Our Story Continues

Blood Lies, Book One of The Redwing Saga

Charles Visits Elizabeth at Queen Anne House in Westminster

CHAPTER FIVE

2, October, 1888

Nearly ten years had passed for Charles St. Clair. Remaining friends with the Stuart clan, the St. Clairs—or Charles at least—met often with the Stuart men and attended numerous family events, including Elizabeth’s birthday party each year in April until she turned fourteen. Two years later, the duchess left to live with her aunt in Paris. Paul and Charles continued to work together in pursuit of Sir William Trent, but the trail grew cold in early ‘86, and St. Clair received orders to discontinue the investigation by newly appointed police commissioner Sir Charles Warren.

Less than a year after the party at Drummond House, Amelia decided her marriage to Charles could no longer be sustained, and she decamped to Ireland with a cocaine addict named Harold Lowry, whom she had secretly been seeing for many months. Lowry had been a close gambling friend and accomplice to Amelia’s baronet cousin, and once he perceived a shift in the harmony of the St. Clair marriage, the vulture Lowry had swept down upon his prey and conveyed Amelia to her doom in Dublin. Though still legally married to St. Clair, Amelia miscarried two of Lowry’s children—both sons—the second in ’85, and she died of a severe typhus infection in June of ‘86.

Despite all he’d endured after she’d left him, upon learning of his wife’s death from the Dublin constabulary, Charles arranged for Amelia’s body and those of her dead children to be returned to England and buried in a single grave in her parents’ church cemetery in Marylebone. The detective then sailed to Dublin and tried to locate Lowry, but the degenerate gambler had fled Ireland the moment Amelia had died.

Robert Paul Ian Stuart III, 11^th Earl of Aubrey passed away peacefully in his sleep seven years to the day following the Drummond House gathering, joining his beloved wife Abigail in a graveyard near their Glencoe castle, overlooking Loch Leven. Paul Stuart, who had now become the 12^th Earl of Aubrey, continued a successful career in diplomacy, serving as special envoy to Paris and then Vienna on behalf of the Foreign Office. Many at Whitehall assumed the young Aubrey would eventually become Foreign Secretary, for his shrewd backroom negotiations and quick thinking had more than once saved England from making serious international blunders, but the energetic earl had no desire for public office. During his travels, Paul also served more secretively as an espionage agent, though most in Whitehall had no idea such was the earl’s true mission when abroad. He’d used these excursions to continue his search for Sir William Trent, a man he still considered the most dangerous in all England.

Though his personal life had fallen into shambles, professionally, Charles St. Clair continued to climb the career ladder within the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police, progressing from Inspector underneath Morehouse to Chief Inspector in charge of H-Division and finally to Superintendent in charge of the entire east end. Operating now from Scotland Yard most days rather than Whitechapel, it was to this office, that he received a surprise letter, addressed to Captain Nemo of the Yard, c/o Superintendent Charles St. Clair, Whitehall. He smiled as he recalled the nickname from so long ago, noting the beautifully engraved notepaper that read ‘Branham Hall, Kent’.

“Not another Ripper letter, I hope,” teased his friend and fellow superintendent, George Haskell. “Seems like the public knows a sight lot more than even Abberline and Reid do. Jack! No more, I say. No more!”

St. Clair’s nose caught a whiff of delicate perfume as he opened the letter. “I doubt it,” he said happily. “Most Ripper letters don’t come with such lovely scent upon them.”

He shut his door, much to Haskell’s chagrin, and took the letter to his desk, eager to see what it might say. It had been over four years since he’d seen or spoken to the duchess. Four long years of policing, politics, and policy-making. How had she changed? She had not written once during those years, so why write now?

He opened the letter.

30^th September, 1888

My Dearest Captain,

Before I begin, let me express my most sincere apologies for the long silence. The last time I saw you was four years ago at my cousin’s London home, and I may have seemed out of sorts. I assure you that you had nothing whatsoever to do with my mood—in fact, I was delighted to see you. I had other matters on my mind that day, but seeing you brought me more joy than you can possibly imagine. I pray that you will not hold my four-year silence against me. There is much behind that silence, and one day—when we are able to speak in person—I promise to explain it all. Believe me when I tell you that I have missed you, my Captain. Missed you very, very much.

