Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  I am reminded of the comment by my old professor at Edinburgh, Dr Joseph Bell. ‘Eliminate the impossible,’ he always told me, ‘and whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ But what if nothing remains? Must the impossible then be acknowledged as the truth?

  6 p.m. – I should abandon this whole course of research. It is possible there are things man should not attempt to know. I remember Kalikshutra, and the skewered body of the little boy. Once the impossible is instated as reality, what frameworks and boundaries will then remain? Where might we not end?

  11 p.m. –I went at last, for all my initial determination not to go. Lord Ruthven received me in his study; despite the fine evening outside, the curtains were drawn and only a single candle flickered in the room. I could see at once, however, that he was flanked on either side by seated men and women, for their faces and hands seemed to gleam against the dark; they smiled as I walked in, their teeth ivory-white and sharp, and their expressions almost predatory. I waited to see if Lord Ruthven would request them to leave, but he did not, and in truth I was hardly surprised, for it was apparent – seeing them together now – that Lord Ruthven’s ailment had afflicted the others too, for they all shared the same pale beauty and that same strange sense – which I think I now understand – of something terribly corrupted and wrong.

  Lord Ruthven gestured at me to pull up a chair. I did so and then, in reply to his invitation, told him of the experiments I had been conducting all day. ‘In short,’ I concluded, ‘I cannot be certain that your illness is wholly, or even largely, anaemia. If it is, then its form is like nothing I have seen. It is susceptible, furthermore …,’ Here, I paused. I stared up at the watching pairs of eyes. They glittered at me unblinkingly.

  ‘Go on,’ said Lord Ruthven.

  ‘The anaemia, I was going to say – which is strictly speaking a deficiency of haemoglobin – is susceptible in your blood to an immediate cure.’

  ‘And that is?’

  Again, I paused. At length I smiled. ‘Do you really need me to tell you?’

  He made no reply.

  ‘Tell us,’ said one of his companions, her lips curled in a sneer.

  I rested my chin on my fingertips. ‘Blood,’ I told her. ‘Fresh human blood.’ I stared again into Lord Ruthven’s eyes. They were as cold as before, but no longer impenetrable. Instead, I could glimpse sadness and self-loathing there, and I knew my suspicions were surely correct. Yet even at that point I could not bear to accept them as the truth. I stared into the faces opposite me, searching each one for some sign of denial, but they remained as frozen as the masks of the dead and the silence of the room made my flesh start to crawl.

  One of the crowd suddenly laughed. ‘He confirms me in my opinion, I am afraid, my Lord, that doctors are always insufferably dull. You pay them money, and in return they tell you what you already know.’ He yawned. ‘Damme, how I long for some genuine surprise.’

  Lord Ruthven held up a hand to silence him. He leaned forward. ‘Doctor Eliot,’ he murmured, ‘you would agree, I presume, that a need for blood might be an illness in itself?’

  I studied hard to preserve my impassivity. ‘Yes, I would,’ I replied.

  Lord Ruthven nodded. ‘Then might there not also be a cure for that need? Might there be a blood type that our cells would not absorb?’

  ‘If there is,’ I said slowly, ‘then I am yet to find it, I am afraid.’

  ‘But you might? If you continued your search?’

  I observed him carefully. ‘I would need,’ I said at length, ‘to know far more than you have been prepared to tell me so far. I would need the truth, my Lord.’

  No reply to this. Again, the silence seemed to crawl against my skin.

  ‘He can do nothing for us,’ a woman said, and another nodded. ‘He does not seem right to me,’ she murmured. ‘Not right at all.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lord Ruthven raised an eyebrow.

  The woman nodded. ‘He is mortal. What can he know? There is no cure.’

  ‘How can we be certain,’ Lord Ruthven replied coldly, ‘if we do not try?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘You tried before, my Lord. You remember? With another doctor.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘Why?’

  A shadow seemed to pass across Lord Ruthven’s face. He did not reply. Instead, he gazed into my eyes and suddenly their gleam was engulfing me. As before, I felt terror reaching out to lap at my mind, then rise and submerge it. I surrendered, like an addict to his opium smoke, and as I did so I saw all my dreams laid out before me – the promise of great work achieved, medicine revolutionised, the whole course of biology and science changed … if only I would help him … if only I would work to obtain him a cure. And I felt sudden anger, knowing that he was tempting me, and so I shook my head and struggled to break free.

