‘A self-fulfilling prophecy,’ Sir William agreed. ‘Better to believe they were possessed or infected, no longer human, than to admit you condemned them to such a fate.’
‘Anaemia,’ Lord Ruthven went on. ‘The inhumanity of man to man – an excuse for brutality that we would rather had a different explanation from simple sadism.’
‘And so the legends and myths built up,’ Sir William said. ‘Is that your thesis? You came here to tell me that vampires do not exist. That it is absurd to believe the stories.’
‘There are absurdities,’ Ruthven admitted. ‘How can a man turn into a bat, for example?’
‘But there are also aspects that are rather more plausible. Don’t you think?’
‘Oh yes.’ Lord Ruthven’s tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the most mundane of subjects. ‘But that is simply because beneath the façade and behind the stories, hiding in shadows and masked by legend and deceit, vampires do exist.’
Sir William sat back in his chair, and breathed a heavy sigh. ‘Now, at last, we are getting somewhere.’
‘As I said, the stories have a basis in truth. All stories do. They have been exaggerated and embellished until they seem absurd and ridiculous to the rational mind. But it is the trappings and the details that are the fiction. Little lies to overstate the truth. The great lie to conceal one fact.’ He waved a hand in the air, as if to dismiss them all. ‘A conspiracy that has lasted for centuries – millennia even – with precisely the intention of making it seem that vampires are a myth, a story, a fiction.’
‘A way of drawing attention away from the truth,’ Sir William realised. ‘Not by trying to conceal it, but by making it so public, making it seem so far-fetched, that it cannot be believed.’
‘While the terrible truth lurks in darkness and shadows.’ Lord Ruthven hesitated for a moment before going on: ‘Of course, we could never hope to hide our existence entirely. And so we chose a different path. We publicised accounts of our lives, exaggerating them. We encouraged the theatre and music-hall performances. Even wrote some of the penny dreadfuls ourselves. We created an obvious fiction wherein we could hide the truth.’
‘A clever plan.’
‘It worked,’ Ruthven conceded. ‘It worked to conceal the facts from the masses, and to mislead anyone who did stumble across the truth. And it continues. Even now, one of us is feeding ideas fit for a sensational new play to Mr Stoker at the Lyceum Theatre.’
‘You spoke of the great lie,’ Sir William said quietly.
‘Do you realise how much I am risking just by speaking to you at all?’ Ruthven countered. ‘There have been so many lies. So many embellishments to hide the central truth.’
‘And yet, at its core, you would have me believe that vampires do exist. That creatures of the night drink the blood of the living for sustenance. The undead walk among us.’
‘Just as it has always been. And Man is so introspective, so selfish that he does not notice. Our victims – and yes, I choose that word deliberately – can fade and pale and waste away as we drain them dry. And no one notices. No one wants to notice. Is that ignorance, or wilful self-deceit?’
‘Perhaps,’ Sir William said slowly, ‘there is a part of all of us that wants to live for ever. No matter what the cost.’
‘Perhaps,’ Ruthven conceded. ‘For centuries we have existed alongside ordinary mortals. You described us as parasites. Perhaps you are right. A whole second civilisation that feeds off the first. Parallel and unsuspected, dependent on humanity for the blood that sustains us.’
Sir William listened carefully, making the occasional note on a sheet of paper. He felt detached and cold – as if he was indeed listening to a story rather than learning a terrible secret.
‘We have a healthy, growing society. Too healthy perhaps as our numbers continue to increase. We have had to limit our activity in order to remain hidden and unknown.’
‘So as not to draw attention to yourselves,’ Sir William said.
‘Indeed. While we are awake, we need a constant supply of fresh blood. And even here in London, there are only so many unfortunates who can disappear from the streets and the workhouses and never be missed. We take them from wherever we can find them. Anyone whose blood we can drink. Anyone who won’t be missed.’