I know from my Cousin Paul that the two of you have remained in touch, so he has no doubt informed you that I have spent much of the past four years in Paris with my Aunt Victoria. Tory is my grandfather’s youngest sister, and she has accomplished what she tells me no school or tutor could have done; that is, she has turned me into a finished lady with proper respect for the system of noble houses in our fair land. In short, I have learnt to disregard all propriety in favour of doing whatever I deem is best!

I cannot tell you what a relief this has been to me, for I have no great desire to lead the life of a typical society woman, who exists only for ‘the season’, and spends each week looking for opportunities that best show off the latest Paris fashions—behaviour I find tiresome to say the least. Most men would probably find my attitude shocking, dear Captain, but I pray you do not, for I long to use my brain rather than my social position. My aunt admires that resolve, and she has actually encouraged it. I dearly love Aunt Victoria!

Now, my dear Captain, I also wish to say how very sorry I was to hear of your Amelia’s passing. Paul kept this from me until very recently, for his own reasons I presume. Dear Paul has become rather secretive of late concerning many things; he oft repeats to me that ‘it is for your protection, Beth’—and though this angers me just a bit, I love and respect him, so I forgive him this easily. I would have attended Amelia’s funeral to support you, my dear friend, had I but known. She always struck me as a lonely woman in need of affirmation from others, a trait my own dear mother shared with her. I pray both women are now at peace.

And so it is to my mother that I come at last. It was her tragic end that brought me to your door nearly ten years ago, and it is that very same kind of tragedy that now echoes throughout the streets of your beloved Whitechapel. The Paris newspapers have written of little else since late August, but there were stories of crimes beginning as early as December last, which must concern you greatly. I expect your desk is stacked with letters and witness reports, each attesting to a singular truth, but what I have to tell you—what I must tell you—would, if it were known to the public, shake the very foundations of England, and it would then echo throughout the entire realm of Christendom.

Therefore, as you must now suspect, I shall say nothing of it in this letter. This missive serves only as a means (I pray) to bring you once again to my side, dear Captain! There is more danger in my world now than ever before, and I would again claim your protective hand.

Beginning tomorrow, I shall be in residence in London until three weeks before Christmas, when I must return to Kent to celebrate with our staff and the wonderful farmers and shepherds who tend our lands. Would it be possible to meet with you soon, perhaps, even this week?

You may send word to me at Queen Anne House, Westminster.

Until then, I shall remain ever and always…

Your very own,

Elizabeth

As Charles read the final words, he suddenly realised he could not hear his heart—he had stopped breathing, and his face had grown warm. ‘Your very own’, she had signed it. What might that simple line imply? Dare he imagine such a thing?

“So, is it another crank letter about old Jack?” his friend asked, shutting the door behind him as he entered.

Charles turned, completely startled. He had been so absorbed by the extraordinary letter that he’d not heard the door open. “Wh—what?” he stammered, hastily returning the letter to its envelope. “No—I mean, yes. No. Actually, no. It’s from an old friend, who mentions the Ripper murders in passing. No clues, no suggestions. None. So, I... Well, I’d best be off to Leman Street. Reid’s expecting me for a late morning chat about the Eddowes and Stride cases. If anyone asks, I shall be out for the remainder of the day.”

Taking the letter with him, Charles then left to find a hansom.

The old city of Westminster had originally grown up as a service area for the well-known abbey and eventually the Palace of Westminster. Formerly known as Thorney Island, an eyot, which had once risen above the old Tyburn River where it met the Thames, the area had eventually developed into a palatial estate with surrounding parks, administration buildings, and of course Buckingham Palace. With so many ancient buildings now used by government, including the recently rebuilt Palace of Westminster, now called Parliament, the old city had become a common equivalent to English government, law, and all its entails.

