Birthright: Pray your past stays hidden (Alex Turner Book 1) Page 2

  He paused as he reached two imposing mahogany doors, and tipped his hat to the red-uniformed officer of the household guard who manned his position. There was still no challenge to him, and he asked, merely out of courtesy, “Is she in?”

  “Yes, sir. She is expecting you.”

  “Thank you. Carry on.”

  The soldier opened the door, his long, cavalry sword clinking in its scabbard as he moved, and the figure went inside. He stopped momentarily to remove his top hat and straighten his cape and bow tie in deference to the person he was meeting.

  He could see her, standing on her balcony, wrapped in a heavy shawl to keep away the night’s chill, gazing out over her city, the capital of her Empire. He walked towards her, across the spectacular floor constructed of white Thassos marble imported from Greece, and timed his steps as he paced. He made sure his footfalls were heavier than normal to alert her of his coming. He stepped through the hand-crafted blown-glass doors onto the terrace and came to a halt a respectful six feet from her.

  “Ma’am,” was his sole greeting.

  “Sir William.” Her voice was calm and measured; she had been waiting for his arrival, “Stand with me on my balcony.”

  He moved forward and took his place next to The Queen.

  “London looks strangely beautiful when this fog rolls in, don’t you think?” She kept her eyes locked on the ethereal, glowing cityscape laid out in front of her, “If only the wretched coal didn’t mix with it and make the vapors so vile. No wonder so many have fallen sick.”

  It was not a question, and Sir William remained silent, at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.

  “Will we be reading about your exploits in tomorrow’s newspapers and the Penny Dreadfuls?”

  “Not mine, I hope,” replied Sir William.

  “I must agree. Even the Crown itself would be doomed if they found it was my Royal surgeon on the loose in Whitechapel. But will Jack receive another headline?”

  “I think he will, ma’am.”

  “Good. And how was the operation?”

  “A great success. The patient died.”

  “Then we are done and this is finally over,” sighed Queen Victoria. “That woman, Mary Kelly, was always the one we were after.”

  “May I ask, ma’am, about the others before? It was not my place to inquire until now, only to carry out your bidding, but if it is truly finished, I would like to know why the other four whores first?”

  “A mere distraction, to prevent the constabulary or Scotland Yard from becoming curious. Now, instead of looking for a reason why one unfortunate woman was murdered, your actions have created a panic that has swept all of London, and captured the imagination of the entire country. Because of the hysteria, the Yard is not searching for a why, but a who, a monster, a ripper, preying on prostitutes.” The ruler of almost a billion subjects lowered her voice, “This one, Mary Kelly, was she dispatched as I instructed?”

  “Indeed ma’am. Her face, limbs, and hands were cut away, and I removed her groin and stomach as you specified.”

  “When you pulled out her womb, could you see how far along she was with child?”

  Sir William stiffened at this question and unconsciously took a half step back, “She was not with child, ma’am.”

  It was the Queen’s turn to react in shock, “Impossible. She was expecting!”

  “Ma’am I must assure you, as one who has delivered your own children and grandchildren, Mary Kelly was not pregnant.”

  “Then you have failed me and sliced apart the wrong whore!” Furious, Queen Victoria spun around, striking Sir William Gull in the face with her hand, using surprising strength for a sixty-nine-year-old woman. Her jeweled signet ring caught his skin and ripped open his cheek, knocking him backward.

  As he staggered, he dropped his leather bag which snapped open on impact, sending the blood-covered implements of death, more suitable to a butcher than a doctor, spilling across the balcony’s tiled floor.

  Though morning had arrived, the heavy green smog still lingered as the warmth of autumn was long gone and with the early winter approaching, there was little strength left in the sun to burn the fog away.

  Sarah Frost hurried with Mary Kelly down Miller’s Court, helping with her bag.

  “Get going before the police come again, and pray they never find out what really happened and it wasn’t you he chopped up. And don’t forget, you can never return. I heard the Ripper ask for you by name.”

