“You did, sir. I mean Robert. I’m setting up an Intelligence Office at Loudain House. The carpenters have completed the renovation of the ground and first floors. We could meet there, if you like. Will Friday be soon enough?”
“I should think so, but wait. When is your investiture ceremony? Isn’t it Friday?”
“Next Friday. The fourteenth.”
“Well, then, we’ll meet this Friday, then. In the meantime, let me know if you require anything from me. Give my best to the duchess.”
As Salisbury left the room, Charles glanced out the window at the façade of the Egyptian, thinking of Susanna Morgan. Is she alive? If so, then she might be able to explain the bloodbath taking place amongst Redwing’s membership. He worried about Lorena MacKey. Would her body be the next one discovered?
Where are you, Lorena? he worried.
As he left the window, a thought occurred to him, and Charles knelt beside the bodies to examine the murder weapons. The sword’s heavy hilt leaned towards the dead man’s slack face, but the blade was stuck firmly in his spine. Sinclair found it odd. If the killer used the sword’s point to slice the torso, then wouldn’t the hilt be angled away from the head?
“Wandering onto my patch again, Sinclair?” a man’s voice asked from behind the peer’s back. Still kneeling, Charles turned to see who that man might be. It did not make him happy.
“Your patch, is it?” he asked the policeman. “That’s no longer true, Dunlap.”
Superintendent Joseph Dunlap’s anger could not have been more apparent if he’d worn it as a hat. “This is twice you’ve invited yourself to one of my cases, Sinclair. You’ve no excuse now, however. You are a former Scotland Yard superintendent. A civilian with no more rights to a crime scene than my mother.”
“Your mother might prove more insightful, Joseph. As to why I’m here, I was invited by the prime minister as well as your superior. Monro is still your superior, is he not?”
Dunlap practically growled. “We’ll see about that!”
“I rather doubt you’ll remove Monro from his post no matter how outraged you pretend to be,” Charles said as he gazed at the ivory hilt of the sword. “And if you do not stop contaminating the crime scene, I shall have you removed.”
“You’ll what?!” the police detective shouted, his hands clenched.
“You heard me. When I’m finished, you and your men may prance about and despoil it all you like, but for the moment, I’m trying to concentrate, and you’re blocking my light.”
“We’ll see whose light is blocked!” Dunlap blurted as he spun on his heel to find Monro.
Charles paid the man’s histrionics no heed at all. He withdrew the leather notebook from his jacket pocket and opened it. Before his eyes was the collection of strange symbols in red ink; the ones he’d discovered just prior to the raven attack on Monday evening. To his very great surprise, he only now noticed that some of the symbols revealed a pattern. Three sets of three, and he’d seen them before.
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed as the significance became clear. These same three symbols were carved into the ivory handle of the sword as well as the wooden handle of the knife, but they’d also been written above the windows at the Hemsfield crime scene. He circled the symbols in the book and whispered a quick prayer of thanks as he took to his feet.
After passing by Dunlap, who was in the middle of a vociferous conversation with Monro, Charles crooked his finger at the police commissioner. “May I have a word?”
Monro didn’t bother to excuse himself, but merely walked away whilst Dunlap was still talking.
“Have you found something?” Monro asked, hopefully.
“I think so, but I need to confer with someone first. If you’d keep Joe Dunlap from mucking up the crime scene in the meantime, I’d appreciate it.”
“Certainly,” the police commissioner answered. “I know your branch is separate from mine, Charles, but if you’d share anything substantive with me, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course, James. The Intelligence Branch and the ICI will, in no way, compete with the police department. Rather, it’s my hope that we’ll complement one another.”
“Thank you,” Monro answered, shaking Sinclair’s hand. “And congratulations on the new appointment. I suppose I should call you Commissioner from now on—if not something grander.”
“Commissioner of Intelligence is as high as I plan to rise,” the marquess answered. “I’ve no aspirations beyond that.”