Queen Anne House had been designed and completed in 1625 by Inigo Jones in his signature ‘Palladian’ style by order of James I, also known to the Scots and to the Drummond and Aubrey houses as James VI. The king had built the palace for his Danish bride, Anne of Denmark, and it was subsequently passed to Charles I and later to James II, who then gifted the magnificent mansion to Anne Hyde before their official marriage but in honour of their ‘secret’ nuptials after the lady had fallen pregnant with the king’s child. Queen Anne, the king’s second daughter, eventually gifted the palace to her childhood friend and Lady of the Robes, Katherine du Bonnier Linnhe, Duchess of Branham, who proclaimed that the house would always bear the name of her friend and benefactor at court: Queen Anne.

More a palace than a London ducal estate, the home was cross-shaped and featured a large, rectangular main section, two extensive wings, and three full storeys with a ballroom comprising the northern half of the main section’s second floor. Servant quarters and storage rooms were located just above the ballroom, making it rather noisy for any charmaid or footman hoping to catch a good night’s rest during the raucous parties once given by the king. The south entrance was central, formal, and imposing, reaching upward throughout the entire height of the building and ending at the roofline in a dazzling glass dome that spanned the length of the foyer and bathed the rich Roman tiles below in sunshine during the morning and permitted stargazing at night.

Jones had experimented with cantilevered, spiral design by constructing a matched pair of graceful staircases that rose up in gentle curves throughout the centre of the main section, leading up to an expansive balcony landing and thence into the apartments of each wing as well as the wide, central ballroom staircase. Frescoes and elaborate brushwork decorated all the walls and coffered ceilings throughout, featuring Bible scenes and famous mythologies, save for one room: an elegant two-storey private library in the far, northwest corner of the house, which held mahogany shelving from floor to ceiling, and was crammed to bursting with Shakespeare folios, original manuscripts by Dee and Bacon, first editions from Pepys to Dickens, and one entire section specializing in ancient cartographies.

Standing now in this imposing library, Charles St. Clair thought of the adolescent girl who read out the works on his meagre bookshelf, and he laughed. “And Amelia actually wondered if you could truly read,” he whispered to himself.

“Looking for your book, Captain?” a sweet voice asked from a doorway to his right. The entrance had been hidden, formed from a reference shelf, and it now provided a frame for a woman more beautiful, more radiant than Charles had ever imagined she would become.

He held his breath and allowed his eyes to sweep over her. She had retained her petite form, but grown round in all the correct places. He guessed her height to be a few inches beyond five feet—though he observed that she wore one inch heels, peeking just from beneath the hem of her skirts. Rather than wearing the tight chignons and fussy upsweeps now favoured by high society women, Beth’s raven hair was arranged in chic waves that cascaded down her back, leaving her exquisite ears to act as gateways to a heart-shaped face. And oh what a face! Unlike the garish white preferred by many noble women, hers was a naturally sweet combination of cream and pale rose. Her brown eyes, always dark and mysterious even as a child, now held a light in them that both froze and warmed his heart. Her mouth was like a kiss of peaches, and she stared at him now, with that sweet mouth opening into a wide, precocious smile.

“My, but you have...grown up,” was the best he could manage, once he’d begun again to breathe.

Elizabeth laughed—how musical it is, like angelic bells, he thought—and she closed the hidden door behind her. “I should hope I have, Captain. Or perhaps, it is best I call you Charles now. Would that be all right? Not impertinent, I hope.”

He took a deep breath and actually had to will his heart to slow. “I’d be pleased if you would, Your Grace,” he managed to say with feigned ease.

She took a step toward him. He could smell her scent now, a mixture of vanilla and raspberries; simple, natural, and refreshingly delightful. “And it would please me if you would call me Beth, as you once did,” she told him.

That beating again—a rush inside his ears. This is madness! he reminded his heart. Stop it now! She is a duchess, and you are but a common policeman!

“Beth, it is then,” he replied evenly.

She smiled again, and his heart urged surrender.

“Please, sit down, Charles. We’ve much to catch up on, but more to the point, I’ve much to tell you.”

