Sanguine Solutions Read online

  “Shake hands,” Vincent said. Grudgingly, we did, our eyes meeting like generals on the battlefield. “Now, offer a compliment. Simon, you first.”

  I bristled, wanting more than anything to leave, but Sudworth was still clasping my hand. I refused to appear the weaker man by pulling away.

  “That suit,” I eventually admitted. “Is not completely hideous.” Was that a flicker of laughter in his eyes? I was happy he was finding this exercise as ridiculous as I was. “And that’s actually a very handsome tie.” He inclined his head ever so slightly in response, and I found myself hating him a bit less.

  “Your turn, Rupert,” Vincent said.

  Sudworth’s grip turned gentle, and he lifted my hand, turning it over in the light from the wall sconce. “You have very soft hands for a policeman.” He brushed his fingers over my palm, a shadow of a smile passing over his lips as I suppressed a gasp. The fire Vincent had lit in the cab wasn’t completely extinguished, it seemed. “But the scars on your knuckles say that you can be rough when it suits you.”

  He lifted my fingers to his lips, and I didn’t resist as he kissed each knuckle softly, paying particular attention to the new scrapes from my fight with Martin. My mind registered Vincent’s murmured approbation, but I wasn’t really paying attention anymore. Sudworth and I would never be friends, but by God he knew what he was doing.

  It’s a thin line between lust and hate. And it didn’t take long for the fire to roar back to life. The next moments passed in a blur of hands and mouths and shed clothing. At some point two became three, and a dominance contest turned into an expedition—a race to conquer new territory. And then, suddenly, Vincent was between us, pulling us up from the depths like two drowning men. I blinked, breathing hard, as something in his hand glinted in the lamplight. He flicked the thumb switch, and I heard the tell-tale shhink as the double-pronged head shot out of the lancet. Before I could ask, he quickly punctured Sudworth’s wrist. Reflex made me twist away; the lancet found the base of my thumb instead. It didn’t seem to matter.

  Vincent said, “Semen sanguis. The blood is the life and the key and the gift. It’s the offering we make to one another. It’s the sacrifice to enter the next level. Drink and be uplifted.”

  “Semen sanguis,” Sudworth repeated.

  A light filled his eyes—he’d been waiting for this initiation, clearly. He lifted my hand to his lips, eyes alight with a visceral greed that filled me with repulsion. More than that, though, I suddenly knew exactly what was happening with those poor young women in Marylebone.

  I wanted to run. At the same time, it would have been tipping my hand. As Vincent brought Sudworth’s wrist to my mouth, I forced myself to not turn away, to not retch as the tang of copper seeped through my lips. Behind me, Vincent chuckled. His hand closed around my cock, as he tried to bring back the other enthusiasm that I was unable to fake.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured in my ear. “It often happens at this particular juncture.”

  I deflected any further inquiry by dropping to my knees and returning Vincent’s favor from the other night.

  We ended up in an enormous bed in a room with an absolutely blasphemous ceiling mural. The vigor of our exertions combined with drink meant that the other two fell asleep very quickly. And when they did I gathered my clothes and slipped away. As Vincent’s door closed behind me the cold night hit me like the sharp blade of a guillotine sliding just past my throat.

  •••

  Back at the section house, I forced back my repulsion and shame by organizing my thoughts into detailed case notes.

  The blood is the life and the key and the gift.

  Wakefield and Masterson were employees of the City of London—like Sudworth, and the other young men in Vincent’s group, and like me. They had both recently received promotions. Shortly thereafter, someone had come to take their daughters’ blood. Why not their own blood? And why not on the floor of Vincent’s library? Perhaps this was a second path for men who didn’t share Vincent’s particular inclination. Nonetheless, the book was the key. Blood magic. Rituals of power. I’d have been willing to wager that Semen Sanguis was lurking somewhere in Wakefield’s tidy, red brick abode as well.

  The reason no one had seen the intruder enter was that there had been no intruder. Wakefield and Masterson had invited the “vampires” in. Their daughters’ blood had been the price of their success. It was monstrous. But people often did monstrous things in pursuit of power. Did either Wakefield or Masterson believe in the magical power of blood? Or was it simply the coin they were willing to trade?

