Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  Letter, Hon. Edward Westcote to Mrs Lucy Westcote.

  Alvediston Manor,

  Near Salisbury,

  Wiltshire.

  7 July.

  My dearest L,

  You are funny. Why would I blame you? I’m hardly the man to forbid you anything. If I were, I doubt you would have married me. Dammit, Lucy, you’ve always been strong-minded. That’s the way I like you. I could never bear to carry on like the Pater, dishing out orders all the time. Hate orders, always have done. It’s perfectly true, I didn’t want you to visit my parents’ house again; but that wasn’t because I was afraid you might intrude or any of that rot, only because I feel there’s something wrong there and I don’t want you mixed up in it. And I was right, wasn’t I? You shouldn’t have gone. ‘Some shadow of evil’ – yes, I liked that. Nice phrase. Puts it pretty well.

  But actually, Lucy, it seems the shadow may be lifting soon. I’ve had the most splendid news, you see. Got a letter last week, from India. Not from the Pater himself (he’s off slaughtering the heathen somewhere on the frontier), but from some other chap I’ve never heard of, a subaltern of his. It appears that my sister may not be dead after all. She’s been seen, apparently, up in that region where she disappeared. It’s not absolutely certain but sounds pretty hopeful, according to this subaltern, and they’ve sent off a mission into the hills. Really, Lucy, have you ever heard more ripping news? I can’t wait for you to meet Charlotte. I’m sure you’ll turn out the most tremendous friends.

  I’ve been in such a state of excitement over this letter that I’m a little behind on my business down here. I’ll certainly aim to have everything over and done with in time for Mr Stoker’s dinner party, though. And, yes, of course I remember Jack Eliot. We met in your dressing room. He was in India too, wasn’t he, up in the hills? Maybe he knows the region where poor Charlotte disappeared. I’ll be able to ask him at the very least.

  Darling Lucy, I’ll be back soon. I miss you more than I can put into words. But you know that.

  All, all love, my dearest, to you and Art,

  Your doting husband,

  NED.

  Dr Eliot’s Diary.

  16 July. – For just over a week, I have been working hard on my research, attempting to recapture the spark of understanding I had felt with Lilah, which at the time had seemed so genuine. But the toil has been fruitless. Lord Ruthven’s leucocytes have remained unchanged, which should have acted as a spur to my theorising, but instead has served to paralyse my thoughts. I can see no way past the problem they represent. There is a sample beside me on my desk as I speak. Beneath the microscope the cells seem to mock me with their unceasing movement, while all around sheets of paper covered with scribblings mount up on my desk. They amount to nothing; I am lost in a maze which I cannot understand.

  Yesterday, so dull and distracted did I feel that I went so far as to call on Lilah again – purely to see if she could lighten my spirits. There was no difficulty in finding her warehouse this time. I had not realised, until I was with her again, how much I had missed the stimulation she provides. We sat in the conservatory, Suzette with us, scribbling notes in a magazine: A Study in Scarlet again. I promised her I would read it. There was only limited opportunity for conversation of the kind that Lilah and I shared last week, for I could spare only a few hours away from the surgery. But Lilah is always intriguing company; we were together long enough for me to recapture the spark I had enjoyed before. But now it is faded again; and I feel nothing but distraction and bafflement

  Only the discharge of Mary Kelly this afternoon, after a satisfactory recovery, has served to lighten my mood. But even so, I am still unable to explain the cause of her relapse, nor am I confident that she is wholly cured. I have warned her on no account to return to Rotherhithe, nor to travel near it, even along the opposite bank of the Thames. For her own comfort of mind, I have agreed to take possession of a spare key to her room in Miller’s Court. I have placed it prominently next to the clock in my rooms.

  20 July. – No choice in the end but to take the afternoon off. I had been trying to concentrate on my research, but the inspiration was as absent as before; the longer I worked, the greater my sense of depression grew, and I was getting nowhere. I went for a long walk, to try to order my thoughts.