  “And poor Joyce took his wrath, not me.”

  “Be relieved it ’appened that way. She is in a better place now and all our fretting won’t bring her back. You have your baby to look out for. Where will you go?”

  Mary had no doubt of her answer, “I’ll make my way home to Ireland.”

  Sarah shook her head, “That’s not the finest idea. If they discover their mistake, they’ll follow you there. For a matter such as this, they will never stop hunting you, ever.”

  “If they come for me, I’ll leave for the colonies and get lost in those strange lands. Australia or maybe the Americas.”

  A carriage clattered by on Dorset Street, and alarmed at the sound of its wheels and horses, the terrified women dove into an alcove and huddled together like frightened mice. Their fears were unfounded and the carriage continued on with its unknown journey.

  As silence fell again over Miller’s Court, the two women reappeared.

  “Get as far from here as you can. Then you won’t have to flee every noise.” Sarah put her hand on Mary’s arm and spoke tenderly, “But let me know your fate. I will miss you and worry about you each day. You and Joyce were my only friends.”

  “I promise I will write you when I know what I’m doing myself.”

  Sarah took out a small purse and handed it to Mary, “Take this. It’s not much. Just what me and Joyce had saved. I can make more and God knows she has no use for it where she is now.”

  “Bless you both.” Mary slipped the coin purse into a pocket. She hugged Sarah, and as she pulled away, showing the tears in her eyes, she added, “You will get a letter, I promise.” With those final words, Mary hoisted her bag and hurried out of the cursed alley onto London’s unforgiving streets to begin her fateful journey.

  Sarah watched her go, and as she vanished into the fog, she heard the distant voice of a newspaper boy calling out today’s terrible headline, “Read all about it. Jack the Ripper kills again. Mary Kelly cut up in Whitechapel.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Grant

  Today

  The basement was dark, with no windows or doors leading directly to the outside, a deliberate choice made to stop sunlight from filtering in. Artificial lights wrapped with UV filters brightened certain areas, but they were positioned carefully to protect the delicate manuscripts and documents stored there, and the two dehumidifiers placed at either end of the long room announced their presence with a low hiss.

  An old futon was jammed into a corner, the crumpled pillows and blankets showing its recent use, and three desks framed one wall of the basement, while floor to ceiling shelves, packed with thousands of books filled the opposing side.

  Alex Turner sat hunched at one of the desks, surrounded by dozens of books on Family Trees, Lineage, Ancestry, and Genealogy. Five of the books were written by the same author, the very man who was working there, painfully punching the keys of an old typewriter as he referred constantly to his yellow pad of longhand notes to make certain he had all his facts correct. Missing was any hint of modern technology, and Alex’s sole concession to anything outside of the world of academics was a single framed picture on his desk, a memory of him standing with his arms around a beautiful woman and a young child against a background of classic architecture.

  A red light flashed its warning above the door at the end of the room, and Alex reluctantly paused his two-finger hunt-and-peck on his vintage 1936 Remington, and prepared for the visitor to appear.

  He didn’t have to wait long. The inner door opened and
Dean David Hamlin, the head of the faculty, hurried inside, displaying a haste Alex had not seen previously demonstrated by this little man.

  “Professor Turner, why don’t you answer your phone?” the Dean demanded.

  Alex folded his arms and sat back, sensing his day was about to be ruined, “Because I’m working.”

  “Well, excuse me, but there are times the University could use your presence above ground. After all, that is what you are paid for.”

  “If I can correct that statement, I believe a large portion of my salary stems from your enthusiasm with my writings, particularly the way you and the faculty like to take credit for their contents.”

  “I can’t deny it’s good to have our University connected with what have become textbooks and required reading at institutes of higher learning throughout the country, and it does reflect well on our academic standing and reputation.” He smiled, “And it’s that reputation which brings me down here today to get you. There’s somebody you need to meet. Come with me.” The Dean turned and headed back toward the door, his words and body language leaving no doubt in Alex’s mind he was obligated to follow.

