Realms of Stone

by Sharon K Gilbert

  “My reasons are inscrutable to you, Doctor, for your discernment lacks refinement and reference.”

  “What sort of nonsense is that?” Henry asked, growing angrier by the minute, but the last three words echoed in the room—for the music had stopped, and the company paused briefly, before standing to applaud. The physician shut his eyes in embarrassment. “That was lovely,” he muttered, as he started to clap.

  Mr. Blinkmire failed to notice. He beat his hands together vigorously and jumped to his very large feet in admiration of his friends. “Well done!” the giant shouted. “Oh, very well done! I wonder, would you play it again? That brought me to tears, Count. Indeed, I could hear those dulcet passages every night!”

  Riga bowed, careful of the crook in his aging back. He held the cello and bow in one hand as he indicated Stanley with the other. “I owe it all to our fine pianist. Elbert, I’d no idea you played with such delicacy. I shall enjoy working through the entire collection.”

  Anatole had also taken to his feet, and he offered both musicians a deep bow. “Bravi! Bravissimi! Not even in St. Petersburg’s courts have I heard anything finer. Mr. Stanley, you are a talent indeed, and, Riga, your interpretation is unsurpassed. Mr. Stanley, how are you feeling this afternoon?”

  “Much better, Highness. Not even a twitch these past few nights. Mr. Anderson and I owe you a great debt of thanks for your kindness, sir.” The former policeman motioned to the newcomer. “David, my dear friend. Come here, please.”

  The bashful gentleman shuffled to the piano. “Sir?”

  “Your Highness, though my friend is loath to tell you, Mr. Anderson’s new medicine caused him a rather distressing side effect. Severe nausea. I wonder if his dosage might need adjustment?”

  “Is this true, David?” the prince asked the man. “Have you noticed anything else?”

  Anderson shook his head. Until the prince found him wandering along a road near Castor Institute, David Anderson had suffered months of hideous experiments at the hands of Alexander Collins and his assistants, Dr. Crispin Favor and Dr. Theodore Kepler. Any change was welcome, but he feared the side effects meant his wolf attributes might soon return.

  “It makes it hard to sleep, sir. It’s the moonlight. Though my windows are blacked out, a bit enters in now and then through the corners. I won’t change again, will I, sir? I’m ever so afraid I might!”

  “You will never return to that state, my dear friend. Never. The medicine may require adjustment. Perhaps, Dr. MacAlpin will agree to examine you.”

  “I’d be pleased to help,” the viscount answered. “You’re ill?”

  “Not ill, sir. Just altered.”

  The Scot started to ask what he meant by such an odd word, but every head turned as Blinkmire suddenly thundered across the room towards the window.

  The explanation for the outrageous behaviour was this: Kilmeade had been seated, and as the sun’s angle changed, pyramidal beams entered through a gap in the drapery. The pale woman had winced at the bright light, and seeing her dismay, Blinkmire—ever the gentleman—rushed to attend the window.

  “My dear Miss Kilmeade!” the great man exclaimed as he drew the drapes shut. “Do forgive us, please! We neglected to close them well enough. Moonlight may confound our Mr. Anderson, but sunlight disturbs your delicate eyes. I am so very sorry.”

  “You’re a darlin’ man, Mr. Blinkmire, an’ there’s no mistakin’ it. I shoulda picked a chair out o’ the light.” She turned to Salperton. “So, will ya be takin’ over all our treatments, Dr. MacAlpin? If so, me left eye is takin’ on a new colour. I dunno if it’s a good sign or no’, but it’s gone a bit bleary, if ya know what I mean.”

  Romanov glanced at his perplexed guest, who looked as though he had no idea what to say. “That is up to Lord Salperton, Brona, but as I must spend the day elsewhere, it would be a great comfort to me, if he would be kind enough to examine you.”

  “You’re leaving?” Elbert Stanley asked.

  “I’ve important matters to attend in another part of the city, but the house remains shrouded. No one will bother you in my absence, I assure you, Mr. Stanley. Lord Salperton will be here, and I’m certain he’ll want to hear all your stories. I hope you will cooperate with him fully.”

