Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  ‘Thank you very much,’ she said dutifully. ‘And now I must continue with my studying.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Eliot. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye.’ But the child had not looked up; she was already engrossed in some book on the table, and her mouth began to move as she sounded the words. Eliot smiled faintly as he looked on her, then gesturing to me we went out from the room. As I closed the door, I heard the stirring of music again. I wanted to pause and listen, but Eliot pulled on my arm. ‘Unless I am much mistaken, here comes our guide now.’

  I gazed where he pointed. We were standing on a balcony, and stairways – much like those I had seen before – were stretching up and down before us. But there was a crucial difference, and I was now more certain than ever that I had earlier been the victim of some fleeting opium dream, for whereas previously the stairs had seemed like structures from a vision, there was nothing very strange about the ones before me now beyond the incongruity of their presence in a warehouse – which was remarkable enough, to be sure, but not impossible. I supposed that the owner of the place had a taste for the grotesque and bizarre; certainly, the servant approaching us supported such a view. I would estimate he was no more than three foot tall, and his face seemed almost to have been melted away. There were two small holes where his nose should have been, and his lower jaw was stunted so that his tongue lolled over his black, broken teeth. Flakes of skin were oozing on his scalp. His limbs were short and fat like a baby’s and yet, despite his page-boy’s uniform, he was clearly of a considerable age. I shuddered at the sight of him; but then I saw his eyes, which were deep and expressive with a sense of pain, and I felt almost ashamed.

  He stood before us and grunted something. Because his lower jaw only reached the roof of his mouth, he was hard to understand, but was dearly asking us what we required.

  ‘Sir George Mowberley,’ said Eliot. ‘Can you show us where he is?’

  The dwarf stared at him and seemed to frown, though it was hard to be certain, so twisted was his face. He pointed back down the stairs and gestured at us to follow him. We did so, walking slowly, for his pace was very slow. Half-way down, I was startled to observe a panther watching us. I tensed, but the panther merely yawned and with lazy nonchalance began to lick its paws. In the hallway at the foot of the stairs, I saw what seemed to be a python coiled around a chair; in a further room, we startled two small deer. ‘What is this place?’ I murmured. ‘We appear to be in a zoo.’

  Eliot nodded slowly; but he made no reply. He was clearly tense; his face looked rigid and drawn, and he kept glancing over his shoulder as though expecting to be surprised. We saw no one, however, though I too, infected perhaps by Eliot’s mood of apprehension, began to feel possessed by a sense of dread.

  The dwarf stopped at length by a door. ‘Here,’ he breathed. The effort of articulation appeared to cause him pain. He opened the door for us and Eliot thanked him. My dread was thickening into horror now. I could feel it as a cloud, rolling through my mind.

  Eliot squeezed my arm. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. His forehead was clammy; his eyes seemed to be faintly protruding, as though with terror, and I wondered if my own eyes were looking the same. In a strange way, however, it comforted me to know that he felt as I did.

  I nodded. ‘Come, Eliot,’ I said. ‘Let us face the worst.’

  I had half-expected, I suppose, in the room beyond, to find some hallucination of the kind that had confronted me before. Instead there was just a heavy, velvet-red darkness. It took my eyes some seconds to adjust to it. Gradually I realised there were candles burning, tiny pinpricks of light flickering in an arc. Beyond them I saw the vague silhouettes of furniture, and beyond them the folds of curtains, rich and soft like the darkness itself, so that it was quite impossible to distinguish them apart and I felt enclosed, as though trapped within something heavy and alive. The air was thick with incense and opium smoke, and the perfumes of exotic, pollen-laden flowers. I felt quite drained of my energies. It was as though the darkness were feeding on me and I longed for some relief from it. Only ahead of me, where the arc of the candles met at the wall, had the darkness been banished and the curtains drawn back. There was a picture on the wall, illuminated. It seemed vividly pale against the red of the paintwork. It was of a woman. She had the face – I could tell at once – of the statues I had seen in the alcoves above. In this picture, however, she was represented as dressed in the very height of the latest fashion. She had the most ghastly beauty. I had to lower my gaze. When I did so, I saw for the first time a body spread like an offering on the floor. It seemed to be the Rajah. His clothes were sodden; there was a wound to his leg; his face was smeared with streaks of blood.