  Passing through Covent Garden, I called on Stoker, but he was busy and so I continued my walk across Waterloo Bridge and back along the Thames. Without really having intended it, I found myself in Rotherhithe. I called on Lilah. To my surprise, the door was answered by Polidori. He did not seem pleased to see me.

  ‘She’s not in,’ he snarled, and would have slammed the door in my face had I not blocked it with my foot. ‘If you don’t mind,’ said Polidori, as rudely as before, ‘I’m rather busy.’ He turned his back on me and I saw that behind him, standing in the hall, was a man I recognised from the opium den. His eyes were open but quite without sense, and his head lolled as though his neck had been broken. Instinctively, I stepped forward to see what assistance I could give him, but Polidori pushed me roughly aside and took the man by his arm. ‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ he told me, speaking close to my face so that I received the full blast of his breath and had to look away. From the corner of my eye, I saw Polidori grin and turn back to his companion. ‘He can’t handle his smoke. Had a bit too much of it, haven’t you?’ He slapped the man on his cheeks, but the addict made no reply. Polidori lifted his chin and breathed full on his face; but still the man stared as dully as before.

  ‘He needs help,’ I said.

  ‘Not yours, though,’ replied Polidori rudely. ‘I thank you, Doctor, but I do have some medical training of my own.’

  ‘Then at least let me help you.’

  ‘Oh! So your knowledge of opium is the equal of mine? You understand the principles of addiction as well as me? You have devoted a lifetime to studying it, perhaps? No. I didn’t think so. Very well, then, would you please’ – and even his expression of politeness remained a mocking leer – ‘fuck off, Doctor, and not pester us?’ He brushed past me and began to lead his patient across the hall, towards a door that I recognised from my first visit; it led to the room in which Stoker and I had discovered George.

  ‘What will you do with him?’ I called out.

  Polidori paused in the doorway; he glanced back at me. ‘Why, what do you think?’ he asked. ‘Dry him out!’ He hissed with laughter, then slammed the door in my face and I heard a key tum in the lock.

  ‘Why does he upset you so much?’

  I looked round. From the balcony above the hall, Suzette was watching me. I shrugged.

  Suzette held out a hand. ‘Come and wait for Lilah with me.’

  I sighed; then I walked across the hall and up the stairs. ‘You do hate him, don’t you?’ asked Suzette, as she reached up to take my hand.

  ‘I don’t hate anyone,’ I replied. ‘That would be a waste of time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is always a waste of time to surrender to emotion.’

  Suzette considered this. Her solemn face wore a frown. ‘So what should you surrender to instead?’

  ‘Your judgement.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of what you estimate someone’s effect to be on their fellow men.’

  ‘And if it’s bad, you should hate them?’

  ‘No. I said – never hate. Attempt to … counteract.’

  ‘Counteract’ Suzette repeated the word, as though impressed by its length. ‘And so you want to … “counteract” … Polly?’

  I stared into her wide eyes. She was very young, but I was uncomfortable with the way the conversation was turning. I had the sense – extraordinary with a child – that she might almost be playing with me. ‘I don’t trust him,’ I said at last, ‘that is all.’

  Suzette nodded solemnly. We had reached the main room by now. I sat on a divan and Suzette clambered up to join me. She continued to fix me with her unblinking gaze. ‘You don’t trust hi
m because he gives people opium, do you?’

  ‘Opium?’ I frowned. ‘You’re too young to know about that’

  ‘But I live next door to Polly’s shop. How could I not know about it?’ She hadn’t smiled, but I thought I could detect a glint of amusement in her eyes. ‘Besides,’ she added, fiddling with a ringlet in her hair, ‘Lilah tells me that it’s good to know things.’ She looked up at me again. ‘Do you think it’s not?’

  ‘It’s not good to know about opium, no.’

  ‘But you do.’

  ‘Yes. Because I have to know about what makes people ill.’

  ‘Have you taken it yourself, then?’