Sir William’s throat was dry. He ran a finger round the inside of his collar to loosen it as Ruthven went on:
‘But even so, there are too many of us now.’
‘Then how do you stay hidden?’
‘By sleeping. At any time only some of us are awake and active, while the rest sleep. We have resting houses all over London where they wait for their turn at life.’ Ruthven gave a sudden snort of laughter. ‘Life! I have seen so much death. Even today. What a cost, what a way to live. Oh, to sleep and never wake up.’ He sank back into the chair and closed his eyes.
‘Are there many of you who feel this dissatisfaction?’ Sir William wondered.
Lord Ruthven shook his head. ‘A few perhaps. There is a dissatisfaction, but not with our fate itself, more with the way we handle it. There is growing dissent among both the waking and the sleeping.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Really?’ From his tone, Ruthven did not believe him.
‘It is a system that cannot be sustained,’ Sir William said. ‘The attraction, as I understand it and if I can use that word, of your condition is longevity. How appealing can it be to have everlasting life and yet be asked to sleep through it? How amenable are those already awake to giving up their lives and sleeping for – how long? Decades? Centuries?’
‘Those of us who attain positions of power and wealth within society tend to want to maintain that,’ Ruthven agreed. ‘Others spend far longer than they would wish asleep. They argue that those in the public eye must be seen to age and die. The way of the world is change, yet we remain constant. Those of us awake must make way for the sleepers, but those with power want to keep it. At any cost.’
‘Quite a dilemma. But with an obvious solution. An unacceptable solution.’
Ruthven nodded. ‘Increasingly it is argued that the status quo must change. That what worked once is no longer the best way. As our numbers grow, so do the arguments that we should step out of the shadows. Announce our presence. That we are now strong enough to take over. We don’t need to govern from hiding, shaping the destiny of the world while remaining forever shrouded in darkness. Why should we limit ourselves? Why feed only on the dross of society, on those who will not be missed – the children from the workhouse, the women on the streets, the drunks asleep in the alleys?’ Lord Ruthven leaned forward, fixing Sir William with a dark, piercing stare. ‘There are so many of us now in positions of power that we could take over and rule.’
‘And will that happen?’ Sir William asked quietly.
‘A few years ago, I would have said no.’ Lord Ruthven looked away. ‘But circumstances have changed. Until now those of us who favour the status quo have been able to argue that the current system works. That it is best and safest not to change our strategy. It has served us well for centuries. But now … it is becoming a different world and things are happening that may expose us.’
‘Expose?’ Sir William smiled. ‘You mean, as one might expose a photograph?’
CHAPTER 12
In his room across the corridor, George was examining one of the photographs from Xavier Hemming’s files. It showed a man standing in a stiff pose on the sea front. A pencilled description on the back of the photograph read:
Brighton, 1864
Michael Adisson and unknown
The man in the picture – Adisson – had one arm hanging by his side. The other arm was held out, curled round. As he might have stood if he was holding someone with him in the photograph – his wife, or child, or …
‘Unknown indeed,’ George thought as he looked through his magnifying glass. The obvious explanation was that the man was just standing oddly. But the pose would have been held for a
while. It was not an accidental posture.
The next possibility was that it was a trick. The person Adisson was holding had somehow been removed from the picture. George knew from his discussions with Blake and Pennyman that such things were possible. But they were complicated, they needed planning. If anyone had removed a figure from this picture, they would need an identical photograph taken from the same position to replace the background. And there was no sign of any trickery.
The only other possibility was the one that George kept rejecting. Despite Blake’s assertions about Lord Ruthven.
It haunted him again as he gathered together his things and left his office. How could someone simply not show up in a photograph?
‘We have a special relationship with various elements,’ Ruthven said. ‘Light, silver, water.’
‘I have heard as much,’ Sir William agreed.
‘Running water is not in and of itself an obstacle. Another fiction,’ Ruthven explained. ‘But yes, we can drown. We need blood, and that blood needs air just like yours. More than yours.’