  Kilmeade cast her pinkish eyes upon the viscount. “Sure an’ we will. Doctor, would ya care fer a coffee?”

  Henry had never been terribly comfortable with women. Two failed engagements had left him careful of entanglements, for they inevitably led to disappointment. “That’s kind of you, Miss Kilmeade, but I must see to the duchess first. Perhaps, later. Prince Anatole, if you have a moment, I’d like a word in private.”

  “Certainly. Good day, my friends,” Romanov told the household’s company.

  The two men left the drawing room, and the Scotsman followed the Russian towards the staircase. “How long do you intend to hold the duchess against her will?”

  “Who said she is here against her will?” the elohim asked as Vasily arrived with the prince’s cloak and cane. “I may be away overnight, Lord Salperton. As I told you previously, matters elsewhere demand my attention. If you would keep our duchess company until I return, it would ease my mind.”

  “Seeing her husband would ease her mind, sir!” the viscount exclaimed angrily.

  Romanov remained unaffected by the outburst. “I’m sure it would, but that is not to be, not yet. However, as the duchess has improved, you might spend an hour with her in the garden. You’ll find it quite delightful. The veil that protects this castle also keeps our gardens warm and ever-flowering, like eternal spring.”

  The prince tossed the cloak over his left arm, grasped the cane with his right, and departed. Alone with the butler, Salperton fought an overwhelming urge to summon the police.

  “I’ll be upstairs,” he said at last. “And then, as it appears to be a command, the duchess and I shall have tea in the garden. Three o’clock, if that’s possible, Vasily. She and I will spend the afternoon talking and enjoying this eternal springtime.”

  The crime scene near Whitechapel Road took nearly seven hours to process, and Charles sent Aubrey home to attend the circle meeting whilst he followed Reid back to Leman Street.

  “It feels like an age since I sat in this office,” he told his friend as he and Edmund entered the cramped space. The inspector hastily cleared three stacks of files from the sofa that sat along the wall opposite the desk.

  “I’d not planned on guests,” Reid said, smiling. “I can imagine the real reason you decided to avoid going home. You’ve always had difficulty keeping away from work. You’re the only superintendent I’ve ever known who leaves his desk and investigates murders alongside his inspectors.”

  “I detest desks, and I feel energised in this awful place,” the detective answered. “This battered old sofa always makes me think of Beth. It was here that I saw her for the very first time. Have there been many other sightings of her?”

  “A hundred possibilities if there’s one, and we’ve followed up on each. You can thank the duke’s reward for the high volume, and I’m told you and Aubrey have added to it. A thousand pounds is a king’s ransom hereabouts. We’ll be up to our eyes in dark hair and eyes before long.”

  “We didn’t intend to make more work for you, Ed.”

  Reid shook his head. “Overlook me. I’m lacking sleep. Charles, I’d spend a hundred hours a day to find the duchess. Hang the overtime. She’ll find her way home. Elizabeth is resourceful, and it’s obvious that she had help.”

  “Why do you say that?” Sinclair asked. “Prince Anatole, you mean?”

  “Possibly. Paul told me about the prince’s strange visit to MacKey. Why did you insist on speaking to her on your own, Charles?”

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Perhaps, I felt we owed her a kinder reception than hauling her before a tribunal of circle members. Diedra Ki
mberley certainly had no kind words for the woman, despite her claims of ministry towards others. She may be genuine, but there’s something about Dr. Kimberley that doesn’t sit well with me.”

  Reid grew irritated. “Don’t start me on Kimberley! She and I have never seen eye to eye on police matters. She’s very opinionated, which you’ll soon discover. Beware that one. She’ll scratch your eyes out and then send you a bill to repair them. I’ve never understood why the duke allowed her to join the circle in the first place.” The inspector sighed, his stomach growling. “Paul tells me that MacKey’s disappeared again. Shall I issue a bulletin with her description?”