  David Hamlin moved surprisingly fast for a person of his stature, and Alex found himself hustling to keep up as they raced through the corridors of the University of Wisconsin, past lockers and noticeboards decorated with signs reading Go Badgers!

  Hamlin’s overflowing excitement came through in his speech, as his torrent of words kept pace with his rushed walk, “This is the largest individual grant in the University’s history, so please…”

  Alex ended the sentence for him, “…be nice?”

  “Professor Turner, Alex, in today’s fiscal climate, money is hard to come by. The entire country is still recovering from the COVID-19 pandemic, and education is not a Government priority. Every dollar is important to the faculty. We can use it for computers, IT systems, servers, sports equipment, maintenance-”

  “-books?” suggested Alex.

  “Yes, books,” answered the Dean. “But we need your expertise to get the money.”

  “So I gather. How big a grant are you talking about?”

  “Ten million dollars.” The amount echoed in the room, emphasized by the crisp British accent of the man offering the staggering sum.

  Colin Brown, who had been waiting for their arrival in Dean Hamlin’s office, was even more handsome than the dark blue tailor-made Brioni suit he wore, and had the confidence money brings, “That was the initial amount the Dean and I discussed.”

  Dean Hamlin shot a glance at Alex, betraying his anxious greed, “That will buy a lot of books.”

  Alex was not as thrilled by the huge offer and shot a questioning look back at the tall Englishman, “What do I have to do? You want me to write your son’s term paper, or forge an application to get your daughter accepted into the faculty?”

  Colin laughed, “Nothing like that, and I would not have you risk your pristine reputation on something so trivial. But it is your writing bringing me here. I have read your books both back in England and more recently while at our New York headquarters. The University is indeed fortunate to have a professor of your aptitude on campus.”

  The Dean nodded, eager to take the credit, “We met certain conditions Alex insisted upon.”

  “Like being left alone to do my research.”

  Colin picked up on Alex’s irritation, “I’m sorry to be an interruption to your studies, but I too have a research project. I work for GPAD – Global Pharmaceuticals and Development. As our name suggests, we develop vaccines and medications which are used worldwide. I’m sure you can appreciate, with the current health crisis, we have been particularly busy over the past two years.”

  “That’s very interesting, and possibly noble, but it’s out of my field,” stated Alex.

  “Agreed. Where you come in is that our company’s founder is dying.” He sighed and shook his head, “It is ironic that with all our efforts to save others, we cannot save our own. I understand you have also lost those close to you.”

  Alex wasn’t sure if that was a statement or a question, but either way he remained silent. It was not a subject he was willing to talk to anyone about, particularly a stranger.

  Picking up on his reticence, Colin continued, “Our CEO wishes to leave the company to a family member and not let its ownership descend into a squabble between shareholders and financiers.”

  Alex still couldn’t see what he would bring to the table on this issue, “That should be straightforward enough. Have your lawyers draw up a will stipulating the line of succession for the company and its assets.” He raised his hands to signify how easy it would be.

  “Sadly, there is no known living family. No obvious person to designate the inheritance to.”

  “Then what can I do?” Alex looked from Colin to the Dean, “I’m sorry, but if that’s the case, why I was brought here?”

  “We do see a role you can play.” Colin was definite with his tone, “You are the foremost genealogist in the world. No one is even close to you, in reputation or in results. For years we have searched in vain for a relative of our dying founder. Now, in their final weeks on Earth, we have come to where we should have begun, and that’s with you. Money is no object. Our corporation does exceedingly well. The ten million is merely a gesture of good faith to get you started. Find the relative and we will double the figure.”

  The Dean couldn’t help himself and he blurted the number out loud, “Twenty million!”