  ‘Cure?’ I exclaimed, finding my voice. I rose to my feet ‘Cure for what, my Lord?’ I stared at him, frozen in his chair. ‘What is this disease you can only hint at,’ I asked, ‘this thirst for blood which I would never have believed if I had not seen it smeared on a slide beneath my microscope’s lens?’ Silence. Again the glitter of eyes that seemed scarcely human, and suddenly I laughed, staring at them all – monsters from the darkness of folklore and myth, uncovered at last by the glare of modem science. The irony amused me. ‘You are right,’ I said, inclining my head towards the woman who had dismissed my work. ‘I cannot help you.’ I glanced back at Lord Ruthven. ‘I am sorry.’ Then I turned and began to walk from the room.

  ‘Wait!’

  I froze.

  ‘Wait.’

  I turned round. Lord Ruthven had half-risen from his chair. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’ And then suddenly, his beauty was contorted by a hideous rage, in which pride and desperation and shame were all commingled, and betrayed across his face like the passage of a storm. He at once shuddered, and clenched the sides of his chair; his features recovered their former calm, but when he spoke his teeth were bared like an animal’s fangs. ‘I am not accustomed to beg,’ he whispered. The chill in his voice was paralysing. ‘Do not doubt, Doctor, that I can push you, if I choose, into madness or death. Or perhaps’ – he paused – ‘into something far worse,’ He smiled. ‘Do not defy me.’

  The woman had reached up to take his arm. ‘My Lord, please.’ She seemed afraid. ‘Either let the man go or kill him and be done with it’

  Still Lord Ruthven’s stare was unchecked.

  ‘My Lord.’ She pulled on his arm again. ‘Do not forget’

  He frowned. ‘Forget?’

  The woman held his hand. ‘Our mysteries will always overwhelm the mortal who glimpses them. You know that.’ She raised his hand to her lips. ‘Remember Polidori.’

  Polidori. The name made me start. Lord Ruthven must have observed my gesture of surprise, for he smiled faintly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Polidori was greedy, presumptuous, over-reaching. This man is different; he is nothing like Polidori.’

  ‘So you lied,’ I said quietly. ‘You do know him.’

  Lord Ruthven looked up at me and shrugged. ‘I was concerned for your safety, Dr Eliot’

  ‘How?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Polidori is dangerous and quite, quite mad.’ He smiled faintly. ‘But you know that; you have met him yourself.’

  There was a murmuring from the crowd. One of them rose to his feet ‘He has? Where?’

  Lord Ruthven continued to smile. ‘In Rotherhithe. Isn’t that so, Dr Eliot?’

  I nodded slowly.

  He gestured at me. ‘Dr Eliot here is quite the detective, you see. You were right, Dr Eliot. It was Polidori who sent me that programme for Lucy’s first night, I am certain of that now. Just as it was also Polidori who lured my other cousin, Arthur Ruthven, to his death. And so you see why I warn you – stay away from him.’

  I considered his words. ‘Your hints,’ I said at length, ‘are intriguing in the extreme.’

  Lord Ruthven raised an eyebrow.
‘Indeed?’

  I nodded. ‘Arthur Ruthven’s death, for instance – I had assumed it related to his work at the India Office. And yet you are claiming – what? – that it has to do with his relationship with you?’

  ‘Both theories may be correct, do you not think?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You have your secrets,’ murmured Lord Ruthven, ‘while I, Dr Eliot… I have mine,’

  ‘So you won’t tell me?’

  He bowed his head almost imperceptibly. ‘In due time, perhaps.’

  ‘And the programme Polidori sent you – you will not reveal how that is dangerous either?’

  Again, Lord Ruthven bowed his head.

  ‘At least tell me, then, if Lucy is endangered.’ As I said this, I saw how Lord Ruthven started. His face, though, remained frozen, and he made no reply. ‘She is your cousin,’ I went on. ‘If Polidori’s enmity towards you has already killed Lucy’s brother, then you owe it to her, do you not think, to preserve her safety as best you can?’