  Eliot crossed to him and turned him over. I followed him and saw, by the Rajah’s head, a large silver dish I had not noticed before. It was filled with a thick, dark liquid. I touched it with my finger and held it up to the candle-light. ‘Eliot,’ I whispered, ‘I think it is blood.’

  Eliot glanced up at me. ‘Indeed?’ he asked.

  I shivered, and looked about me. ‘There is something about this place,’ I muttered, ‘which seems…’

  ‘Yes?’ Eliot inquired.

  I shrugged. ‘Almost supernatural,’ I replied.

  Eliot laughed good-humouredly at this. ‘I think we should exhaust all natural explanations,’ he said, ‘before turning to a theory such as that. And indeed’ – he turned back to the body whose pulse he had been taking – ‘this is not a case, I feel, which defies the laws of nature.’

  Something in his tone alerted me. ‘You have a solution, then?’ I cried.

  ‘In the end,’ he replied, ‘it was very simple.’ I stared down at the Rajah’s face; it was the same, but… I can only say – it was not the same. The features were those I had seen before on the steps of the Private Entrance, but the cruelty had been softened and quite removed and the cheeks, I could see even through the streaks of blood, were now rosy and plump, not pallid at all. ‘I don’t understand it,’ I said. ‘It is die Rajah’s face, but it seems so remarkably – impossibly – changed.’

  ‘I agree,’ nodded Eliot, ‘it was a miraculous disguise that he wore. Even I when I first saw him failed to penetrate it.’

  ‘Who is it, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Why,’ replied Eliot, ‘Sir George Mowberley, of course.’

  ‘Is he…’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Eliot nodded. ‘Perfectly alive,’ He briefly inspected the wound to Sir George’s leg. ‘It must have been the bullet,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing serious. But we should remove him from here as soon as we can.’ He glanced round and, as he did so, the candles guttered as though suddenly disturbed. At the same moment the room seemed to pulse about me; again I felt as though some force, some entity, were draining me, so that the touch of my tongue felt like leather, and I imagined that my bones were being turned into ash. My eyeballs were dry and burning, as though all their moisture was being sucked out, so that even my sockets began to ache. Feeling drawn, I turned to look at the picture on the wall. Eliot too was staring at it.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ I asked.

  He turned. His face seemed shrunk to the contours of his skull. Suddenly, though, he laughed and shook his head.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked in some surprise.

  ‘Why, Stoker,’ he replied, ‘this is like a set from one of your plays – do you not think? A haunted house, with accompanying tricks? No, no’ – he shook his head again – ‘there is danger here, but not from any supernatural agency. The enemies we confront may be devilish, but alas, they are no less human for that’ He bent down. ‘Come,’ he said, lifting Sir George’s arms, ‘we must not be discovered here. Our conspirators will not be pleased to find us stealing their prize. Let us get moving at once.’

  I took Sir George’s feet and helped to lift him up. With my other hand I opened the door; I had not remembered shutting it but I kept my mouth quiet, for I had no wish to suffer further mockery. Even so, in my imagin
ation the darkness seemed still to be draining me; I wondered when my limbs would start to rustle, so withered and dry my body felt Eliot too, I thought, was struggling with his burden, as though much weakened; and though he smiled at me reassuringly, his face was rigid and pale again. We left the room; as we did so, we both simultaneously turned to stare at the painting one last time. The woman’s form glimmered; then a mist of darkness seemed to roll across the room and the candles were extinguished one by one as we watched them, until the whole room was dark. ‘For God’s sake,’ muttered Eliot, ‘let us get out of here.’ We staggered down the corridor. From upstairs, I could still hear the faint strains of music. We hurried away from it. At the end of the corridor was a large hall; and at the end of the hall, two heavy metal gates. They were both open. We passed through them, and felt rain against our brows. We had reached the street at last.