  “No,” Sinclair answered quickly. “We don’t want Redwing to learn she’s left us. Meg Hansen must have told them what happened. The longer they think she’s in our protection, the longer she’s safe. The circle will have to find Lorena without police help.” He wiped his eyes wearily. “I’d forgotten all about Hansen. I’d planned to go there this morning. I’m too tired to do it now. It will have to wait until tomorrow. Ed, do you still have Trent’s body?”

  “We do. I could show it to you before you leave.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Sinclair told him. “William Trent remains a mystery. No one seems to know where he lived or where he came from. Except for a few clues, the man’s entire history is blank. I’m sure Sunders has kept busy since last Sunday, but did he get a chance to examine it?”

  “It’s all in the report I left with the duke last night. Kepelheim may have it, actually. Tom mentioned a theory about the alterations in Trent’s brain.”

  “His brain?”

  “I can show you, if you want, but they weren’t obvious alterations to my eyes. Sunders has made a study of the human brain and insists Trent’s is very different. I’d call him in to explain, but he’s up to his elbows dissecting Hemsfield’s remains at the moment.”

  Sinclair leaned against the sofa, his head tilted backward, eyes closing.

  “You should go home, Charles.”

  “I will. Eventually. Am I in your way?”

  Reid smiled. “No, but you look as though you could fall asleep any moment. If you won’t return to Westminster, let me fetch a pillow and blanket.”

  “Not necessary. Paul mentioned a series of fires in the city. Apparently, the fire brigade head...”

  “Eyre Shaw.”

  “Yes, Shaw thinks there’s an arsonist loose. Is Redwing involved?”

  “I doubt it. It’s more likely the IRB. The Brotherhood has been conspicuously quiet lately. Special Branch will look into it, I’m sure. Oh, I’d nearly forgotten with everything else. We received further information on the woman’s remains found in the Thames. The one we identified as Susanna Morgan.”

  “Yes?”

  “Charles, we may have gotten it wrong. I wired Chicago for a full description for this Cassandra Calabrese. I understand that’s her legal name, correct?”

  “So Paul tells me. Why?”

  “It seems Miss Calabrese has an arrest record for prostitution and gambling. The booking form used by the Chicago Police Department is thorough, listing scars, height, weight, and so forth. If the body we fished out of the Thames is Morgan, then I’ll eat my hat.”

  “The details don’t match?”

  “Not at all,” Reid declared. “When Sunders measured the femur of the only leg recovered, he estimated the victim’s height at just over five feet, but the form from Chicago lists Calabrese as five foot eight.”

  “Paul said she was tall. Go on.”

  “The form also lists Miss Calabrese with naturally dark hair. Specifically, it says , and I quote: ‘red hair with black roots, but other hair also black’. As I said, they’re thorough. Our victim had red hair with roots of the same colour, a natural redhead, which leads to me question whether the woman in our cold room is someone else. Susanna Morgan may be alive.”

  Sinclair stood. “That is news my cousin will want to hear right away. If Susanna is alive, then we now have three women missing in London. Beth, MacKey, and Morgan. There’s a pattern here, Edmund, but I cannot yet see its shape. I will, though. God help me, I will!”

  3:10 pm - Istseleniye Castle Gardens

  Elizabeth Sinclair had recovered enough to sit for short intervals, though her cough returned when she least expected it. The fever had left her, and she’d begun to feel like talking. After discovering the wonder of Anatole’s impossible gardens, Henry suggested they spend the afternoon in the orange orchard. Vasily set a table with quartered sandwiches, a variety of cheeses, Russian and French pastries, sparkling wine, tea, and fruit. Above their heads, an impossible sky shone in shades of azure, and the equally impossible sunshine painted the scene with dancing light. Their table stood beneath a canvas canopy, placed there for their picnic, and muslin curtains billowed in the gentle breeze. No real spring day could have been more perfect.

  “I feel as though I’m dreaming,” Beth told her companion. “Am I?”

  “If so, then we’re sharing the dream. Tell me, Duchess, how did you meet your husband?” Henry asked her.

  “It’s a long story, but Charles rescued me. It was in 1879, and I was a week or so shy of my eleventh birthday. He helped me through a very harrowing time. Have you ever heard of a man called Trent? Sir William Trent.”

