Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  For I repeat – I am an optimist, and a scientist. These continue to be my proudest boasts. The mysteries I work on must be capable of answers; the data I research must be observable. You remember my methods – I search out, I study, I deduce. I remain what I have always been, a rationalist, and my lifetime of research stays as valid as before. I have not given up, you see – far from it. I have set up a small laboratory in my rooms and, using the equipment I have there, I process the data that I gathered in the hills. I enclose with this letter a copy of a short article I have written, setting down some of my preliminary thoughts. You will observe that I have not yet abandoned my interest in these white blood cells I was studying before, and the puzzle of their remarkable longevity. I still have a long way to travel, of course; but I very much doubt it will be vampires that I find when I finally track the solutions to ground.

  Write to me again. You will have noticed from this letter how keen I am to continue our arguments. Reply soon, and be as rude as you like.

  JACK.

  Letter, Miss Lucy Ruthven to Sir George Mowberley.

  12, Myddleton Street,

  Clerkenwell,

  London.

  12 April 1888.

  Dear George,

  Yes, it is really me, Lucy, your ever-dutiful ward, and no, I am not dead, or debauched, or utterly ruined, as your dear wife warned I would be, but perfectly happy and well. Tell Rosamund as much. I am sure she will be delighted. We all know how fond of me your wife has always been!

  But you at least, dear George, do not hate me, I hope. It is perfectly true that it is now many months since I left your home; and that I have scarcely behaved as a pious ward should. But I am trying now to make some amends – even at the cost of appearing ridiculous, for what I have to tell you will seem very strange, especially since I am not, as you know, inclined to superstitious fears. Will you laugh, then, George, when I tell you that last night I had a terrible dream, so awful that I still cannot banish it from my thoughts – or will you realise how fond of you I must be, to tell you of it, and to risk your scorn?

  You will need no reminding, of course, that it was exactly a year ago today that poor Arthur’s body was found floating in the Thames. George, I saw it all last night – saw it in my dream, and it was horribly real.

  His corpse was bobbing amongst the filth of the river, and as I looked I could see how drained and pale his dear face was. We were all gathered, his family and friends, on the river shore; we were dressed in mourning, and behind us was a coffin on an open hearse. One of the undertakers held a long pole in his hands, with a hook upon its end; he reached with it for Arthur’s body; once the corpse had been dragged up through the mud it was borne, still naked, and laid upon the hearse. We all stood gazing upon Arthur’s face; and then the reins were shaken and the hearse began to move away down a gloomy side street. I could not bear to look upon the carriage, nor the undertakers. For some reason they filled me with dread, as though the blackness into which they were passing was that of death, and they and their hearse were its emissaries. All of us, all the mourners, remained absolutely still as the carriage rumbled away from us and the horses’ hooves began to fade into the dark.

  And then, as I watched the hearse, I saw that you were following it – you and Rosamund, arm-in-arm. Rosamund was looking very beautiful, more lovely even than she usually does, and yet her face beneath her dark hair was as pale as death, as pale indeed as Arthur’s had been. Your face, George, I could not see; your back was turned on me and I knew, as you went, that you were passing into the most deadly danger. I struggled to warn you, but no sound would come from my mouth; and still you walked on. At length you and Rosamund were wholly swallowed by the dark; and soon, even the rumbling of the hearse was gone. Only then could I scream; and screaming, I woke up. The horror, though, remained with me; nor has it faded yet.

  I cannot suppress the dread that my nightmare was a warning – that you and Rosamund are somehow walking into some deadly peril. You will reply that it is the anniversary of Arthur’s death which explains this agitation of mine, and no doubt it is – yet even so, dear George, do not forget that the murder of my brother remains unsolved to this day, and that my fears, however expressed, are perhaps not altogether vain. So please be careful – if not for your own sake, then for Rosamund’s. I do not love her; but I would seek to spare her poor Arthur’s fate. I could not wish that on anyone.

  I long to see you – but unfortunately cannot for a while. The new season at the Lyceum begins in two nights’ time, and I am to appear in the opening performance! As Mr Stoker (our theatre manager) has often told us, there is still a lot of work to be done. But later, George, I would like to see you, if I might, and repair whatever bridges need to be repaired. I feel we have been apart for far too long. My quarrel was always with your wife, never with you.

  Perhaps you might even come and see me perform at the Lyceum? Whether you do or not, though, dear guardian, I remain your loving, if perhaps over-superstitious, ward,

  LUCY.

  Letter, Lady Rosamund Mowberley to Miss Lucy Ruthven.

  2, Grosvenor Street,

  Mayfair,

  London.

