Blood Rites Read online

  Sinclair’s stomach twisted into knots as he considered the possibilities. “Bruising on the inner thigh? Fingers? Is Sunders saying these women were raped before they were slain? Does he mention any evidence of penetration?”

  “He does not, but one would assume that rape is what he meant. Not the sort of behaviour associated with dog attacks, is it?”

  “Which leads us back to a wolf and human hybrid of some kind.”

  “So, I believe,” the inspector replied. “Abberline’s a fine detective, but he lacks the experience of those who serve within the circle, so he looks for natural explanations. Fred believes these Victoria Park cases are the work of Ripper, even though Jack has never before bitten any of his victims, nor has he attempted sexual assault. I’m sorry to add to your woes, Charles. After what happened to you and the duchess in Scotland, this must deliver a strong blow.”

  “It does, but if I yield to despair, then the enemy wins, Ed. This survivor you mentioned. Where is she now?”

  “The French Hospital on Grove Street in Hackney Wick. Shall I send word to Steed to expect you, or would you prefer to speak with the survivor first?”

  “Give me a minute to decide that, but eventually I’d like to do both. Edmund, one of the men downstairs mentioned that there’ve also been reports of a strange beast roaming the streets ‘round here at night. Where have the sightings occurred?”

  “Three in Spitalfields. Four in Whitechapel, including two by a shuttered warehouse, a block north of St. Katherine’s docks. You can imagine how it’s received by our locals. Lusk’s crowd not only protest against us openly, but they’ve begun to find support in Whitehall. Many of the Jewish citizens are forming their own committees to keep watch at night. Apparently, such beasts feature largely in their legends.”

  “Do they? We might want to speak to one of their rabbis, then. If for no other reason than to make sure no laws are broken by these watches.” Charles used a pencil to make notes of the sighting locations on the inside of the file folder. “I’d like to read through these witness statements, if you have them handy. Should I wait for Fred to call at K-Division?”

  Reid shook his head. “He’s at Whitehall today, explaining to Warren and the Home Secretary just why he refuses to release Michael O’Brien. Apparently, T. P. O’Connor’s making rather sizeable waves.”

  “Is he now?” the detective asked, angrily. “Well, if Henry Matthews thinks an Irishman’s waves threaten to capsize his political boat, just wait until Scotland gets involved! He’ll find himself overboard in no time, and the pounding he took in the press over the Elizabeth Cass prostitution case will seem like a pleasure cruise upon a glassy sea!” Sinclair shouted. “I do not want that man released, Ed. O’Brien knows much more about this ‘man with the cane’ than he admits. I believe he knows this man is Sir William Trent, who is probably connected to Ripper in some way—if not the fiend himself! And he is a constant threat to Elizabeth, so until O’Brien talks, he’s to remain behind bars—preferably here, where you can keep watch on him. He’s out of our line of sight and hearing at Newgate.”

  “My thoughts precisely,” Reid answered calmly. “Do you plan to interview O’Brien today?”

  “Actually, yes, though, I cannot spend much time with him.”

  “Then, you’re not likely to get much in response, Charles. Both Fred and I have taken many turns with the reporter, and he refuses to reveal anything about either Trent or the back alley club where Fred arrested him. But speaking of Ripper, you’ve heard about Whitechapel’s most recent victim, I take it?”

  “The whorehouse slaying or the housemaid?” the marquess asked as he thumbed through the graphic photographs. “I received your written report at Branham last week. Have you learnt more since?”

  “I wasn’t referring to either of those. I’m afraid, there’s been another. Saturday night. Not far from Cambridge Music Hall.”

  The marquess glanced up from the pitiful images of the slain women from Victoria Park. “I’ve seen nothing in the press about a murder on Saturday night.”

  “We’ve managed to keep it quiet for now, but it’s only a matter of time before reporters get wind of it. I’ve had to make sure no one here discusses any of the crimes within O’Brien’s hearing, because his solicitor visits daily. Fred Best and Harry Dam stop by frequently, as well, and they mingle with our officers, hoping to prise information from them. So far, we’ve had no leaks, but it’s only a matter of time.”

  “How then did the press learn about the murders at Victoria Park?” Sinclair asked, clearly irritated.