  “The prince asked me that only recently. I’m afraid I don’t know him, not personally.”

  “Consider yourself blessed,” she told him. “He killed my mother. And he wanted to do terrible things to me,” she paused, her mind almost recalling the night of her wedding, but as quickly as the thought arrived, it vanished again.

  He noticed the shadow in her eyes. “Beth, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I think so. It’s probably best I don’t speak about Trent. Tell me your story, instead. How do you know Anatole?”

  “Does anyone know him, I wonder? As to how we met, it happened only last Monday night, when he called at my home and asked me to treat a guest who’d fallen ill.”

  “Me?”

  “You,” he answered, his eyes filled with admiration. “Since that night, I’ve found myself, alternately, fascinated and outraged by the fellow. More often the latter.”

  She began to laugh, which surprised him.

  “I’ve never heard you laugh before,” he said, a similar effect crossing his own face. “I must say, it’s quite pleasing, and it cheers my heart to hear it. Tell me, why do you think it funny that the prince annoys me? He does very little to engender trust in a man.”

  She continued to laugh, which caused her to begin coughing. Automatically, he left his place and filled a glass with water, helping her to drink it. “You may have left the house too soon. I’m a very poor physician to bring you out here.”

  “You’re a wonderful physician and a very good friend. Thank you,” she said, taking a deep breath. “It doesn’t hurt quite as much as it did yesterday, and the sun feels so very good. Henry, do you think the prince will allow me to go home soon?”

  “I’ve no idea. The fellow gives no timetable, saying only that you’re in danger, but it strikes me as a thin excuse,” he answered, clearly irritated.

  She smiled softly, her eyes wide. “You don’t like Anatole, do you?”

  “Not particularly, no.”

  “Neither does Charles, though he’s come to trust him a little. Oh, Charles,” she whispered, her face losing serenity. “I’m very worried about him, Henry. If I knew that he’s safe and well, it would grant me a great deal of peace. I’d be content to remain here as long as Anatole wishes, but I must know about Charles. Is there a newspaper I might read? I’m sure the press would have written about what happened. I don’t recall very much, but I’ve a vague memory of fire, and there’s something else, like a dull ache behind my thoughts that won’t go away. I’m sure I saw Charles in Whitechapel, and there was snow on the ground. And wings.
Oh, why can I not remember it!” she exclaimed, her hands twisting in despair. “Henry, I fear Charles might be injured. Why was he trapped in that awful place with me, unless he, too, is ill?”

  “I’m afraid the castle takes no recent papers. Apparently, they’re forbidden. The prince’s orders. Still, there might be a way,” he continued, leaning in close to whisper. “Vasily keeps watch on the house by day, but retires each night at eleven sharp. I could ask Mr. Blinkmire to safeguard your door whilst Miss Ross sits with you. If I can hire a hansom near the cemetery, I believe I can make it to Westminster and back in two hours. Is there a doctor whom you trust that I could ask about your husband?”

  “Yes!” she answered excitedly. “If Charles is ill, then either Reggie Whitmore or Michael Emerson would be tending him.”

  “I know both those men, and Emerson and I are old friends. He used to see patients at St. Mary’s. I could try there. A night porter or nurse might offer information. Does he keep a house in London?”

  “He often stays at his father’s home in Mayfair, but if Charles is ill, then Michael might be staying at Haimsbury House. Henry, do you really think you could discover what’s happened and then return here before Vasily or the prince learns of it?”

  “I’ll do my utmost to achieve it. I’ll go tonight, if you’re well enough to manage a few hours without me.” She nodded, anxious for any news of her husband. “Good. The prince thought he’d be away all night. If I’m quick, I can find out about your husband and return to my bed well before dawn.”

  11:17 pm – Haimsbury House

  Charles stayed at Leman Street until nearly eight, finally leaving only because Reid insisted he go home and rest. He and Aubrey ate a late supper in one of the home’s smaller drawing rooms, a brightly painted parlour called the Cumbria. The duke joined them at ten, and he and Kepelheim played a round of chess, whilst Charles perused that day’s newspapers.

  “Utter nonsense,” the detective muttered, turning a page.