‘And photographs?’ Sir William prompted.
‘The new technology. One that might yet force us to act. As photography becomes more popular we cannot hope to remain hidden.’ He stood up and walked slowly to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly. The afternoon was drawing into evening, and the air was heavy with grey fog.
‘Sunlight,’ Lord Ruthven said quietly. ‘Not just daylight, but the rays of the sun itself. A filter of smog is sufficient for us, but it is helpful that the legends suggest all light is anathema.’
‘You mentioned light, you mentioned silver …’ Sir William stood up and joined Ruthven by the window, looking out into the grey. He saw himself in the glass, and beside him – nothing. ‘You cast no reflection,’ he said quietly.
‘Not even in a mirror,’ Ruthven admitted. ‘That much is true. Light and silver – the principal elements of the photographic process. Like a mirror, the photograph ignores us.’ He turned and looked directly at Sir William. ‘We cast no shadows. I sometimes think that, if even the light of the sun can’t see me, perhaps God himself is so ashamed he is trying to ignore us.’
‘You think the advance of photography might force your fellows to act?’
‘I fear so. But there are other reasons. Other things that are happening. Other matters that are coming to a head. Unspeakable things.’
She looked so pale and tired, propped up against the pillows on the bed in her hotel room. Marie Cuttler smiled at Liz, but her smile was as frail and thin as she had become.
‘Thank you so much for coming.’
Liz sat on the edge of the bed and took her friend’s hand. It was ice cold. ‘Oh Marie, you look so … tired.’
‘It will pass, I am sure. But, if it does not …’ Her eyelids flickered over her eyes as she struggled to stay awake. ‘Do something for me?’
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘A story based on truth, remember. Do it justice – our story.’ Marie fell back, exhausted. ‘You will be such a brilliant Marguerite, Miss Oldfield.’
The Coachman paid Eddie barely a glance when he returned, and the coach clattered through the foggy streets with Eddie alone inside.
It stopped outside the Damnation Club for a while, and Eddie shivered at the memories that brought back. Then the Coachman returned and they were off again.
At each of the several stops during the afternoon, Eddie was tempted to escape. But each and every time he decided that if the Coachman had not noticed the substitution then he would soon find out what was going on – where Charlie and the others had been taken, and what had happened to them.
Except, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He was stuck now, just as Charlie and the others had been. Except they had probably been mesmerised like Remick. Eddie still had all his wits about him, and at the first sign of trouble he was out of here.
Even so, he felt suddenly cold and incredibly alone as the coach drew up outside the British Museum. The Coachman climbed down from the carriage, and walked purposefully towards the main entrance. This could be his last chance to escape, Eddie thought. Should he slip away now? Or should he stay and see what more he could discover?
There was a boy standing outside George’s house when he got home. He thought at first it was Eddie, but as he approached he saw that the lad was taller and thinner. His dark hair was greased across his head and he was staring into space.
‘Can I help you?’ George asked.
‘Help,’ the boy echoed, his voice dead and flat.
‘Are you looking for Eddie?’ George wondered. Perhaps he was a friend from school.
‘Eddie sent me,’ the reply came in the same monotone.
‘If he’s not here, I’m afraid I don’t know where he is.’
‘Eddie sent me to tell you all about it. About Mr Pearce and the Coachman.’
‘Are you all right?’ The lad looked blank-faced and distracted. George unlocked the door and let himself in. The boy followed him.
‘Look, I told you, Eddie’s not here,’ George said irritably. He wasn’t sure what to do – he couldn’t throw the boy out. And the lad was just standing in the living room, eyes unfocused. He had lapsed into silence. In the better light George could see he was lean but well built. His hands were bunched into fists at his sides.
‘Yes,’ George said uneasily. ‘Well, perhaps you’d like to wait?’
The boy did not answer, but stared blankly into the distance. George was not sure quite what to do with him, but before long he heard a coach pulling up outside. Moments later, there was a knock at the door.
