charles, but our little duchess has loved you, and you alone, for many years. When she comes home to us, I want only for the two of you to find happiness together. Seeing her smile brings my heart greater joy than I can ever express, but I also find peace in your happiness.”
The marquess smiled, the words touching his heart. “Thank you. The Lord gave me a great gift when he made us friends.”
They turned onto Whitechapel Road, and to Sinclair’s surprise, several passersby and costermongers started waving to the crested carriage, a visible sign of the Haimsbury-Branham union. Word quickly spread along the street, and soon a crowd gathered along the sidewalks. Men waved their brimmed hats, women curtsied, and street urchins ran alongside the coach to catch the eye of the inhabitants within its curtained interior.
“What’s that all about?” the detective asked.
“Haven’t you read any of this morning’s papers?” Aubrey asked.
“I had no time. Why?”
“Your picture is on the front page of almost every edition. I’d intended to bring it up at our meeting later today at Queen Anne, but as you ask...”
“Yes?”
The earl began to laugh.
“Is it so funny?” Sinclair persisted.
“In a way, and you’ll no doubt find it amusing as well. I haven’t a copy with me, but the general sense of the reports goes something like this. Above a fine photograph of you with the queen, taken at your wedding, is a headline that suggests that Victoria is an illegitimate imposter, and you are the rightful heir to England’s throne.”
“I’m what?” Sinclair exclaimed. “That’s preposterous! Why would anyone make up such a ridiculous story?”
“It’s a rumour that floats now and then, to do with the queen’s birth. Even before she was crowned, many at court believed Princess Alexandrina Victoria was actually fathered by Sir John Conroy, not the Duke of Kent. Conroy was personal secretary to the Duchess of Kent and comptroller of the duke’s household—an advantageous mix, leading to hints of improper handling of Kent’s finances. Conroy and the duchess were close. Very close. In fact, the entire court gossiped about their relationship. Even the Duke of Wellington thought them lovers!”
“Really?” Sinclair asked. “Why have I never heard any of this before?”
“It’s circulated once or twice since you and I were born, but you probably didn’t notice. James and my father pointed it out to me each time it made the papers. The scandal nearly broke the monarchy early on, but efficient handlers soon made it disappear. Our uncle’s father had a hand in that.”
“How?”
“James and the queen were born the same year, and when the question of legitimacy arose, Prime Minister Melbourne approached the old duke and asked if he might enact the Drummond-Branham Agreement, referred to by insiders at Buckingham Palace as the DBA.”
“The document about the Plantagenet twins, you mean?”
“The very same. As we told you, every prime minister has to sign it upon taking the oath, and Lord Melbourne was no different. Although, our great-uncle believed Conroy was indeed Victoria’s father, he had no wish for his son, our Uncle James, to take the throne. Privately, James and the Princess Alexandrina had become close friends, and our uncle was even considered as a possible husband for a few weeks. However, the circle members refused to approve the match, for it would have caused all Drummond properties to be absorbed by the Crown, and it might have violated the agreement, the DBA. The squabbling at the time was quite nasty with everyone taking sides, but with England still rebuilding after the Napoleonic wars, no one wanted instability—or God forbid, another war over who had the greatest right to the throne—and it eventually died down.”
“I had no idea,” Charles answered in amazement.
“After so long and successful a reign, I can only guess why someone’s trotted it out again, but I suspect it’s to do with Redwing’s plans for your child.”
“Or children,” Sinclair replied without thinking. “Yes, child, of course.”
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asked as the coach began to slow. “Is this about that dream again? Forgive me. I hadn’t intended to say dream. I do believe you, Charles. If you say you travelled, then you did, but just because you met two children there, it doesn’t mean they exist here. Does it?”
“We’ll discuss it later,” Charles replied, his mind already on the crime scene. They’d stopped next to a three-storey terraced home behind St. Mary’s Church. It looked relatively smart with freshly painted trim and washed brick. A black police maria stood near the side entry, and several uniformed police constables kept watch from the house’s front porch.
Their driver, Hamish Granger, opened the door for the two peers. “Shall I come inside, sir, or wait with the coach?” he asked the marquess.
“Stay out here, Granger, but strike up conversations with the neighbours if you see anyone about. I’d like to know their opinions of our victim. Ask if anyone heard or saw anything.”
“Very good, sir.”
The cousins entered the house through the main door, and then passed into a wide foyer. Sinclair stopped before going further, closely examining the area. “What strikes you first, Paul?”
“The smell. Blood and urine,” the earl answered honestly. “And excrement.”
“Those are typical of a murder scene. What else?”
“Out here?” he asked, turning to look at the walls and floor. “It looks like most of the borough’s nicer homes, though the photographs are a bit risqué.”
“Aside from the photos, the house strikes as odd,” his cousin disputed. “It’s new. All of it. The wallpaper, the carpet, the furnishings. Even these shameless photographs look recently framed. It’s feels like a set from a theatre.”
Edmund Reid appeared at the end of the foyer, just at the turning towards the drawing room. “We’re back here. I apologise for dragging you from your homes, gentlemen. Charles, I’m sure you’d benefit from a few more days rest, but I knew you and Aubrey would want to see this.”
“It keeps my mind occupied,” the detective said. “Have you spoken with Keating over at J?”
“About Elizabeth? Yes, he and I talked late last night. It’s the reason I had very little sleep, actually. I spoke with the physician myself and showed him several of the duchess’s recent photographs. His patient looked similar, but he thought older. Mid-thirties. I’m sorry, Charles.”
“Thank you for looking into it, Ed. She’ll come home. I know it. I cannot explain the peace in my heart, only to say that is must be from God. Now, as I’m still a Yard detective, tell me about this murder.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
2:06 pm – 26th November, Istseleniye House
Prince Anatole Romanov entered the elegant drawing room to the warm sound of Riga’s cello. Not wishing to interrupt, he quietly took a chair away from the main group, remaining in shadow. The prince’s thoughts turned towards multiple rivers of possibilities as he closed his eyes, allowing the hypnotic music to usher him into a realm of waking dreams.
David Anderson, the former Mr. Thirteen, sat beside Brona Kilmeade, each enjoying the music’s soothing qualities. The count had received the arrangement as a gift from Romanov only the previous week, and he’d originally planned to debut the work on Christmas night with Elbert Stanley accompanying him on the piano, but the others had persuaded the two men to offer a preview of the holiday concert. Called Le Cygne, the 6/4 time composition was one of fourteen movements within a greater work, Le Carnaval des Animaux. Camille Saint-Saëns had finished the suite in ‘86, but decided that only this movement, the thirteenth, adequately represented his genius and passions. Though intended for two pianos and a cello, The Swan was rewritten for a single piano, and when the prince heard it in Paris the previous spring, he immediately ordered a copy for Riga.
“Do you enjoy music?” Romanov asked Salperton. “I find it to be a river, upon whose mystical waves, my mind journeys to times and places beyond the present.”
“That’s an interesting way to describe it, Your Highness. I wonder, is such a river capable of transporting those held prisoner within the present?”
“You have a wry sense of humour, which does not escape me. You refer to the duchess, of course, and perhaps to yourself, also. You are not a prisoner, Lord Salperton. You may leave anytime you wish.”
“No, I may not. You know perfectly well that I would never desert the duchess whilst she remains here. Sir, may I not speak to her husband? If you will not permit her to leave, then bring him here, or allow me to write to him.”
“That is entirely impossible,” Romanov whispered, not wishing to interrupt the performance.
“I find that answer insufficient if not deceptive,” the viscount answered, his voice low. “I begin to suspect there are other reasons that you insist upon keeping them apart.”
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