  “Blame that on Superintendent Steed,” Reid said, removing his spectacles and wiping at his eyes. “I like George well enough, but he enjoys cultivating relationships with men he thinks important to his career. I imagine he’ll treat you with more deference, now that you’re an influential marquess.”

  “I very much doubt it,” Sinclair said wearily.

  Reid searched through the stack of folders and handed one to his friend. “Here’s all we have on the murder near the Cambridge. From initial findings, it looks like a domestic dispute, for the woman had argued with her common law husband only that afternoon, but we’re exploring all possibilities. You needn’t read through it here—in fact, take all these files with you, if you wish. Just return them when you’ve finished. I only wanted to let you know that we’re doing all in our power to find this fiend—or fiends, as the case may be. Sir Charles Warren has been somewhat obstructive of late, though his new press policy is welcome. I’m not sure what politics play behind the scenes at Whitehall, nor would he tell me if I asked, but I wonder if you might employ your newfound influence to plumb those murky waters on our behalf?”

  Charles added the Cambridge file to his growing stack of reading material. “I’ll see what I can do, Ed. With regard to this case in Hackney, though. I’d like to speak with the dead girls’ families, if they have any.”

  “Steed’s not yet reported the victims’ names to me, assuming he’s even learnt them, but the survivor is Moira Murdoch. A housemaid, or so her sister claims.”

  “Where is she employed?” Charles asked, still taking notes.

  “In the city. Cleans house for a man named Merriweather, or rather cleaned. Past tense. Merriweather owns an estate agency near St. Ethelburga’s Church. Sergeant Applebaum spoke with Merriweather this morning, and the estate agent claims Murdoch was dismissed two weeks past for thievery. The sister is Melinda Murdoch. They’re twins, though not identical. I sent Arthur France to speak with her this morning. According to Melinda, the two of them arrived from Ireland last March, in hopes of finding employment. A common enough tale. Inspector France thought her afraid of something, but being Irish, it might be she’s simply wary of police.”

  “Did Miss Murdoch have any idea who her sister’s dead companions might be?”

  “No, she didn’t, although she did say that Moira had been spending far too much time with a group of prostitutes who ply their trade in Victoria Park.”

  “Did the estate agent know anything about Moira’s personal life?” Sinclair enquired, shutting the file. “Did he think her a prostitute?

  “Actually, Applebaum didn’t ask about that, but I can send him back, if you like.”

  “No, I can go myself,” the marquess said, yawning.

  “Shall I have Brickman bring up some coffee? Williams has some strong Turkish blend made.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Sinclair replied. “It’s been nearly nonstop social gatherings in Kent the past fortnight, and ever since the twenty-third, the night of the wolf, Paul and I have been keeping watch over Beth’s welfare as she sleeps. Last night was my shift. I fell asleep on duty around four, I think, but those few hours did little to stave off this mounting fatigue. I used to go weeks without sleep and not slow down at all. Perhaps, I’m getting old.”

  “Or perhaps, you’ve a lot on your mind
,” Reid suggested. “I’ll see if Brickman’s about,” he added, starting to stand.

  Above the soft chatter of police conversations and coarse laughter, a polished voice could be heard, echoing within the rear stairwell.

  Charles Sinclair began to smile, and he opened the office door. “Lock up your whisky, Ed. We’re about to invaded by Scotland.”

  Beyond the detectives’ lounge, a tall man in expensive clothing with a dark-coloured sling on his left arm had just reached the landing on that floor. Seeing his detective cousin, the earl waved and strode towards the doorway. “I came as soon as I could get away. Have I missed the entire meeting?” he asked, entering the office.

  Charles shut the door, and the earl sat on the other end of the divan. “You’re just in time, actually. Coffee should arrive momentarily. I imagine you’ve already seen the headlines.”

  “Yes, and I’ve made sure Beth does not. Oh, she’s decided to stay in today, rather than shop. After seeing the headlines, Tory required little convincing. She’s as concerned about Beth as you and I.”

  “You showed our aunt those distressing stories?” Sinclair asked, his brows pinching into a worried line. “Why?”