  ‘I thank you,’ said Lord Ruthven coldly, ‘for reminding me of my duty.’

  ‘I am very fond of Lucy.’ Lord Ruthven’s lip curled at this, but I ignored his sneer. ‘If there is indeed a conspiracy in Rotherhithe…’

  ‘Then you would do well to keep clear of it,’ said Lord Ruthven, interrupting me lazily and rising to his feet. ‘Dr Eliot, I offer you that advice in the best of faith. Despite your rejection of my offer tonight, my admiration for you remains perfectly undimmed. You have chosen not to glimpse into the nature of our kind. Very well, then. Stay true to that resolution. Do not pit yourself against Polidori.’ He reached out to take my hand and pressed it. ‘Do not go to Rotherhithe.’

  His touch was very cold, and I shivered despite myself. Lord Ruthven smiled; he released my hand. ‘Please,’ he whispered. He took a step back. ‘Leave the good Dr Polidori to me.’

  I continued to meet his stare; then, sensing that our interview had come to an end, I turned and walked towards the door. This time Lord Ruthven did not try to halt me. But by the door, it was I who paused and turned round again.’ It is not just Polidori you are confronting,’ I said. ‘In Rotherhithe, down by the Thames… There is someone – something – much greater than him. Much greater, perhaps, my Lord, even than you.’ Lord Ruthven stared at me; for a long time he made no reply, and I was afraid of how angry my warning might have made him. But at length he nodded very curtly, as though acknowledging my words, and I realised that he had seemed almost unsurprised by them. I turned, and left, and hurried from the house.

  Heading towards Oxford Street, I passed by the front of the Mowberleys’ house. Lights were still burning on the ground floor and so, remembering that George had called on me the previous day, I rang the door-bell and asked if he was in. He was not. I was about to press on when I heard, coming from a nearby room, the sound of Lucy’s voice. I asked the butler to introduce me, and as I walked into the drawing room I saw – to my pleasure and surprise – Lucy and Lady Mowberley seated together. They both rose to greet me. ‘Our matchmaker!’ exclaimed Lady Mowberley, clasping Lucy’s hand. ‘You see, Dr Eliot – we are become perfect friends.’ They pressed me to stay, but I was in no mood for conversation and so did not accept. Have agreed, however, to escort them both on a walk one afternoon.

  I asked Lady Mowberley where George was. ‘He is working late in his office,’ she replied. I tried not to betray my unease, but she must have sensed something for I saw a shadow pass across her face. She did not press me, however, and indeed left Lucy to escort me back to the door.

  ‘Is everything well?’ I asked her in a whisper as we went.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, thank you, Jack, quite well,’ She kissed me lightly on die cheek and smiled. ‘You really are the most appalling busy-body,’ She gestured back towards the drawing room. ‘You can see for yourself the fruit of your good work.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said slowly. I paused by the door. ‘Lucy …’ I wondered what I should tell her. As she waited she raised an eyebrow at me, and I was reminded forcibly of Lord Ruthven, so much so that the blood must have drained from my face, for suddenly I saw Lucy staring anxiously at me.

  ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘whatever is it? You look awful.’

  I composed myself. ‘Lucy,’ I whispered, ‘be careful. For God’s sake, be careful! Warn Ned, and look after your son and yourself. Above all – do not trust Lord Ruthven. Do not allow him near to your child,’ She frowned and opened her mouth to question me, but I did not wait, for what else could I have told her? I do not understand the peril myself. Yet seeing Lucy’s face at that moment, and knowing what might be at stake, I knew then that I could never abandon her.

  And even now, when I have been able to examine my situation more rationally, I am certain that I have made the right choice – I cannot turn aside from my course, for all that I told Lord Ruthven that I would not pry into the nature of his kind. Heaven knows into what I am venturing; but there is too much at stake – perhaps too many lives. If I must journey beyond the bounds of science a second time, then so be it. Please God, though, I do not repeat the errors of the first.

  Mem. I must talk to Huree as soon as I can.

  12.30 a.m. – Llewellyn has returned late. He gives me a note, which George had left with him earlier tonight. I open it feverishly and read the following: ‘Have gone to Rotherhithe. Don’t worry, old chap – all for the best of reasons. Was wondering if you’d care to join me, but dammit, you’re not here. Ah, well. All the best, your old chum George.’