  I frowned, but her expression remained as interested and solemn as before. ‘No,’ I said at length.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I prefer my brain to be clear and sharp. I do not want it clouded. The desire for opium becomes a craving, Suzette. Do you understand what a craving is?’ She nodded. ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘I have a craving, but it is for a natural excitement, for the stimulation of my reasoning powers. You understand that, don’t you, Suzette? I have seen you playing chess – you like problems and puzzles, just like me.’ Again she nodded slowly. ‘Then promise,’ I said, ‘never, never take opium.’ I tried to look as stem as I could. ‘If you must be an addict of anything, then be an addict of the excitement that your own powers can give you – an addict of mental exaltation.’

  ‘Like Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, not wishing to admit that I had failed to read the story yet. ‘If you like.’

  Suzette nodded. ‘So in that case …’ she said, fiddling with her ringlet again.

  ‘Yes?’ I encouraged her.

  ‘If you like to feel all sharp and alert …’

  ‘Yes?’

  She looked up at me. ‘Do you like to take cocaine?’ she asked.

  She must have observed my surprise. But still she didn’t blink, and her face remained the picture of innocent inquiry it had been before. I looked away and thought that George had been right after all, she did need a nanny – at the very least. And just as I was considering that I would tell Lilah this, I heard footsteps approaching up the steps outside, and Suzette scrambled from die divan and ran across to die door. ‘Lilah!’ she cried, as the door opened. She reached up to hug Lilah, and Lilah swept her up in her arms. Behind them, I realised, still on the balcony, stood a man. He was in evening dress, dark-faced and bearded, with a turban round his head. It was the Rajah: I recognised him at once.

  And then, a fraction of a second later, I remembered that this man was actually George. Such errors of the memory are always suggestive; on this occasion especially so for, staring into his face, I was struck as I had been before by the transformation in my friend’s appearance. Quite simply, I could not recognise him; instead of the honest, jovial features of Sir George Mowberley, I was staring at a man stamped with jealousy and lust. ‘George,’ I said, almost inquiringly. I held out my hand; George stared at it, and his lip seemed to quiver as though with hatred for me. Then he controlled himself and took my hand; as he shook it I suddenly shuddered, for I was struck – I couldn’t say why – by a most extraordinary surge of dislike and fear. I remembered how both Lucy and Stoker had described their response to the Rajah; now I too, even while aware of his true identity, found myself affected in a similar way. George must have noted my revulsion, for he began to frown; to cover myself, I started to compliment him on the quality of his make-up and dress. I smiled as good-humouredly as I could manage. ‘Quite unsettling.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lilah, taking his arm, ‘you look perfectly sinister.’ She reached up to kiss him, long and lingeringly. George tried to hold her, but as he did so Lilah slipped away from his grasp. ‘Not in front of the child,’ she murmured.

  ‘Damn the child.’ George glared at Suzette, then muttered something else beneath his breath. Suzette suddenly began to laugh. George’s frown deepened, and I saw how his hands were clenched into fists.

  Lilah must have observed it too, for she took George’s arm again and began to guide him away. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we must wash that make-up from your face.’ She led us into the conservatory. As I accompanied her, I observed how she too seemed changed, though nothing like as profoundly as George. She had painted her face, not thickly but strikingly; her hair had been deliberately set to seem unstyled; her jewellery I recognised as Kalikshutran gold. Her dress, even more daringly than before, was in the latest décolleté style. She seemed quite unlike the woman I had sat with on my previous visit. Again, I found the transformation unsettling to behold.

  We stood by a fountain, while George bent down and wiped the make-up from his face. I observed, before it was washed away on the fountain’s flow, how the paint stained the water in the manner of blood. Interesting, especially in view of what Lucy saw in Bond Street when George had been applying the make-up; hard to explain, since the finish on the face looks nothing like blood. I was relieved when George had completed his ablutions; as he sat down beside us, he seemed his old self again. No – almost his old self, I should say, for there remained in his eyes the gleam of suspicion, and his features seemed even more gaunt than before. He is still clearly weakening. I requested him to visit me within the next few days. He promised me that he would, once his Bill was passed; it seems the vote on the measures is due for next week. Whether George does come, of course, I can only wait and see.

  I rose and excused myself shortly afterwards. The situation is potentially awkward. Evidently, if I am to see Lilah in the future, it must be when I don’t have to share her with George. God knows what he has been imagining.