  13 April 1888.

  My dearest Lucy,

  I trust you will forgive me for writing to you at a time when I know your attentions will be fully focused upon your impending first night, but I am in a state of such distress that I cannot refrain from making contact with you. I beg you, please, to read this letter and not to cast it straight aside. You will soon appreciate, if you only finish this paragraph, that I have had little choice but to approach you over the terrible business I must now relate. This morning I received a letter. It was hand delivered. My name had been printed in capitals on the envelope, and the writing inside was in capitals as well. The letter was unsigned. I therefore have no way of knowing who sent it to me. And yet its message was an extraordinary and terrifying one. ‘I HAVE SEEN G. MURDERED,’ it read. When I tell you that my dear George has been missing for a week now and that furthermore, even before his disappearance, he had seemed the likely target of a dangerous conspiracy, then you will understand why I fear the worst I have asked a man to investigate this mystery for me, not a policeman, not even a private detective, but an old friend of George’s, possessed of remarkable powers which I have witnessed for myself. You will remember him, I am sure: his name is Dr John Eliot, and he may very well shortly be visiting you. I therefore feel it would be for the best if I give you a full account of my meeting with him, not only so that you may be prepared for his style of investigation, which is very distinctive, but also so that I may give you the facts surrounding George’s disappearance just as I gave them to Dr Eliot himself.

  I visited the Doctor this morning. The weather was more than usually icy and raw, and even those most prosperous stretches of London seemed unwelcoming as I journeyed through them on my way to his address. Beyond the City, however, I seemed to have entered a circle of Hell, and not even the most blissful of climates, I think, would have ameliorated the scenes of horror I witnessed there. George had warned me that Dr Eliot had what he once mocked as ‘the missionary spirit’ – yet surely even missionaries must shrink before entering such a place, where shivering creatures huddle in rags and young girls bare themselves without a hint of shame. Certainly, as a married woman of only tender years myself, brought up in the country and hence unused to such sights, I was greatly relieved when at length we attained our destination. As I stepped out, I was choked by poisonous fumes and the stench of rotten fish and vegetables. The pavement onto which I stepped was ankle-high in mud. This Dr Eliot, I thought as I pulled myself free, must be as singular a man as my husband has always claimed he was, to choose not only to practise but also to live in such a place.

  It was with some relief, then, that I stepped into his surgery. Its silence, after the din of the crowded streets outside, was most welcome, and the air, though touched with the faintest tang of blood, seemed otherwise relatively
fresh and clean. I asked the attendant who had let me in to inform Dr Eliot of my presence in his hall. ‘If you want Dr Eliot,’ she replied, ‘you will have to go up and disturb him yourself. When he is at his studies, there is no other way of gaining his attention. Up the stairs, first on the left.’ Then she turned and hurried away, and as I called out to thank her a wailing of children from the room beyond drowned out my words. I had a brief glimpse of bodies on rickety beds, and then the door was slammed shut. Time, I thought, was clearly precious in such a place, and realising this I grew even more reluctant to disturb Dr Eliot in his period of study. But then I contemplated the urgency of my mission, and the distance I had come, and I resolved at once to climb the stairs. On the landing, I knocked on the door to which the nurse had directed me. There was no answer; I knocked again. Still there was no reply, and so I gently turned the handle and pushed the door ajar.

  The study, for such it clearly was, seemed a pleasant place. A fire was flickering in the grate, and thick rugs and deep armchairs completed the impression of a cosy cheerfulness. Books were piled everywhere, and various ornaments of a foreign, not to say exotic, character were hanging from the wall. Of Dr Eliot himself, however, there was no sign, and so I pushed the door fully open, walked inside and looked around. The study’s far end, I could see now, was quite distinct from the remainder of the room. Indeed, it seemed a virtual chemist’s laboratory. Test-tubes and pipings were everywhere, and a flame was rising from a burner on the desk. Crouched over this same desk, with his back to me, was the figure of a man. He must have heard my entrance, but he did not look around. Instead, I observed with some surprise that he was aiming a syringe into his arm. He jabbed the needle down, and the syringe began to fill up with a flow of purple blood. Then, gently, the needle was removed again and the blood added to some substance on a dish.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ said Dr Eliot, still not turning round. I did as he instructed. Five minutes I sat there waiting for him, as he studied his dish and scribbled down notes. At length, I heard him mutter impatiently and push back his chair. ‘It is no good,’ he said, turning to face me for the first time. His face was very thin, but seemed animated by the most remarkable energy, and his eyes were bright with intelligence. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting so needlessly,’ he said. He turned off the bunsen flame, and at once it was as though the flame behind his face and eyes had been extinguished too. He crossed to me and slumped into the armchair opposite. Of his former alertness there now appeared not the faintest trace. He seemed utterly sunk in lethargy.

  ‘Now,’ he said, scarcely able to keep his eyelids open, ‘what can I do for you?’

  I swallowed. ‘Dr Eliot, I am the wife of a dear friend of yours.’

  ‘Ah.’ He widened his eyes at this. ‘Lady Mowberley?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I smiled nervously. ‘How did you know?’

  He hooded his eyes again. ‘I have very few friends, I am afraid, and even fewer who have recently been married. I am only sorry that I had to miss the happy day.’

  ‘You were in India, were you not?’

  He nodded with just the faintest inclination of his head. ‘Until six months ago. I did write to George upon my return, but he has clearly been occupied with affairs of state. I gather he is now an important man.’

  ‘Yes.’ There must have been something in my voice, some catch perhaps, for Dr Eliot looked at me with sudden interest and leaned forward in his chair. ‘There is some problem?’ he asked. ‘Lady Mowberley, tell me, is George not well?’