It was Sir Harrison Judd. ‘Mr Archer, I bring good news. Your application has been accepted.’
George blinked. ‘Accepted? Already?’ He had been meaning to talk to Sir William about the strange masked ball and his night at the Damnation Club. But a suitable moment had not come. When George left the Museum, Sir William’s door had been shut, the sound of voices coming from within. Now it seemed it was too late to ask for advice.
‘We would very much like to have you as a member,’ Judd said. ‘Congratulations.’
George was surprised. He had imagined there would be an interview or meeting or some such formality at least. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Sir Harrison turned to go. Then he stopped as he realised that George was not following. ‘Well, come on then, man. Can’t keep them waiting. This evening you will be initiated as a full member of the Damnation Club.’
George glanced nervously back towards the living room door. Could he safely leave the strange friend of Eddie’s here? And where was Eddie, confound the boy?
The door slammed shut behind George and Sir Harrison. At the sound, John Remick shuddered and rocked back on his heels. As he regained his balance, he looked round in surprise. His mind was a fog every bit as thick as the air outside. But slowly his memory of the last few hours returned. He remembered Pearce’s betrayal, the Coachman. And Eddie. He remembered George – how he had been supposed to tell him everything but his mind had blanked out.
He slumped down into an armchair, his head in his hands.
They talked about the myths and the legends, the fiction and the fact.
‘Oh, it’s true that we have some affinity for our home soil,’ Lord Ruthven said. ‘For the land where we last lived a full and proper existence. Perhaps it is just homesickness and all in the mind, or perhaps there is indeed something stronger that binds us to that soil.’
‘Literally binds you to it?’ Sir William wondered.
By way of answer, Lord Ruthven undid his shoelaces. He slipped off first one then the other shoe. ‘I was in Scotland when I was initiated. It’s almost like joining an exclusive club.’ He held out one of his shoes for Sir William to see the thin layer of soil sprinkled inside. ‘A constant reminder. With every step of my life I can feel where I used to belong, who I used to be. Perhaps the others find that liberating and rejoice in the transition.’ He put his shoes bac
k on and retied the laces slowly and deftly. ‘But I find I long for the things I no longer have.’
‘Such as sunlight?’
‘And love … And death.’
‘Which is why you have come to see me, I imagine.’ Sir William leaned forward across his desk, elbows on the blotter as he tapped his fingers against his chin. ‘An exclusive club,’ he said quietly. Then louder as he realised: ‘Of course, the Damnation Club!’
Lord Ruthven was nodding. ‘We have an initiation there this evening. A very special candidate, I’m afraid.’
‘Who?’ Sir William demanded.
Before Lord Ruthven could answer, the door to the office was hurled open. Sir William jumped to his feet, staring angrily at the cloaked figure standing in the doorway.
The man’s voice was dry and cracked. ‘I hope you have not been telling Sir William all our secrets. All our lies.’ He pushed back the hood of his cloak.
Sir William backed away, staring in horrified disbelief at the skull where the man’s head should have been. Somewhere deep inside the empty eye sockets there might have been a flicker of life. Or death.
‘I have not drunk blood since our Lord was taken from us,’ the Coachman said as he advanced on Sir William. ‘Not for over four thousand years. My sister Belamis and I abstained from blood until his return. Have you any idea how I ache for it? How I hunger for it?’ His bony fingers reached out for Sir William. ‘But soon, he will walk among us once more, and so will she. Then – only then – will I allow myself to feed.’
Sir William’s back was to the wall. The fingers of a skeletal hand clamped on his throat, the other pushing his head back to expose his neck.
‘I offer you a last chance to redeem yourself, Ruthven,’ the Coachman rasped. ‘To put right what you have done, before our Master hears of it.’
The room was shimmering and swaying as Sir William struggled to breathe. The skull stared back at him – an image of his own mortality. Then it was replaced by another image – by the pale, frightened face of Lord Ruthven.
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