Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  I followed him up stairways and through canvas-laden rooms. At last, by an imposing doorway, he halted and turned. ‘You will kick yourself, Jack. You will be jolly cross that you ever missed this,’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mr Stoker told you about Polidori. But did he tell you whose physician Polidori had been?’

  ‘yes,’ I replied. ‘Lord Byron’s…,’ And then the syllable froze on my tongue as I spoke it. Lord Ruthven. Lord Ruthven! That was why Huree had wanted to see him! That was why he had asked me, when we left Lord Ruthven’s home, if I read poetry! I must have stood there quite numbed, for I never even felt Huree take me by the arm. He led me into the Gallery and across to a painting on the wall. I stared up at it. Lord Byron, dressed in the scarlet and gold of some eastern uniform. Only it was not his face I saw smiling at me from beneath a fringed turban, but another man’s, a man I had met, a man whom I knew, not as Byron, but as Ruthven. ‘Good Lord,’ I murmured. I turned to Huree. ‘It seems impossible, but…’ I stared back up at the painting again.

  ‘But it is not,’ whispered Huree, completing my sentence for me.

  I nodded slowly. ‘So who else might be out there, do you think, drinking people’s blood? Beethoven? Shakespeare? Abraham Lincoln?’

  Huree smiled and shook his head. ‘I believe not. The circumstances connected with Lord Byron, you see, are most particular,’ We began to leave the Gallery, and as we did so, Huree explained the course of his research in Nottinghamshire graveyards, and lawyers’ firms, and assorted public records offices. He had traced the first mention of Lord Ruthven back to 1824 – the year of Byron’s death in Greece; he had demonstrated that Lord Ruthven had been the major beneficiary of the dead poet’s wealth; he had searched for a Ruthven family tree, anything which might disprove that the Lords Ruthven and Byron were one and the same. But he had searched in vain. There was no Lord Ruthven: the tide was nothing but an alias.

  ‘But Lucy?’ I asked. ‘Arthur? Where are they from?’

  Huree’s expression darkened; he lifted a hand. ‘This is where it grows serious, Jack. You remember the telegram I sent?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Yes, jolly good, of course you do.’ Huree paused. We were out in the sunshine by now; he lifted his face to the rays, as though invoking the daylight for assistance, then looked round for a bench and sat down on it with a sigh. I joined him. Huree was taking out his papers again. He laid them on his lap; he stared at them in silence for a while; then he dabbed at his brow and looked up at me again. ‘Lucy’s family line, like the references to Lord Ruthven himself, go back only as far as 1824. Logical conclusion? – the Ruthvens are descended from Lord Byron himself.’

  I frowned. ‘Logical?’

  Huree raised his hand again. ‘There’s more.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘It is not very cheerful, Jack.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Huree nodded. He reached for a sheaf of papers and handed them across. ‘These are copies of death certificates. Each Ruthven, once he or she has had a child, has then died within a year. The moment the bloodline has been perpetuated – pouf!’ – he snapped his fingers –’the parent at once becomes expendable. It is an absolutely infallible rule, you see, Jack. Cast iron! And even that is not the worst: their deaths, when you know what to look for, all seem to result from a catastrophic loss of blood. Your friend Arthur is only the most recent example of this.’

  ‘But Arthur never had a child.’

  ‘No. But Lucy did.’

  I shook my head in disbelief, and stared up at the sky. ‘It seems impossible,’ I muttered, ‘impossible. And yet you truly believe this, Huree, that Lord Ruthven has been feeding on his own blood-line, draining them dry?’

  ‘I am convinced of it. What other theory can fit all the facts?’

  ‘But is there any tradition,’ I asked, ‘of the vampire feeding on his blood-line like this?’

  Huree shrugged. ‘There are many traditions. Vampires are not like some bloody microbe, Jack; you cannot just study them, and say what is true and what is not.’

  ‘But we can study Lord Ruthven. I have his blood under my microscope even as we speak.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Huree impatiently, ‘what of it?’

  ‘It seems strange that he should employ me and then drink from under my very nose.’

  ‘Not at ad,’ said Huree. ‘Use your damn brain, Jack. That is precisely what explains his desperation. He is a slave of his passions.’

  ‘But it is over a year since Lucy had her child. Why should he start to feed on her now?’

  Huree shrugged. ‘Perhaps you should look at it the other way. Perhaps he has come to you because he has felt his hunger growing worse, and he knows that he cannot withstand it any more.’

  ‘Then it is a race, you think? Either I cure him or he drains Lucy dry?’