Sinclair left and followed an usher back into the morning air, where the sun had finally decided to emerge from behind the cloudbank.
“Where to, my lord?” Granger asked as Charles approached.
“Fulham. Montmore House.”
Hamish Granger whistled to the team of Friesians. The crested coach shifted into motion, and high above, a white owl followed.
Chapter Thirty-Six
1:56 pm - Montmore House Sanitarium
Henry MacAlpin washed his hands in the porcelain sink, his thoughts far away. He’d spent the better part of the day working through a tall stack of correspondence from colleagues, followed by conversations with resident patients, and now he hoped to find half an hour to eat before leaving for Westminster.
“Sir, Miss Doe is uneasy again,” his nurse said from the doorway to the surgery. “May I increase her medication by half?”
The earl sighed. “I’d so hoped she would settle by now. No, let’s not increase it yet, Mrs. Winstead. Let me speak to the lady first.”
He dried his hands and left the brightly lit surgery and climbed two flights of stairs to the corner apartment currently occupied by a woman with amnesia. Known only as ‘Miss Doe’, she’d been committed to Montmore House by a judge who’d declared the well-dressed female non compos mentis due to erratic behaviour at Chelsea Station. She’d only lived at the private asylum for three days, and in that time had said nothing, nor had she acted out in any way. If the nurse thought the medicine required increase, then it was possible the anonymous woman had begun to recover her senses.
“Good afternoon,” he said cheerfully. The rooms Doe occupied had served as his grandmother’s residence during Henry’s childhood, and he never entered without thinking of Eleanor Stuart Campbell’s peaceful smile and rose-scented soap. “I do hope you’re making yourself at home. Is my staff taking good care of you?”
She looked no more than thirty, possibly younger, for her eyes had a haunted expression that masked true years.
“Are you in pain? Hungry? Thirsty?” No reply. “I’ve introduced myself before, but it’s a very forgettable name, so I’m happy to repeat it. Henry MacAlpin. May I ask yours?”
The woman sat upon the edge of the sofa. Were this any other peerage home, she might have looked merely weary or perplexed, but as this was a madhouse—albeit a private one—it made her seem so much more.
“Do you remember coming here?”
“Here?” she repeated.
Henry drew a chair close to the sofa. “You have a lovely voice. An unusual accent. Are you Irish?”
“Irish?”
He sat back, disappointed. Hearing her speak had made Henry hopeful. Most likely, however, she merely echoed the last word spoken. What is it about this woman that so touches me?
“Your red hair is lovely, but do I see dark strands beneath?” he asked as he moved closer. “I shan’t hurt you, but do you mind if I touch your hair?”
She began to tremble, but allowed the gesture. Henry had very good vision, and he discerned dark roots beneath the cloud of copper tresses. “You prefer this shade, I take it. I agree. The auburn tones play up the paleness of your skin. I see from your records that you’ve eaten very little since becoming our guest. Lack of sleep can cause any number of maladies, including poor appetite. Strange beds always make me restive. I wonder, are you sleeping well?”
Finally! A non-repetitive response!
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he answered calmly. “Is our house too noisy? I fear that Mrs. Calhoun sometimes calls out in her dreams, and Miss Abernathy has a tendency to snore rather loudly. Is that why you do not sleep?”
She reached for his hand, her large eyes pleading. “Help me.”
The plaintive words broke Henry’s heart. “Of course, I’ll help you. I shall do all within my power to help you. Can you tell me anything about yourself? What is the last thing you remember?”
Her right hand went to her face, stroking the right temple as though trying to stimulate memory. “Pain. A coach. No, wait. Something else. Cruel laughter.”
“Unpleasant memories, to be sure. Is the pain associated with the coach? Did something happen to you inside a carriage?”
Her overall appearance was far too refined and healthy to identify her as a prostitute. Salperton wondered if she’d been assaulted. The crime was all too common in the parish, and such trauma might easily cause a confused mental state.
“I don’t know.”