  24 July. – An unpleasant incident, which I am almost embarrassed to record.

  A couple of days ago, I had finally obtained a copy of Beeton’s Magazine; that same evening, I spent an idle hour skimming through A Study in Scarlet. By an odd coincidence, it turned out to have been written by Arthur Conan Doyle. I haven’t seen him since our university days. His hero, Sherlock Holmes, is an obvious caricature of Dr Bell, for their deductive methods are exactly the same. Evidently Doyle did gain something from Bell’s lectures, after all.

  The story itself was an amusing one, if implausible. I wondered how much of it Suzette had understood. The following evening, frustrated yet again by the progress of my research, and therefore at somewhat of a loose end, I thought I might visit Rotherhithe and attempt to find out. It was soon clear that Suzette had understood it perfectly well. For one so young, she is admirably sharp. We had a lengthy discussion on the art of deductive reasoning. In particular, Suzette was intrigued to know if there are situations where the method would not work. She returned to her old question: what happens if you are in a case, and you don’t know the laws? I attempted to explain to her that in the field of human behaviour, with all its irrationality, there can be no certain laws; that detection depends on observation; that reason itself must always be applied.

  ‘Applied to what?’ Suzette asked.

  ‘To the evidence,’ I replied. ‘If it seems mysterious, then a logical explanation must always be found for it’

  Suzette furrowed her brow. ‘But what if a logical explanation does not exist?’

  ‘It must do.’

  ‘Always?’

  I nodded. ‘Always.’

  ‘So if it didn’t …’ – she glanced back down at her magazine – ‘then Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be able to solve the case.’

  ‘No, I suppose not’

  She nodded very slowly, then looked up again. As she stared at me, she narrowed her eyes. ‘And nor would you, would you, then?’

  At this point Lilah began to scold her lazily. ‘You’re such a provoking girl,’ she said, taking her on her knee. ‘What would Uncle George think? little girls aren’t meant to worry about difficult things.’

  But I had to wonder. Once Suzette had been packed off to bed, I asked Lilah about her. It seems she is the only child of a beloved friend. ‘A very old f
riend,’ Lilah added with a distant smile.

  ‘Has she always been this precocious?’ I asked.

  ‘Precocious?’ Lilah nodded. ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘And her intelligence, her learning – you have been teaching her yourself?’

  ‘Of course. Suzette is far too much trouble for a teacher, I’m afraid,’ Lilah paused, as though catching some noise from the hallway below. She stretched out her fingers and smoothed back her hair. ‘One thing, though,’ she murmured; ‘George’s suggestion – perhaps he was right. Suzette could do with a nanny; she needs to be tamed.’ She paused again. Now I too could hear footsteps, coming up the stairs, Lilah glanced at the door, then turned back to me. She smiled. ‘I shall have to start looking for a suitable girl.’

  George burst into the room – terribly haggard and pale. As he stared at us he seemed to tremble, and I was afraid he was about to collapse. I rose to go to his aid; as I crossed to him, he shouted something almost unintelligible, but clearly to the effect that I had betrayed his trust. I tried to calm him; I reached out to take his pulse, but as I did so, George raised his hand and, clenching it into a fist, suddenly struck me upwards on the chin. The blow caught me unawares. I staggered back and George stumbled after me; he raised his fist again and caught me a second blow, this time on the side of my head. Instinctively, I returned the punch; George was knocked down to the floor and I hurried abashed to his side, for he had seemed so weak that I was afraid I might have injured him. But still he refused my assistance; he struggled to rise, hissing accusations at me, and his eyes still burned with the most implacable hate.

  Lilah, who had been watching as though faintly intrigued, now intervened, covering George’s prostrate body and asking me to leave. I protested that George needed help. ‘Maybe,’ replied Lilah, ‘but he won’t accept it from you. Don’t worry, I will treat him. Just go, Jack, go!’ I stood hesitantly; then I turned and left. By the doorway, I glanced round again; Lilah was kissing George and embracing him, as she propped him up. I turned again and walked out through the door.