He followed her to a matched set of overstuffed, embroidered sofas, installed by Elizabeth’s grandfather, Duke George, for the reading comfort of his daughter Patricia. Though the seating was plush and the room filled with fresh air from a quartet of large, open windows that overlooked the west and north gardens, St. Clair had never felt so ill at ease. He had come here expecting to rekindle a friendship, and he feared now that something far more intimate was igniting in his soul.

Not far from Queen Anne House, in a private smoking room on Pall Mall Street, Paul Stuart held his own secret meeting. The earl sat in a red, tufted-leather, wingback chair, thoughtfully sipping a glass of brandy as he received his companion’s report.

“We believe, Lord Aubrey, that the man left Russia on the sixth of July, but that is not certain. There is scant evidence that he departed St. Petersburg much earlier, but we cannot verify it. However, my operatives have firmly put him in Belgium in August, so beginning with that, we may track his movements.”

Paul gazed into the fire, his thoughts fixed on something—or someone unseen. “And those are?”

The man thumbed through a collection of reports, reading out a series of notations he’d made on each. “Third of August, Brussels: seen in a rooming house going by the name of Prosser. An odd choice for Trent, don’t you think?”

Paul thought now of Elizabeth, of protecting her, and the mental picture of her mother’s mutilated corpse was ever in his mind. “I expect the unexpected when it comes to Sir William, if that is even that foul man’s true name. Go on, Thomas.”

The man pushed his spectacles up higher on his thick nose and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I know and share your concerns, Lord Aubrey. Next, on the seventh of August, he met with two men, both American. They exchanged envelopes, which we believe contained bearer bonds, for Trent met the following morning with a financial agent—one Reginald Anders, someone known to us already.”

Paul had a bad feeling. This dark foreboding had settled into his heart long before, only it now grew stronger with each passing moment. “Anders is another member—low level, but still not without influence. He is toady to Lord Hemsfield, I believe. The man the Italian branch calls ‘the banker’.”

“So he is, sir,” the man agreed. “I’ll see to it that Sir Percy meets with his agents to keep track of the Roman branch. Hemsfield has since left Ireland for sunnier climes, I’m told.”

Paul set down his brandy and leaned forward, his chair creaking, and the fire crackled as if in response. “Left Ireland? When?”

Sir Thomas Galton, Paul’s childhood friend and closest ally, flipped back several pages and read out, “The eighth of August as near as we can pinpoint, when his name appears on a passenger list for the SS Chelsey that departed Dublin, bound for Morocco—Casablanca to be precise. Met with two men, identities unknown, but we are having them followed, and I expect a report within the week. Hemsfield departed Casablanca after seven days, sailed in a private yacht which we believe is owned by our known personage from Spain, Don Miguel de Cortez. Arrived in Rome eight days later, staying at home of Roberto Almardo, arms dealer and exporter of certain women; seen meeting with three known men from Berlin in private salon behind the opera house—I believe you can guess their names, sir—and then sailed to France, residing in Paris at a villa owned by de Cortez. Hemsfield and Sir William met up in Calais, ten days ago.”

Paul’s perfect memory stored each location and detail, sifting through other such mental files for connexions, clues. “Did anyone report a meeting with Sandoval?”

Galton’s eyes rounded behind his reading lenses, growing larger each second. “Good Heavens! I hadn’t even… Wait, let me see,” he stammered, flipping back to a telegram he’d received from their Paris office. “Deniau says he heard someone mention a tall man with a limp and wearing a bright waistcoat. Could be him. No one locally could confirm his identity, but André is convinced this man was following him.”

Paul wanted to smash the snifter into the wall, but instead he choked down the negative emotions, mastering his natural tendency toward rage when unpleasant surprises popped up. Spying often brought him disturbing news, and he knew anger would only cloud his reason. Elizabeth’s continued safety required him to keep his wits at all times.

“I want André to give us all he knows about this man,” he told Galton. “No matter how small the detail, how insignificant it may seem. How he spends his money, whom he sees, what he’s wearing—everything! Also, tell me if he is observed taking notes in a book.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“And, Thomas, I want a report in three days. So, now, let us get back to Trent. Did he leave Calais? Did he land in England?”