  “Because she makes a better ally than an adversary. And Tory’s a member of the inner circle. She’s belonged longer than I have. But as a precaution, I asked Sir Thomas Galton to stop by Queen Anne and keep an eye on both our Stuart ladies. He arrived just as I was leaving. That nurse, though. Josette Marchand. Her stare would frighten off any attackers, so we’ve no cause for concern.”

  Sinclair laughed at last as he resumed his own seat on the sofa. “Then our little duchess is safe for now. Reid’s explained as much as he knows about the crimes behind those troubling headlines.”

  “Charles, where precisely did this attack happen?” the earl asked. “The papers offer very little information.”

  “On Gascoyne Road, just inside Victoria Park. Two women are dead, but they look very young, more girls than women. I’m told a third lies near death at a hospital nearby, so I plan to visit the survivor this morning, and then afterward examine the crime scene.”

  “Victoria Park,” Aubrey mused as he began glancing through the police files on the couch beside him. “Does either of you remember the Cricket Ground Murders?”

  “How could I forget?” Sinclair responded. “Those murders haunted me for months afterward, just as Ripper does now. January of ’79. Seven deaths. Do you remember, Ed?”

  “Very little,” Reid replied. “I was still in Peckham with P-Division then, but Morehouse spoke of them once or twice.”

  Charles looked at his cousin. “Paul, how do you know about those murders? Bob and I worked very hard to keep the details out of the press’s grubby paws.”

  “The circle looked into them,” the earl said as a constable banged on the door with his boot.

  “Come in!” Reid called. The lad appeared in a bit of a dilemma, for he carried a pot of coffee in one hand and three mugs in the other.

  “I don’t think he can turn the knob,” Aubrey said as he opened the door.

  “Thank you, my lord. Strong coffee, with Sergeant Williams’s compliments, sirs,” the youth said as he entered. “The sugar’s boiled into it, but I can fetch cream, if you want.”

  “No need, Brickman. We can do without cream. Have Ambrose send a wire to Steed at K, will you? Tell him the superintendent will be there in about two hours. Will that do, Charles?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  The constable set down the pot and stoneware mugs, and then left. Aubrey poured a cup of coffee, his eyes on the departing youth as he shut the door. “That lad doesn’t look twenty to me. Isn’t that still the lower age limit with the force?”

  “He’s a baby-faced twenty-four,” Reid replied. “So, the circle looked into these murders in ’79?”

  “We did,” Paul replied, sitting once more. “I was in America at the time, but Galton’s team investigated. He has all the files at his home in Mayfair, I believe. Six women and one boy, if memory serves. Not a drop of blood in their veins, but no marks save two small, puncture wounds on the throat. No one actually saw the crimes, but many of the citizens spoke of unusual, animal cries at night, and local pets began to disappear. If I remember rightly, K-Division closed the case after only a month of investigation, saying a rabid dog had done it. Balderdash! Tell me how a dog exsanguinates every drop of blood from a grown woman’s body!”

  “No one actually working the case believed that claim,” Sinclair remarked. “In fact, when Beth’s mother was found murdered that March, Morehouse assumed it was this Cricket Ground Killer returned and altering his methods, but I had my doubts. Despite my objections, Bob planned to arrest Sir William Trent for all eight murders, but the wily baronet disappeared without a trace.” He poured himself a cup of the Turkish blend, taking a small sip. “Not bad. A bit sweet.” He turned to his cousin. “Paul, if this Victoria Park beast is connected to the wolf we saw in Scotland, then it’s imperative that the circle learn who or what lies behind it. I know the duke intends to host a full meeting this Friday, but perhaps, we should meet sooner. Would tomorrow evening work for you?”

  Aubrey nodded, sipping the steaming hot coffee. “Needs whisky,” he said, grinning. “Yes, I could arrange a meeting. I’ll have Thomas send word to everyone in our London group. And with Aunt Victoria here to distract our little duchess, it might be easier to speak without Beth’s overhearing us, so we could host it at Queen Anne.”

  “Precisely,” Sinclair agreed. “I know that Elizabeth wants to be involved in our plans, and I respect her opinions, but I prefer she hear as little as possible about these murders right now. Beth’s been having dark dreams again.”

  “Yes, she mentioned one to me this morning,” Paul answered. “Oh, but she asked me not to tell you.”