  ‘This way,’ said Eliot, pointing towards the flickering of a gas lamp. He kept glancing over his shoulder as we went, but no one followed us, and as we reached the main street I knew that we were safe, for a large crowd was gathered on the pavement of the road. I was surprised to see so many people together, for it was early in the morning; the crowd stood in the shadows away from the lamp, where the darkness was still pitch, and at first the object of their interest was impossible to make out. There was a policeman bending down beside a crumpled silhouette. Eliot asked him what had occurred; the constable replied that a woman had been assaulted and left for dead. At once, of course, Eliot offered his services; as he bent down, I saw him frown suddenly and reach for one of the victim’s wrists. ‘Quick!’ he shouted. ‘That rag, give it quickly!’ He tied it around the wrist, and I saw a purple stain slowly spread across the cloth. Eliot looked up at the policeman. ‘Didn’t you see,’ he asked, ‘that her wrist had been cut?’

  ‘So were the others!’ shouted a woman from the crowd. ‘They all had cuts to them like that, they all did, some to their throats, some to their bodies, and some to their wrists!’

  ‘Others?’ Eliot asked.

  ‘All around here,’ nodded the woman. Others from the crowd shouted out their agreement with her. ‘The police don’t do nothing for us!’ ‘They don’t care!’ ‘They keep it all hushed!’

  The constable swallowed; he looked very young. He told Eliot in a low voice that he didn’t know anything about the case. Rotherhithe wasn’t his beat. He had come from the north docks, to investigate the reported sound of gunfire on the Thames, and though he had found no evidence of the gunfire, he had come across the woman, and he was doing his best – and as he’d already said, it wasn’t his beat. He stared down nervously at the woman’s blood-stained wrist, and swallowed again. ‘Will she live?’ he asked at length.

  Eliot nodded. ‘I think so,’ he said, ‘but she must be got to a surgery at once.’ He stared up at the policeman. ‘Presumably, if you are from the north docks, you have a launch here now?’

  The constable nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Eliot, rising to his feet. ‘Then you will take us across. I can treat her best in Whitechapel.’

  The policeman nodded, then suddenly frowned. ‘Excuse me, sir, for asking, but what are you doing here?’

  ‘Us?’ Eliot shrugged. ‘We have been’ – he smiled faintly – ‘enjoying the nightlife of the docks.’ He gestured down at Sir George whose leg wound, I observed, he had been careful to conceal. ‘And some of us, I’m afraid, have been enjoying it rather too much.’

  The policeman nodded slowly. ‘Yes, sir.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘So I see.’

  ‘Be obliged if you’d keep it to yourself,’ said Eliot briskly. ‘And now let’s not waste any more time. Come on. We need to get this poor woman into your boat, and then into a bed.’

  And so it was that we were soon crossing back to the north bank of the Thames, and on to Whitechapel. Once there, a couple of policemen helped to carry the injured woman into the surgery; Eliot, before accompanying them to treat her, asked me to take Sir George upstairs. ‘And for God’s sake,’ he whispered, ‘keep that leg wound covered.’

  I nodded. I transported my burden without mishap, and stayed by his side for upwards of an hour. At length Eliot joined me again. ‘She will pull through,’ he said, sitting down beside Sir George. ‘I have got her asleep in a bed downstairs.’

  ‘And him?’ I asked, gesturing at Sir George.

  ‘Him?’ Eliot smiled. ‘Oh, he has been misbehaving badly. We must send him back to his wife at once.’

  ‘But is he really all right, do you think?’

  ‘I am certain of it. But let me just examine him, and treat his wound which, as you can see …’ – he exposed it – ‘is really just a scratch…’ He paused for a moment to stare at Sir George’s face; then he smiled faintly and shook his head; then he frowned, as though embarrassed, and returned to dressing the wound. But there had been affection in his smile, and such affection in a man as cold as Eliot, I thought, must be worth a good deal.

  ‘You are very close to him?’ I asked.

  Eliot shook his head. ‘Not now. But once. We were drawn as opposites so often are. Myself – and Ruthven – and Mowberley.’

  I nodded and stared at Sir George’s face again. ‘When did you know?’ I asked at length.

  ‘What – that he and the Rajah were the same man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Eliot smiled grimly. For a while, he continued with his work in silence and I had begun to think he wouldn’t answer me. ‘George was always …,’ he said suddenly. ‘He was always …,’ He shook his head. ‘Fond of women.’