  I was still wearing my coat, my shirt and waistcoat open beneath it. The jacket, unfortunately, still lay on the floor of Vincent’s library. I emptied my pockets. The receipt, the note that had accompanied the clothing. Why had I not seen it before? The handwriting was exactly the same—it was Vincent’s.

  I felt sick. And vindicated. And thoroughly disgusted with myself. At the same time, righteous purpose surged through my veins. I rewrote my notes, made a copy, then sealed them both in envelopes. One would go to Crowther in the morning. He may have been a bastard, but, to my knowledge, he wasn’t crooked. The other was insurance.

  It was impossible to sleep after that, and I dared not numb myself with gin. After a few hours of staring at the ceiling, I stood up to pace. And only after I’d nearly worn a hole in the floor, did I finally sit down, at last ready to read Cal’s letter.

  Dear Simon,

  I tore up your letter the moment it arrived. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to dispose of the remains. They sat on my desk for a week and a half before curiosity compelled me to piece them together. And then I saw that you were punishing yourself more thoroughly than I ever could, and I realized that I’d been unfair. I owe you an apology as well as an explanation.

  During our terrible argument, I’d accused his benefactor, Dr. Murray, of trading his assistance for sexual favors. Why else would a rich man take a younger, good-looking man under his wing, providing a home, clothing, and an education? The conclusion was understandable, but as I read, I saw how Cal’s irrational-seeming anger over it made perfect sense.

  When I was seventeen, I fell out with my parents. I’m sure you can discern the reason. It was winter. I’d nothing and nowhere to go. My flatmates have similar stories, and Uncle Henry helped them, as well. He’s never behaved in a less than honorable manner toward any of us. He’s devoted to his wife, and the both of them, along with their son, whom you met, have proven good and faithful friends.

  Why would they concern themselves? That’s not my story to tell. However, I will tell you that many of Uncle Henry’s benevolent actions stem from the loss of a beloved elder brother, who had no one to help him when he most needed it.

  The words blurred, and I folded the letter away. He forgave me. I would never see him again, but he forgave me. And if I’d only taken the time to talk things over, the subsequent dreadful weeks could all have been avoided. Nonetheless, he didn’t hate me. And for now, that was enough.

  When I crawled back into bed this time, I slept.

  I woke the next afternoon knowing what needed to be done, and filled with the sense of purpose that comes with that knowledge. The loss of the intellectual—and the physical—intercourse was a wrench, but justice had to come first. It was a sacrifice I was willing to make—barely—but in the end, it was right. I decided against the uniform. It was my last night of suspension. If things went the way I hoped, I’d be back in uniform tomorrow. If they went the way I feared they might, I wouldn’t be putting it on ever again.

  Crowther’s door was closed when I arrived. I waited at the end of the corridor, tapping the envelope against my palm. After a few moments, the door opened, and Rupert sodding Sudworth stepped out. He saw me, and his smug little smirk told me exactly what I’d feared.

  Goddamn it.

  My career was over. It was over. Just like that. The thought left me numb, but there was no time to indulge it. Unemployment
was only the beginning. Sudworth didn’t have the evidence to back up a buggery charge, but an indecency accusation needed no evidence—especially when the station inspector was already inclined against me. Part of me wanted to rush him, to beat that smirk from his face and leave him bleeding. But it would have been the word of a rich and respected man over the word of someone who was still under suspension for an unprovoked attack.

  The prudent thing would be to clear out—out of the section house, and out of London. And thank fuck I was in a state of mind where prudence was an option.

  I was throwing my few possessions into my little suitcase when Fitz appeared in the doorway of my little room at the section house.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Regret filled me as I glanced up at him.

  “I’m done, mate.” I sighed. “And I’m sorry I won’t be making your party.”

  “What? What do you mean done?”

  “You’ll hear about it soon enough. But stick with Bailey. He’s a plonker, but he’s solid.”