  “Really? Why?” Sinclair asked, somewhat hurt. “I shan’t reveal your betrayal, but I’d like to know the content.”

  Stuart wished he’d said nothing. “Ask me later.”

  The detective stared at his cousin for a moment, wondering if he should pursue the enquiry or drop it.

  “Very well,” he said at last, “but I shan’t forget. Edmund, as excellent as this coffee is, the morning moves ever forward, and there’s much to do. I want to speak with this survivor before too many reporters reshape her story, but first I’d like to spend a few minutes with O’Brien.”

  “Would that be Michael O’Brien?” the earl asked, standing and setting his empty mug onto the corner of Reid’s desk. “I noticed him in your cell below. What a rotten little toad. Mind if I join you? It might be fun.”

  “Now, how could I say no to you, Cousin?” Sinclair laughed.

  “I’d also like to examine the crime scene with you, if I’m not intruding,” the earl added. “Edmund, will you come to Hackney with us?”

  “No, Lord Aubrey, I’ve a police investigation to mount. Saturday night, we had another murder over on Commercial, behind the Cambridge Music Hall. Oh, but there is one thing you might add to your agenda, gentlemen. Mary Wilsham asked if the superintendent would stop by Columbia Road. She’s got something to tell you, Charles.”

  “I hope it’s not bad news,” the marquess said. “All right. As it’s on the way, we’ll make that our first stop. But before we leave, let’s see if our reporter’s poor memory might be prodded a bit.”

  Chapter Four

  11:13 – Queen Anne Park

  Elizabeth Stuart had decided to ride, so she’d changed into brown breeches and a dark blue coat. After eating a small breakfast and bidding goodbye to Lord Aubrey, the duchess had spent the next hour relaxing with Sir Thomas Galton in the morning room. Victoria’s apartment had been opened and made ready, so the stalwart aunt left to lie down for an hour, saying she was exhausted from the long train ride into London from Branham. A telegram arrived for Galton at eleven o�
�clock, summoning the baronet to the War Office, but rather than leave Elizabeth without guardianship, Galton arranged for his friend Malcolm Risling to stop by at twelve. Whilst awaiting Risling’s arrival, the duchess thought to work up an appetite for luncheon by touring the bridle path.

  The four-year-old stallion, Connor’s Pride, stood sixteen hands high with a smooth coat of burnished bronze, a rarity in Friesian mixes. Sired by Branham’s Pride out of Trisha’s Delight, the Friesian cross had Arabian and Thoroughbred bloodlines, resulting in a magnificent show animal, that had already won in two London dressage events, and was now siring his own line of offspring. Snowdrop, a delightful Lipizzaner-Arabian cross, was due to foal within the month, so Elizabeth stopped to check on the mare before climbing into the saddle.

  “How is she today, Mr. Powers?” the duchess asked as she approached Snowdrop’s stall.

  The chief groom wiped the back of his neck with a red cotton kerchief and joined his mistress at the wooden rail. “Not bad, my lady. It’s her first, so we’re keepin’ a sharp eye on her. I got two lads watchin’ each night. There’s been a fox or some such predator huntin’ our chickens, so the men carry shotguns, just in case it comes in for an easy meal.”

  “Have we lost any chickens?” she asked.

  “Three hens, my lady. We’ll lose no more, if I have anythin’ to say ‘bout it. Better than they’re farin’ at Branham, though. My brother wrote and told me that sheep are dyin’ out that way. I reckon you already know all ‘bout it, as you was just there.”

  “Actually no, I didn’t. No one mentioned it whilst I was there,” she admitted, her face darkening with concern. “Did your brother say what might be causing the deaths?”

  “He said a vet’s been called out, but even Tommy’s scratchin’ his head. I’m surprised Mr. Baxter or Mr. Eberly didn’t tell you, my lady,” the horseman told her.

  “We were rather busy, actually, and much of that time was spent at other estates in the county. Still, it is odd no one mentioned it. I’ll send a telegram to Mr. Eberly. As steward, he has the power to make decisions on his own, of course, but I’d like to know if a disease is infecting our flocks.” She walked from the mare’s stall and moved towards the saddled stallion, stroking his nose. “He seems quite happy this morning. Perhaps, he knows he’s about to become a father.”