  “Twenty million for the University, and two hundred thousand dollars for you, Professor Turner, to demonstrate our gratitude for your time and efforts. Plus, any expenses, of course.” Colin waited for the huge amounts to register.

  Alex spoke first, “There is a problem.”

  “No, there’s not!” The Dean was empathic, “He’ll do it.”

  Colin ignored the Dean’s greed and focused on Alex, “What is the problem?”

  “The problem is, I can’t conjure somebody up. There has to be an existing family tree that can be traced.”

  “There is.” Colin smiled, “My employer’s lineage shows a relative in England more than a century ago. She was pregnant when she disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” This was not a common word among genealogists.

  “Yes, disappeared. She sent a letter saying she was coming here with her son, to America. But we have been unable to determine exactly where the letter was sent from, and we couldn’t locate a record of her arrival in the United States or find any of her descendants.”

  Dean Hamlin jumped in to bring a positive spin to the conversation, “But now we have Professor Alex Turner investigating the case.”

  Alex glared at the head of the faculty, “You make it sound like I’m hunting for a killer.”

  For a brief moment, Colin’s expression changed, but then his smile returned.

  Alex noticed the Englishman’s hesitation, “I’m not, am I?”

  “No, nothing of the sort. You’re looking for an heir.” He reached behind him where two thick packages of papers lay waiting on the Dean’s desk, “Inside here you’ll find my card and an accurate facsimile of the 1892 letter along with the actual envelope it was sent in, which sadly had no return address and the postage stamp is missing from it. Also, you will see the details of the extensive search we have already carried out and the leads which have been pursued. A backup of the contents has been scanned onto the included USB. One package is a reference copy for the Dean and the university; the other is for you, Professor. Make sure you take the correct one, because yours contains not only the original envelope, but also a cashier’s check made out to Alex Turner for two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “You were pretty certain I’d do this, weren’t you?”

  Colin grinned, “I try to leave nothing to chance, Professor. If you need any assistance with your research, or have questions about what has already been done, I want you to know I am available to you twenty-four hours a day. You’ll
be able to reach me anytime at the number in the file. It’s for our offices in New York. I’ll be based there while you are carrying out your investigations. Do not hesitate to call if I can be of any help whatsoever.”

  Alex took a long, deep breath, “I see I am expected to do this. I’ll start on it next week.”

  Colin threw an alarmed glance at the Dean.

  “Alex, next week won’t work. Because of Mr. Brown’s employer’s deteriorating health, time is of the essence. I’ll find someone to assist you with your ongoing projects. You will start today.”

  “Thank you.” The relief in Colin’s voice was obvious.

  Accepting he had no choice, Alex picked up the heavy package of papers, “Then I’ll begin now.” He started for the door and stopped as a thought hit him, “Mr. Brown, what was the woman’s name? The relative who emigrated here?”

  “Her name was Mary Kelly.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Dungeon

  The paperwork provided by Colin Brown covered two of the three desks in Alex Turner’s basement study. To the untrained observer it might have seemed a random shuffling of the search so far, but at closer look, each paper could be seen to have a yellow sticky note attached featuring either a number or an annotation, handwritten by the professor.

  Satisfied with his progress in arranging the chronology, Alex focused his attention on the one solid piece of evidence which had spawned this hunt, the original envelope and letter, mailed in 1892. He slid them gently from the package, knowing these items could be key to his investigation. The envelope felt old and unlike anything commercially available today, with a cotton feel to it as if elements of the fabric were interwoven with the paper. That’s why it has survived so well all these years, thought Alex. But, as Mr. Brown had stated, there was no return address, and the postmark around where the stamp should have been was smudged, faded, and illegible. It would be of little help to determine where it had been sent from. He would get back to that later, for now, it was time to assess the letter itself, and Alex gingerly unfolded the full-color, high-resolution facsimile, the blue ink still standing out from the yellowed parchment. What could be learned from this, he wondered –