  “But Simon—”

  I found the second envelope—the twin of the one I was going to hand to Crowther—and stuck it in my suitcase. Then I turned to him with the first.

  “What’s this?” he said, as I pressed it into his hand.

  “Case of a lifetime. The Marylebone Vampire. Happy birthday, mate.”

  Ignoring the look of surprise and hurt on his face, I gave his shoulder a bracing slap, snapped my suitcase shut, and headed for the door.

  •••

  “Yes, sir?” The man at the ticket window looked at me expectantly. All around me was the bustle of travelers, the whistle of trains, the whoosh of exhaust, and the clip-clop of well-shod feet across the wooden floors of the station.

  “I need the first train that’s going the farthest from here. But not to Scotland. Anywhere but Scotland.”

  A little wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows, and he cocked his head. “I have Bodmin, leaving in fifteen minutes. It’s two trains and a coach, but it’ll get you there.”

  “Where’s Bodmin?” More to the point, why did it sound so familiar?

  The ticket seller pointed to the map behind him—a map of Britain, criss-crossed with lines representing the different train lines, and dots to denote the stations.

  “Bodmin is in Cornwall, there.” He put his finger on the dot. “In fact,” he said. “It’s almost as far away as Edinburgh, but in a different direction.”

  Almost as far away as Edinburgh, but in a different direction.

  “Perfect,” I said. And I laid my money down.

  THE SHERIFF OF PENBREIGH

  November 1887

  Bodmin

  Dear Simon,

  I’m still having trouble imagining you as a country constable. In my mind’s eye, I’ll always see the determined London bobby leaping from the museum steps to wrestle a murder suspect in the streets, escaping the wheels of that lorry by a hair’s breadth. Somehow I can’t see you chasing chickens and tracking down lost sheep. Was pleased to hear you’d finally met your Dr. Bell, and that she lived up to your expectations. Heroes seldom do….

  “Pearce.” Chief Inspector Landry’s voice made me start in my chair.

  I shoved Cal’s letter beneath the stack of papers on my desk. Force of habit. The letters were always innocuous enough, but the self-protective instinct was strong.

  Landry’s weathered face crinkled kindly. Bodmin’s chief inspector was a kind man.

  “You do the work of three men, Detective. No one’s going to fault you for taking five minutes over a letter from home. I trust all is well.”

  Home was such a loaded word. My roots were in London, though three-and-a-half months earlier, London had spat me out. Edinburgh could have been home, had I not fouled that up irreparably. At the same time, every letter from Cal—we had been exchanging one a week like clockwork—painted such a vivid picture that it, too, felt like it was still a part of me.

  “Bodmin’s my home now, sir,” I said.

  “Right. On that note, may I have a word?”

  Folding the letter into my pocket, I followed him to his office.

  Yes, Landry had made me a detective. The minimum qualifications for hire as a Scotland Yard constable are to be male, between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five, and to stand at least five feet seven inches tall. In a postage-stamp sized town in Cornwall during an unprecedented crime wave, they dispense with even these minimums. And if you half sounded like you know what you’re doing, they’d make you a detective.

  “Pearce, how long have you been with us?”

  “Three months and change, sir,” I said.

  He frowned. “That’s all? Do you like it here?”

  “Very much, sir.”

  “Good. I have a proposal for you. It’s a promotion of sorts. You remember that business in Penbreigh?”

  Penbreigh was a handful of farms and houses plus two pubs an hour’s walk from Bodmin in good weather. My first case for the Cornwall Constabulary had been a suspicious death there. I nodded.

  “Well, just as Bodmin has been growing, so has Penbreigh. The village elders approached me about having a constable of their own. I think it should be you. The people there know you, respect you, and you work well on your own. How would you like to be Penbreigh’s resident constable?”

  “Constable, sir?” I asked. For despite the promise of my own jurisdiction, the title was a step down.

  Landry laughed. “Their words, Detective. If you took the job, the words I would use would be ‘Detective Sergeant.’”