He’d now heard enough of the woman’s speech to recognise the accent. “You’re American. Rather exotic hereabouts, but it matches your exotic beauty. Forgive me if that sounds forward. It’s intended as admiration, nothing more.”
She smiled, and the tension disappeared, revealing a younger face. She’s quite beautiful. “You’ve a lovely smile. I’d be honoured to see it more often, Miss...?”
“Stuart,” she whispered. “Violet Stuart.”
“Is that so? Then we might be related! My grandmother was a Stuart. I’d no idea we have American cousins! My branch hails from Scotland, of course, as you can probably tell from my accent. It’s much diluted from that of my childhood, grown more English sounding, so my father says. I attended school near London, you see, though my medical studies were in Edinburgh. How long have you lived in England, Miss Stuart?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t remember. You’re from Scotland?” This last question had a hint of hopefulness to it. Henry wondered if perhaps the woman had friends there.
“I am indeed. Inverary on Loch Fyne. It’s an isolated fishing village, and my father owns most of it. I hate speaking ill of anyone, but my father’s never been easy to get along with. I travel there twice a year, on his birthday and at Christmas. Oh do forgive me. I’ve prattled on about myself. Very rude of me. Have you ever been to Scotland?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“It’s beautiful, though outside the cities, it can be quite lonely. This is Montmore House. Did I tell you that already? Built in 1731. My grandmother loved the gardens, and she added a variety of roses, which she used to make her own soap. I miss her very much. My mother died when I was quite young, and she left me this house. Sometimes, I can almost hear Grandmother and Mother talking. Whispering secrets. Do you ever hear such things, or am I being fanciful?”
“I hear them. Sometimes, but not in this house. This house is quiet. Your name is Henry?”
“Yes. Named for my father. It’s the way it’s done in many of the old families. Do you have family in England?”
“I’m not sure. I think so. A cousin.”
“Then we shall have to find this cousin and bring him for a visit. Or is the cousin a woman?”
“Not a woman.”
“Are the two of you close?”
He watched her face as she absorbed the suggestion. If Violet did have a male relative nearby, then he would have to make sure her injuries weren’t caused by this ‘cousin’ before allowing any visits.
“Miss Stuart, do you remember anything else before you came here?”
“No, should I?”
“I wish you could, for I want to help you. You do understand that you are a patient?”
“Am I? Why? Was I injured?”
“I’m still trying to determine that. I’m told that you were found at Chelsea Station, near the King’s Road entrance. You had no identification, and as you seemed disoriented, a considerate stranger called the police. They brought you here.”
She looked all about the beautifully furnished bedchamber. “This doesn’t look like a hospital.”
“No, as I said before, it is a lovely old house passed to me when my mother died. You’re in my grandmother’s old rooms, and she loved yellow, which is why there’s so much of that colour in the decor. We have a blue room available, if you don’t like yellow.”
“No, yellow’s nice. How long have I been here?”
“Three days and four nights. Are you hungry? I’m told you’ve eaten very little. Perhaps, it’s the cuisine. Have you a favourite food? Mine is curried lamb cooked rare, roasted corn, and celery au gratin, when I can get it. A strange combination, to be sure, but then I’m unmarried and set in my ways. I rather think a wife might refine my taste in food. And yours?”
“Pheasant with truffle garnished potatoes,” she said. “When I can get it.”
He laughed and tapped her hand gently. “Then, I shall ask my cook if pheasant and truffles might be added to our menu. Do you enjoy music?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve a fine Erard grand piano in our main parlour. Just tuned, and its keys are dusted daily, though seldom played. Do you play?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
The nurse knocked on the open door, surprised to hear the conversation. “Sir, shall I have a footman bring luncheon?”
“Will you eat, Miss Stuart?” he asked her. “Even though it is not likely to be pheasant?”
“Yes, I will. I’m hungry.”
“Excellent! Mrs. Winstead, have we any idea what Cook has prepared for us today?”