Sir Thomas bit his lower lip, a sign Paul knew meant the answer would not please him. “We lost him after Calais, sir,” he said softly, his head lowering. “But, before you despair, let me tell you that our people saw Trent board the Louisa Maria in Calais, a mail steamer which docks in Gravesend, but also continues up the Thames and delivers to London. She has not yet arrived, and Lloyds believes the ship lost in the storm that ravaged the channel last week.”

Paul took a moment to process this, his mind weighing all possibilities. “Are you certain he boarded the steamer?”

Galton nodded. “My man is convinced of it. William Trent is a singular looking man. He is hard to miss, even in a dense crowd of hauliers and stevedores.”

The earl rose, adjusted his waistcoat, and then glanced at his pocket watch, inherited from his father and decorated with the Aubrey crest. “Have your men keep watch at every dock and train station in London and Kent. I want to know immediately if he is seen within a day’s ride of Branham Hall or Queen Anne House. Understood?”

“We will not fail you, my friend,” he promised, clutching the earl’s forearm. “We’ve been together since Eton, you and I, and I’ll not permit any harm to befall the woman you love. She is dear to us all now—each of us who has taken an oath to protect her and the secret. Redwing will fail! With the Good Lord’s strength, we shall make it so!”

Paul smiled at last, a weary, hesitant smile, but a smile nonetheless. “You are a true friend, Thomas. Forgive my impatience. These murders in Whitechapel trouble me, and they trouble our dear one to the extent that she has returned to England six months early.”

“The duchess is at Branham?” Sir Thomas asked, concern written across his face.

“She is in London, Thomas, so you and I must do all we may to keep her safe. She’s asked me to tea tomorrow, and I hope she will accompany me to the theatre this Friday. I’ve some minor business to conduct at the Lyceum, and I’m sure Elizabeth will enjoy seeing an English play after enduring so many French atrocities.”

“I’m sure she will, my friend. Shall I put men to watch Queen Anne?”

“I’ve already taken care of that, Thomas. Now, I must meet with Lord Pembroke. Thank you for all you do on Beth’s behalf. And on mine.”

The two friends parted, each going out a separate exit, one bound for the east end, the other Whitehall.

On the far side of London, in Whitechapel, a tall man wearing a moth-eaten seaman’s coat and cap penciled names onto the back of a map and marked the front with many tiny, bird-shaped symbols. He walked with a slight limp, his eyes as black as coal, but flickering in a strange, electric manner. Children who encountered the shadowy figure found their memories wiped clean, left only with a strange impression of a tall man with a book. The strange apparition appeared and disappeared at will, moving from one point to the next with lightning speed.

He marked thirty-three locations on the intricate map. One was a humble rooming house, entered only by way of a narrow passage betwixt 26 and 27 Dorset, a modestly finished brick courtyard built by John Miller thirty years earlier. By mid-November, this ill-fated flat, little more than a bedroom with a weathered door and two grimy windows, one of them broken, would be known to all in London as the place of the most horrific Ripper murder yet: 13 Miller’s Court.

Charles St. Clair sipped Darjeeling tea from a gold-embossed china cup, which he imagined would cost more than a week’s salary for most policemen. Across from him sat the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, skillfully pouring tea from the matching teapot.

“Won’t you take a sandwich?” she asked. “I’m sure you’ve missed your luncheon, and my cook baked the bread this morning. It’s quite good.”

He shook his head. “No, thank you, Beth. This tea is delicious. I don’t think I’ve ever had it prepared this way.”

“I’m glad you like it. It’s an old family recipe,” she answered. “My father enjoyed his tea with citrus and cinnamon. Charles, do I make you uncomfortable? Forgive me, if I’ve done anything to make you feel, oh, I don’t know...”

“Out of my depth?” he suggested. He’d done his best to relax, but St. Clair wondered why she had asked him to drop by—surely not to exchange tea recipes. “No, Elizabeth, you’ve only been gracious. As always. Or at least, as I remember you. It has been four years since we last met.”

“Four years, three months, two weeks, and a few odd days. I last saw you at Aubrey House, in June of ‘84.”