  ‘Yes, you said,’ I nodded slowly. ‘The prostitute in the alleyway, then?’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘But… excuse me for any indelicacy … but – there are many men who … well… might not a Rajah have – you know – as well?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Eliot shortly. ‘Of course. But I had convinced myself that if the Rajah were indeed not Sir George, then his purpose with the prostitute would have been something quite other than sex.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I stared at Eliot in surprise. ‘In the name of God, what?’

  ‘I do not wish to say.’ His face froze. ‘It was a folly of mine.’

  ‘But surely…’

  ‘I do not wish to say.’ This was spoken with a sudden iciness and my expression must have been one of surprise, for Eliot immediately touched my shoulder in a gesture of apology. ‘Do not press me on this topic, please, Stoker,’ he asked. ‘It is a matter of some embarrassment to me. You will remember – my mention of the Kalikshutran disease … it is something I have attempted to put from my mind; yet it is clear I have not entirely succeeded, for I sometimes find myself suspecting its existence where it could not possibly be. Suffice it to say, though, that my imaginings were proved false and I knew –I knew– from that moment on – that Sir George was our man. When I saw him on the boat, the expression on his face once he had seen me… I was certain.’

  ‘There is one thing, though,’ I said, ‘which I still don’t understand.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes.’ I studied Sir George’s face again. ‘How did his features seem to change so much? How was it that we failed to recognise him?’

  ‘Ah.’ Eliot nodded slowly. ‘You will remember, Stoker, in Coldlair Lane, I mentioned that the case was perfectly clear to me save for one detail alone. Well – you have just touched on the detail which still baffles me. I confess – I cannot answer your question.’

  ‘Have you no theory?’

  Eliot frowned. ‘Perhaps…’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes?’

  He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said at length, ‘it is impossible.’

  ‘Tell me,’ I pressed him.

  ‘I was merely going to comment,’ he said, ‘on the coincidence.’

  ‘Coincidence?’

  Eliot nodded. ‘You will remember that Lucy, when she saw Mowberley’s face at the window, imagined it to be daubed with streaks of blood. Tonight also, when we discovere
d him ourselves, his face was again daubed with streaks of blood.’

  ‘Goodness, Eliot!’ I exclaimed. ‘You are perfectly right! What do you make of it?’

  ‘I confess,’ Eliot answered, ‘I can make nothing of it at all.’

  My disappointment must have been evident in my face, for Eliot smiled. ‘We must wait, I am afraid,’ he said, rising to his feet, ‘for Mowberley to regain his consciousness. Perhaps then some light may be shed on the matter. And to that end, Stoker, I wonder if I could press you for one last favour.’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘you know I am keen to be of service in this case.’

  Eliot had crossed to his desk. Now he sat down by it and began to scribble a note. ‘Mowberley must be restored to his home and his wife,’ he said. ‘Lady Mowberley has borne his absence very bravely. We cannot keep him from her any longer. Therefore, Stoker’ – he turned in his chair – ‘I was wondering if you might deliver the Minister on your way back home.’

  ‘It will be no trouble at all,’ I replied.

  Eliot nodded. ‘I would come myself,’ he murmured, ‘but I have left Llewellyn alone here for too long as it is,’ He returned to his note. At length he finished it, sealed it up and handed it to me. ‘If you would be so kind, deliver this as well to Lady Mowberley.’

  ‘You must promise me, in return, to keep me informed of any developments.’

  Eliot smiled. ‘But of course, my dear Stoker. To whom else could I possibly turn? But I doubt this case will trouble us much more. No, I think we can consider our solution to be found.’

  And on that note, I left him. I had much to ponder, though, as I sat in my cab, for I could not be so certain that the mysteries were indeed resolved. I thought of all I had recently experienced and heard, until, exhausted as I was, the various images from the past few days began to blend in my mind. I saw Lucy; the Rajah; Lord Ruthven and Sir George; I was chasing them with Eliot in a boat down the Thames; then I was with them all in Polidori’s den. And then I thought of the portrait in the perfume-clouded room; and all of a sudden I was jerked back awake. I shuddered at the memory – why, I couldn’t say – save that the woman’s beauty had seemed so impossibly great that I wondered if it was that which was unsettling me. We still did not know who she was, nor what her purpose was in Rotherhithe – yet Eliot could talk as though the case were solved.