“I’ve just seen the menu, sir, and it’s cress soup, beef medallions, potatoes in cream sauce, and beets. She can also offer sliced beef sandwiches, consommé, and fruit.”
“Does any of that sound appetising, Miss Stuart?”
“All of it,” she whispered. “I don’t suppose that’s very ladylike of me.”
“Nonsense! It’s a delight to hear!” he declared, taking to his feet.
“Forgive me, sir, but Mr. Saunders asked me to tell you that a gentleman has called.”
“Thank you, Nurse. Miss Stuart, I’ve enjoyed our conversation. I shall visit you again tomorrow morning.”
The physician bowed politely and left the apartment. The nurse shut the door, asking in a whisper, “Shall I lock it, sir?”
“No, not this time. Let’s see how our guest responds with a little freedom. Who is my caller?”
“He didn’t give his name, sir.”
Salperton descended the curving staircase and entered the library. The immaculately dressed caller wore black trousers and a charcoal grey coat trimmed at the lapels in silver satin. His waistcoat matched the silver with a subtle check over grey. A gleaming gold watch hung from a fine chain, decorated with an acorn fob, symbol of the House of Stuart. He had black hair that curled slightly at the collar, startling blue eyes, and a two-week-old beard and moustache that accented his athletic face with equally dark hair.
“Lord Haimsbury, as ever you command a room as though born to royalty, and I mean that in many ways,” Henry exclaimed upon entering the library. “I consider myself smartly attired as a rule, but you set the tone, I think. May I ask the name of your tailor?”
Charles Sinclair smiled as he took a chair. “May I?”
“Yes, please!” the earl said, taking the chair’s match.
“You met my tailor last week,” the marquess told him. “Martin Kepelheim, but he’s far more than the finest haberdasher in London, as you’ll soon discover.”
“So your Cousin Paul has hinted,” Salperton answered. “I must say, this is an unexpected pleasure, but I pray your visit doesn’t mean the duchess has suffe
red a relapse.”
“No, not at all. My wife is much better, thanks to you. She asks whether you might visit us soon. Beth calls you her very dear friend.”
“That is kind of you to say, and I cherish that title above all others. I’d planned to call on you both later today. I received a very interesting telegram from Lord Aubrey, in fact. One might even call it a summons.”
Sinclair laughed. “My cousin is never subtle. I take it he’s invited you to this evening’s circle meeting?”
“So I understand, though he didn’t spell that out, but then he wouldn’t. The earl may lack subtlety in some things, but in school I found him secretive to the point of frustration! Sir Thomas Galton is less so. The three of us had a very pleasant time catching up the other night, though much of what they told me has very dark associations. Redwing, I mean. I believe I’ve learnt most of the basics of the inner circle’s mission, and I find it all fascinating! It supports theories I’ve held most of my life regarding the spirit realm and our interactions with it. You play chess, I assume?”
“Yes. I’d be a poor mathematician, if I didn’t.”
The viscount laughed. “I imagine you would, but even a mathematics genius would find it difficult to comprehend the complicated game played by the spirits. Fallen against unfallen, with God as commander on one side, and the person we call the Devil on the other. At least, that is how we describe this chess match, but I believe it’s far more complicated than that. Our game is played in two dimensions—forwards and back, but the spiritual game of chess must surely be played in many dimensions at once. Perhaps, six, eight, even ten or more! We cannot see or understand it all, because the interplay these spirits have with our material world is limited by our point of view. St. Paul called it seeing through a glass darkly.”
“I’ve never heard it described better, Henry. I’ve only been involved in the circle for two months, but in that short time, I’ve experienced things that defy human understanding, and a few might qualify me as one of your patients! It sometimes brings me to despair, to be honest. But the Lord has compassion on my trembling heart, and your words serve to remind me that it is he who fills the chairs ‘round our table; he who orders our steps. My friend and cousin, you are most welcome! Only God knows why you chose not to join the circle long ago, but it’s clear that the Lord’s timing is always perfect.”
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