“I remember,” he admitted. Charles recalled every second of that brief encounter, but he dared not reveal that to her. Not yet. “Truthfully, I would sit here all day, if you wished it, but your letter made it sound as though your mother’s murder somehow intersects with crimes now haunting the east end.”

She set the teapot to one side, and he noticed that she’d turned slightly pale, perhaps caused by the mention of her mother.

“I am sorry if that dark memory brings you distress,” he said, leaning toward her as he set his own cup on the table. “And I do not intend to rush you. Please, forgive me, Beth, if it sounded as if I... What I mean is that you should take all the time you need.”

“Charles, you have nothing to apologise for. Yes, I have much to tell you, but it is not an easy truth to tell.”

“Then, tell it in your own time,” he said gently.

“Thank you, Captain. Forgive me, I know that I promised to call you Charles, but…”

“I rather like Captain,” he admitted, “and I’ve missed hearing you call me that. Please, Elizabeth, whatever this truth is, you may trust me with it.”

“I know,” she whispered. “All right. To begin with, I had not planned to return to England until next spring, but all the Paris newspapers have been filled with reports of the horrors you and your men now encounter, not that far from where my mother and I were left. They began December last, did they not?”

“Perhaps,” he answered, wondering where this was heading. “Much depends on whose theory is being presented. Not all the murdered women suffered the same injuries, but it is possible the killer alters his method in order to obscure his crimes.”

She thought about this for a moment, and he could see genuine fear cross her face. “Yes, I imagine he might wish to do that. Last year in Paris, the dismembered body parts of several women began washing up along the Seine. Were you aware of that?”

He nodded. “Yes. A colleague visited last month from the Sûreté, asking if the Ripper’s crimes might not be connected, but there is no evidence to indicate that.” She is terrified. Is this why she returned? “Elizabeth, why do you ask?”

The telltale tremble of her lower lip again caught his eye, and she turned away for a moment, perhaps perceiving his intuitive gaze. “I believe them to be connected, Charles. No, do not ask me to explain the reason. It is—well, it is something you’d probably find impossible to credit.”

“I would credit anything you tell me, Beth. Will you not trust me?”

“Oh, Charles, I want to tell you everything, but I cannot. Not yet. Will you allow me to proceed with that which I may reveal?” she asked. “I promise to be more forthcoming later.”

“Forgive me. Yes, of course. Go on.”

She paused again, gazing out the nearest window at the north gardens, and he noticed a tear slide down her cheek. “After I read the reports of the murders here in August and September, I made plans to leave for Kent. You see, I believe your victims are but a continuation of a long history of atrocities, and, as I say, not all the victims lived in London. Some were in Paris. Others in Rome. Three in America, that I know of, and a few more in St. Petersburg.”

“Elizabeth, how can you know this?” he asked, certain that she would again demur.

She rose from the settee, crossing past several armchairs to stand near the large window. “I know. Let that suffice for now,” she whispered, her back to him.

St. Clair followed her to the window, putting his hand on her forearm and turning her to face him. “Beth, won’t you, please, trust me?”

She shook her head, unable to look him in the eye. He kissed her hand, and she began to weep. “I do trust you. It’s just that...you will think me mad. Oh, why can’t I just live my own life? I hate all of this! Why must these men hound me?!”

What does she mean by ‘men’? Plural, Charles wondered.

He put an arm around her, and she buried her face in his chest, clinging to him like that same, small girl from long ago. He knew she was lost in harsh memories. He had seen her mother’s savaged body—decapitated, torn and shredded. And only now, to his regret, did Charles connect a murder ten years past with those currently terrorising the east end parishes.

“I am so sorry, Elizabeth,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re afraid, and I’m doing nothing to help. Is it Ripper who worries you? Beth, I know the press reports must tear open that old wound for you, but I can see no clear connexion to your mother—or to you. Why do think he might harm you?”

She looked up at him, bright tears tracking her cheeks, and she took a deep breath to steel her courage. She kissed his hand and then returned to the settee. He followed, sitting once more opposite her.

“Because, he already has.”