  He’s an idiot – always was. Don’t know what to do. This is rushing me faster than I had ever planned to go.

  He will be in danger, though.

  1 a.m. – No choice. I will have to go. Will walk out to Bishopsgate and find a cab.

  Telegram, Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar to Dr John Eliot.

  6 June.

  Lecture series in Paris arranged. Is situation critical? If not, will come when tour is finished.

  HUREE.

  Dr Eliot’s Diary.

  6 June. – Telegram from Huree waiting for me on my desk. Is the situation critical? Not confident. Not confident of anything any more. The evening of my visit to Lord Ruthven I would have been; but everything has changed. Even my resolution to face, if necessary, the impossible, seems comical now and not necessary at all. And yet it is hard to be certain. What have I been through? I must clear my mind. To forget is to surrender; to apply reason, to recall. Must not abandon my methods now.

  So then. I set off for Rotherhithe around I a.m. Afraid, sitting in the cab, that it would prove either an embarrassing or a fruitless quest. Latter alternative seemed more likely at first, for once we had entered the tangle of streets that I remembered from my previous visit to Rotherhithe, I grew hopelessly lost, and when the cab driver became impatient I had to pay him his fare and watch him drive off. Continued my search on foot, but without any better luck. Strange, for my sense of direction is excellent and I was certain I had memorised where the warehouse stood; but although I could locate the High Street without any problem, the streets beyond it seemed to melt before my gaze. Searched for the entrance to the warehouse for upwards of half an hour, while the mist rolled in thicker and the street-fronts grew ever more unfamiliar and strange. At length abandoned my search, and returned to the High Street; from there, I made my way to Coldlair Lane. Found it without difficulty.

  The shop-front was black, but the door on to the street had been left ajar. I walked through it; there seemed nobody inside. As I walked past the counter to the staircase, though, I began to smell the odour of opium again and then, mounting the stairs, heard an addict’s cough as he drew on his smoke. I ascended carefully. Pulling the awning aside, I saw that the room was as full as before; bodies were hunched and twisted in the dark, and most of the faces seemed familiar. I peered through the smoke towards the comer. There, hunched by the brazier, sat the old Malay woman; I took a step towards her, and as I did so she looked up suddenly and bared her
teeth. Yellow spit began to form round her lips; she sucked it in and, as though prompted, other addicts also began to stir and hiss, so that the collective noise was an unnerving one, much like a pit filled with restive snakes. A man by my feet began to mutter and groan; he reached for me, and when I kicked him away another stretched out to try to hold my leg, and then another, and another one.

  I pushed at them with my cane, and for a moment succeeded in beating them off, but pain seemed to have almost no meaning for the poor wretches, so complete was their enslavement to their drug, and soon I was being pulled down on to the floor again. Soft white fingers gripped me around my throat; my head was lifted up, and I saw before me the old Malay woman. She had a pipe in her hands, and was extending it towards me. I shouted at her to keep away, but her expression was quite glazed and my words had no effect. As the stem of the pipe was placed by my lips, I clenched my teeth; I felt hands struggling to pull my jaws apart, but the addicts’ fingers were moist with sweat and they slipped as they tried to gain a grip on my cheeks.

  Suddenly the old Malay began to dribble again, and her lips formed a hideous grin; she pulled on the pipe, then bent low over me, and her spittle dripped slowly and fell on to my face, so that I almost gagged as her lips touched my own. Somehow, though, I kept my teeth still clenched tight; I longed to breathe, but I could not, for the Malay’s lips remained pressed against mine and the thick brown smoke was filling my mouth. I began to thrash; more hands pressed me down, and still the Malay was holding me, her kiss implacable, and I knew that shortly I would have to inhale. I felt the room spinning; still I didn’t breathe. The Malay’s eyes began to fade; then her face; one final struggle, and then at last I breathed in. I waited for the taste of the smoke in my throat, but it never came. Instead I found I could breathe easily again, that the opium taste had been diluted by air. I opened my eyes and looked up. I saw Polidori. He was staring down at me, a smile on his lips.