  I struggled to compose myself. ‘Dr Eliot,’ I replied at length, ‘I very much fear that George may be dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ His voice scarcely registered the shock he must have felt, but his expression was suddenly as alert as before and his eyes glittered as he studied me. ‘But you only fear it?’ he said at last. ‘You are not certain?’

  ‘He has been missing, Dr Eliot.’

  ‘Missing? For how long?’

  ‘For almost a week now.’

  Dr Eliot’s brow darkened. ‘You have reported this to Scotland Yard?’ he asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘There are circumstances, Dr Eliot. Very particular… circumstances.’

  He stared deep into my eyes, then nodded slowly. ‘And so – because of these circumstances – you have come to me?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘George always talked of you. He spoke very highly of your powers.’

  Dr Eliot frowned. ‘By powers,’ he said, ‘I suppose George meant those tricks of observation with which I used to impress him and poor Ruthven at university?’ He did not wait for me to reply, but suddenly shook his head. ‘I have no use for them now,’ he said. ‘No, no! They were a childish waste of time!’

  ‘Why childish,’ I protested, ‘if they might restore George to me?’

  Dr Eliot smiled sardonically. ‘I fear you have an over-inflated opinion of what I might be able to achieve, Lady Mowberley.’

  ‘Why do you say that? I have heard stories of you, heard how you solved mysteries that had baffled the police.’

  Dr Eliot rested his chin on his finger-tips; he seemed returned now to his former state of lethargy. ‘We were great friends, your husband, Ruthven and I,’ he said. ‘But after Cambridge, we all went our separate ways. Ruthven became a brilliant diplomatist, Mowberley dabbled in his politics, and as for myself…’ He paused. ‘As for myself, Lady Mowberley – I discovered that I was not as great a genius as I had always thought. I soon discovered that the tricks which had so impressed Mowberley were not quite so brilliant after all. In short, I began to learn some modesty.’

  ‘I see,’ I replied, even though I did not, and indeed felt utterly dismayed by his words. I asked him what had taught him this modesty.

  ‘A professor at Edinburgh, Dr Joseph Bell,’ he replied. ‘I was studying with him, to further my research. Professor Bell had a skill very like my own, for he could read clues to a person’s character from a single glance, and he would use this talent to explain to his students the principles of diagnosis. To me, though, he taught a different lesson, for he knew that my deductive powers were very great and so he warned me instead of the opposite – that deductions may be logical, and yet not always correct. He would challenge me to display my skills, and though I was often proved to be right, so also I was sometimes very wrong. “That is the lesson for you!” he warned me. “Always beware of what you have missed. Beware of what you have faded to recognise, beware of what you have not dared to think.” He was quite right, Lady Mowberley. Experience has taught me this much – answers are never more treacherous than when they seem most correct. In science there is always that which is unfathomable – how much more so then in human behaviour.’ He paused, and fixed me with his stare. ‘That, Lady Mowberley,’ he said at length, ‘is why I have confined my recent studies to medicine.’

  Dear Lucy, imagine how crestfallen I was! ‘So you will not help me, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Please,’ he answered, ‘do not be upset. I have merely been warning you, Lady Mowberley, that my ability to aid you must be doubtful in the extreme.’

  ‘Why? Because you are out of practice?’

  ‘In the field of criminal detection – yes.’

  ‘But such a skill might be recaptured, surely?’

  Dr Eliot rested his chin on his fingertips. ‘Really, Lady Mowberley,’ he said after a slight pause, ‘you would be best advised to turn to the police.’

  ‘But it might be recaptured?’ I insisted, ignoring him.

  Dr Eliot made no reply to this at first, but continued to fix me with his glittering stare. ‘Possibly,’ he said at last.

  I felt then, dear Lucy, that he was sorely tempted, and I resolved to tempt him just that little bit more, for it seemed to me that his reticence might in truth be vanity and that all he needed was some chance to display his powers. ‘What can you see in me?’ I asked h
im suddenly. ‘What can you read from my appearance now?’

  ‘As I have warned you, my reasoning may be faulty.’

  ‘No, Dr Eliot, your results may be but not your reasoning, surely?’

  He smiled faintly at this.

  ‘So,’ I pressed him, ‘what can you tell?’

  ‘Oh, nothing much, beyond the features which struck me as obvious when I first saw you sitting here.’

  I looked at him in surprise. ‘And what would they be?’

  ‘Oh, merely that you are from a wealthy but non-noble family, that your much-loved mother has recently died, and that you hardly ever venture out from your home, having a morbid fear of High Society. All that is clear enough. In addition, I would hazard the suggestion that you have journeyed abroad within the past year or so, possibly to India.’

  I laughed. ‘Until your last comment, Dr Eliot, I was afraid that you were cheating and that my husband had written to you describing me.’

  His expression was one of the utmost disappointment. ‘I was wrong, then?’ he asked. ‘You have not been abroad?’

  ‘Never.’

  He slumped back in an attitude of despair. ‘You see then what I mean? My powers have faded hopelessly.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I assured him. ‘Your previous descriptions were utterly correct. But before you explain them to me, I would be interested to know why you thought I had been abroad?’