“What?” he whispered.

“He already has. Many times, and the connexion is an ancient one, Captain,” she began, her face pale and her eyes lost in old memories. “I may not tell you all, for it is a closely held and well-guarded family secret that perhaps one day you may hear, but not today. I fear that it is not my decision to make. Suffice it to say that there exists an international group of well-heeled but black-hearted men who have performed unspeakable rituals like those seen in the murders of the poor women of Whitechapel, over and over for many hundreds of years. It is a collective known only to those outside it as Redwing.”

He sat forward, his brow furrowed. St. Clair had heard this name before, whispered inside shadowy meeting halls and rumoured within Trinity College’s dormitories, but he had never heard it spoken in a manor house before—and by so pretty and genteel a mouth. “Yes, I’ve heard of Redwing, but they are myth, Elizabeth. Pure ghost story to terrify college freshmen or frighten school boys on All Hallows’ Eve! Such bloodthirsty men as these night terrors portray cannot possibly exist—not in a civilised world. Not here. Not in England.”

“Yet they do exist, Charles. They do. I have seen them. I have witnessed their black deeds on the grounds of my very own home! I watched whilst their ceremonies of blood extinguished more than one life, including my mother’s, and I nearly paid for it with my own!”

He was stunned into silence. He knew her to be sincere, yet her claims sounded like those told by a drawing room mystic, meant to frighten foolish women and spook children. A rational man could not deem such superstitious infamy to exist.

“I am quite sane,” she said evenly, reading his expression. “Sane but terrified, if I am truthful. Absolutely terrified.”

Her hands, neatly folded into the lap of her dress, were visibly shaking. He thought of those small hands, tightly gripping his own almost ten years before, and he recalled the trust in her large eyes—the same trust he saw there now. Somehow, instantly, he knew it all to be true. And if this shadowy group lay behind her mother’s murder, then it was altogether logical that Elizabeth might be their next target.

No wonder she is terrified!

“Forgive me. How can I help?” he asked at last, seeing her body posture relax at his simple offer. “Tell me what you need of me, Elizabeth, and I shall do it, without question. I promised long ago to protect you, and I do not intend to break that promise. Not ever.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and her chin quivered. For a second, he saw the little girl’s face return. “No, you must forgive me, Charles. I’ve thought about this conversation—this confession—for so long, and I’ve dreaded how you might react. I cannot tell you how relieved I am to know that you believe me.”

She began to weep silently, and he nearly went to her, but something restrained him. He paused, his heart stopping again, and he listened to her breathing, her efforts to regain composure; to be a duchess in the presence of a commoner. Or perhaps something more: to summon up courage in the presence of overwhelming fear. Whichever, Charles vowed inwardly to help her no matter what the cost to him, personally or professionally.

After a moment, her head lifted, and she had found her inner strength. “Aunt Victoria would call me a silly woman for that!” she joked with a forced laugh. “Paul can tell you all about Redwing, far more than ever I could. He has been following their deeds across the globe, but most lie within the boundaries of Europe. I believe that they have branches in North Africa and Palestine, and also across the Atlantic into America—in particular Chicago and Washington. I’m told that some of the players operate in the American west as well, but these, I believe, are but ancillary operations. London is their heart, and it is here they wish to erect their new government—a central base of operations from which to rule and reshape the entire world. And they will accomplish it, if we do not stop them soon.”

“Beth, I believe all, and I shall speak with Lord Aubrey about this Redwing group as soon as possible, but what connects this shadowy conspiracy of men to murders in Whitechapel?” he asked.

“For that, my dear friend, you will only believe me if I show you. And the setting is not in London but in Kent. In the caverns and tunnels that connect Branham Hall to an old abbey and from there to Hampton-on-Sea beyond. It is a truth that will rob you of your sleep from here on out, dear Captain, as it oft robs me of my own. However, if you trust in God, and you believe that our Saviour died for our sins and rose again on the third day, then you have trusted in worlds and events unseen and unseeable by our natural eyes. It is a matter of faith. And it is only that faith which can destroy this evil. And evil it is, Charles, for Redwing receives its power not from financial wealth—though they use wealth to gain human power and control—but from spiritual wickedness and unholy rites. You will understand my meaning fully once you have seen their meeting place and beheld the evidence of their deeds. Will you come to Branham with me and discover my proof?”