  I couldn’t help smiling. ‘sergeant’ was a step up from my current position. Plus, although village life would take some getting used to, living closer to Dr. Bell and her Miss Tippett would more than compensate.

  “I should be honored, sir,” I said.

  “Good. Then pack your things. You’ll leave tomorrow.”

  •••

  When I’d bought my train ticket to Bodmin, I’d wondered why the name of the town had sounded so familiar. Then I’d remembered—one of Cal’s flatmates had mentioned that Dr. Elizabeth Bell, author of my favorite series of monographs, had taken up residence there. If that wasn’t enough, Dr. Bell had been the primary suspect in the Penbreigh case. It had been an honor to exonerate her, and in the months that followed, she, Miss Alice Tippett, and I had become great friends.

  Dr. Bell—Elizabeth—had introduced Alice as her housekeeper, and everyone in Penbreigh would tell you the same. But it hadn’t taken me long to deduce that the women were a married couple in all but name. It seemed an open secret in the village, but it was a secret nonetheless, and I kept it. The women had never asked me about my own preferences, and though I sometimes burned with the desire to speak of it openly, a lifetime’s habit of secrecy was difficult to overcome.

  Still, they were smashing company. Elizabeth was a wit of the highest order—the quintessential bluestocking, from her bony, ascetic build to her almost militantly practical hair and clothing. Alice, with her cloud of fiery curls and matching personality, had little formal education, but was fearsomely perceptive, as well as direct, earthy, and fearless. They were the very illustration of opposites attracting, and I relished the time we spent together, especially the lively dinners at their home in Penbreigh.

  Occasionally they invited others to join us for those dinners, often members of the scientific or artistic communities of Bodmin or even as far away as Truro. It was a month or so after I’d moved into the room above Dowrick’s tavern in Penbreigh that they introduced me to Theo.

  Theodore Penrose and his sister Abigail ran the Bodmin library out of the home they’d inherited from their parents. They made a pretty pair—tall and willowy, with the dark hair and eyes and olive skin of a certain subset of Cornishmen, which gave them an exotic, sultry look. Theo, in particular had heavy-lidded eyes and a lush mouth that looked like it was made for sin.

  Both were quick and clever, and had a penchant for complicated
riddles, with which they entertained us throughout the meal. Some might have been annoyed by the way they good-naturedly interrupted and talked over one another, to the point that it was difficult for anyone else to wedge a word in. But I preferred it that way. It was hard enough to keep my mind on the conversation while trying not to stare, no less putting together intelligent-sounding sentences of my own.

  “All right, all right,” Theo said. “I have another one.”

  “No!” Alice cried. “My brain’s already tied in knots!”

  “Yes, please,” I said. “Your riddles are deucedly clever.”

  Elizabeth added, “They’re from Anglo-Saxon times, isn’t that right, Abby?”

  Theo’s sister nodded. “St. Aldhelm’s riddles. It’s the prize of our collection. We don’t have the original, of course, but our copy is still quite old and quite valuable.”

  “No more riddles, please!” Alice begged. “Simon, tell them about the ghost of St. Sebastian’s.”

  At the word “ghost,” Theo bit his plump lower lip, and my thoughts scattered like birds. Elizabeth and Alice exchanged a look, and I could swear the good doctor tried to hide a smirk. He was a flirt, no doubt, but he directed it toward everyone present, even his sister. I suspected my hostesses wouldn’t have judged me for flirting back, but I couldn’t do it—not in front of other people. The conflict was almost physically painful.

  I took a long slug of wine and gathered my thoughts. “There wasn’t actually a ghost,” I began.

  “That’s a terrible way to start a story!” Alice cried.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Alice, let the man tell his tale.” To the Penrose twins she said, “Our dear friend is far too modest. He actually solved a very complicated series of murders then brought the killer down with his bare hands.”

  “Those hands?” Theo asked in a way that left no doubt in my mind that he’d have welcomed my flirtation.

  “Let me help you with the dishes,” I said. As I shot out of my seat to gather up the empty plates, I was grateful that loose trousers were the fashion, else I’d never have been able to show my face in Penbreigh again.