St. Clair wondered if time had stopped. Not a sound, not a breath, not a crackle from the fire, not an insect wing beating time in the garden air, not even the autumn breeze could be heard, only a thick cloud of silence that nearly stole his thoughts existed now. It was as if this moment, this decision would forever alter the direction of his life—and perhaps hers as well.

Suddenly, he stood, lifted her into his arms and held her close. “I will die for you, Beth, if that is what it takes. Yes, tell me when and where, and I shall go with you to Branham and learn your truths.”

She broke down completely now, melting into his strong embrace, her tears staining his shirt as she wept without remorse. She refused to allow her mind to think beyond this moment, to entertain any possibilities beyond his friendship, for Charles was her knight errant, who had saved her as a child, and who now, had vowed to protect her as a woman. She could not tell him more, although her heart longed to do so. She had other obligations. Old obligations and an old ‘secret’ that meant she could never marry anyone but Paul Stuart. Thinking of this and wishing these moments in St. Clair’s embrace would last forever, Elizabeth’s tears flowed freely, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

She remained in his arms for many moments, but the chimes of Westminster reminded them both that the afternoon continued unabated, and a soft knock on the library door caught Beth’s ears. “It is my butler, letting me know that it is three o’clock,” she said, wiping at her eyes, and she left his embrace as the door opened. “I’ve kept you too long, Superintendent. Thank you for coming.”

He was being dismissed, and it puzzled him. Had he done something wrong? “Yes, and I intrude upon your afternoon, Duchess. I do hope you will share the rest of your information about these men. Redwing, I mean.”

The butler had entered, and St. Clair feared that he had completely mishandled the entire visit. She needed him, but it seemed he’d failed her, somehow. The butler bowed to the duchess, and she took the detective’s hand, shaking it—and her hand trembled as if fear had suddenly gripped her heart. “Yes, I did promise,” she replied, scarcely able to look directly into his eyes. “Charles, I hope you know that it’s not that I do not trust you. It’s just...well, rather complicated. If I may, I would continue this later and tell you more. Once, I’ve gained permission to do so.”

This last made no sense at all, but the butler had brought his hat and overcoat, so St. Clair took them and bowed, feeling dismayed and a trifle embarrassed. “I look forward to it, Duchess.”

Within a few moments, the detective found himself standing outside the magnificent mansion, the October breeze blowing through his dark hair. What did I do wrong? Perhaps, she regretted the embrace. Did I misread her emotions?

“No,” he said to himself suddenly, his mind made up. “I did not.”

Turning on his heel, St. Clair ran back up the high portico steps and rang the bell. It took several minutes for the tall butler to answer, but he did not appear the least bit surprised to find the detective standing outside. “Hello again, Superintendent,” Miles said with a slight smile. “Did you perhaps forget something?”

St. Clair walked inside, handing his hat and coat to the butler. “Yes, I did, Mr. Miles. Is the duchess still in the library?”

“She is, sir, but she has asked not to be disturbed. She has a headache.”

“Too bad,” he said. “No need to announce me, Miles. I can do that myself.”

St. Clair walked briskly past the butler toward the far northwest corner of the house, and then turned left to the main doors of the library. Pushing through, he found the petite duchess gazing out the window that overlooked Queen Anne Park, and she turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Superintendent, is there something we forgot?” she asked, her face filled with a combination of surprise and hope.

“Yes, Duchess, there is. This,” he said, pulling her into an embrace and kissing her lips. She did not resist, but rose up on tiptoe as his arms encircled her waist, and suddenly time, appointments, Ripper, fear—nothing else mattered to either of them.

He held her that way for many seconds, their lips joined as one, and as the electric kiss ended, he stroked her hair, and whispered into her ear. “Shall I go?”

She shook her head. “No, Captain. Not just yet.”

He smiled and kissed her once more.