  Huree nodded. ‘That is one way of approaching the matter.’

  ‘And a fairly desperate one, I’m afraid. I do not feel encouraged by the progress of my research. There must be something more we can do.’

  ‘Kirghiz Silver,’ said Huree. ‘Infallible.’

  ‘Yes, but if we can’t find that, what other course should we take? Do we confront Lord Ruthven?’

  ‘He is dangerous.’

  ‘Thank you, Huree, I had deduced that for myself. Yes, he is dangerous – but is he indestructible? There must be some way we can stop him, even destroy him if needs be.’

  ‘I will need time to work on this.’

  ‘Unfortunately, you may not have much of that’

  ‘No.’ Huree sniffed contemplatively. ‘But at least now we know who our adversary is. And that has to be a start.’ He rose to his feet ‘Don’t you agree, Jack? That has to be a start!’

  Yes. A start. But perhaps not on the course that Huree believes us to be on. His discoveries have certainly been an excellent piece of work; his knowledge of vampirism is unexcelled, and his conclusions on the blood-line must surely be correct. But I am still not entirely convinced that we do know who our adversary is; we may be missing something here. Even taking into account all Huree’s revelations, Lord Ruthven is not the only suspect we have; the proof against him is damning, but not conclusive. I need to sit down and think about this. There are other factors to take into account.

  1 a.m. – Stayed up late, working on the bone-marrow cells. No breakthrough. The more I consider my dealings with Lord Ruthven, the less likely I find it that he is preying on Lucy, although I do not doubt that she is in terrible danger from him; for I remember, the first time I met him, how he smelled Lucy’s clothes, having dearly detected the trace of her blood. Doubtless, also, it was he who killed Arthur Ruthven; it was shortly after Arthur’s death, after all, that Lord Ruthven came to me with his request that I work to cure him of his thirst; psychologically, then, such a theory rings true. But with Lucy, by contrast, the psychology is all wrong: she is my patient; for Lord Ruthven to be feeding on her while also employing me would be a virtual act of treachery. I do not believe, odd though it may seem, that he would behave in such a way. Am aware, of course, that this is hardly a logical assumption to make.

  As it happens, though, there is a second problem with the theory of Lord Ruthven’s guilt. Why does Lucy imagine her intruder to be a woman? Huree has attempted to brush over this question. But it is surely possible that our adversary is Haidée. We know almost nothing about her. What is her relationship with Lord Ruthven? Even more importantly – what is her relationship with Lucy? Does she too have common blood with the Ruthvens? Until we have the answers to these questions, we must consider Haidée a suspect as well.

  And there is a yet further possibility: we may not be searching for a Ruthven at all. There are other predators abroad in London at the moment. Female predators. My thoughts – as they have so often seemed to do recently – start to turn again towards Rotherhithe.

  24 August. – A day in the laboratory, working on the leucocytes and bone-marrow cells. As y
et, no real developments. I begin to think wistfully of the insights I have experienced in Rotherhithe. I wonder if the risk is worth taking. Difficult to decide.

  As it happens, Lilah has been on my mind for another reason. This morning, during the surgery, Mary Kelly was one of the out-patients. Her health good; no hint of any relapse; her vital signs stable. Only one thing troubling her, she reported: she had begun to have nightmares, vivid, so that they would seem very real at the time. She would dream that she was in her bed in Miller’s Court, and hear a woman’s voice calling out to her. Going to a window, she would see the negress standing in the street below. Despite her fear, she would feel a desperate longing to obey the woman’s call. She would leave her room, then follow the negress through the empty streets; she would realise they were walking through Rotherhithe. The negress would start to kiss and fondle her lasciviously, and then, as she had done before, slice her wrist above a golden bowl. The blood would start to flow in a great stream, until Mary Kelly would imagine she was drowning beneath a sea of red. She would struggle to wake, would imagine that she did so. She would find herself in a dark room, with a picture of a beautiful lady on the wall Ht by a single candle. She would feel a curious longing to He there for ever, to surrender herself to the lure of the dark. But she would remember my warnings of the danger that lurked for her in Rotherhithe. Again, she would struggle to wake. This time she would be successful and find she was standing in some unfamiliar street, sometimes more than a mile from her room. If true, and I have no reason to doubt her – indeed, just the opposite – then she is reporting a most remarkable display of somnambulism.

  I have two reasons for feeling particularly concerned. The first is that on a couple of occasions Mary Kelly has reported dreaming not of a negress, but of a European woman with long blonde hair. Disturbing, because although her description exactly matches the woman I have seen, I have never told kelly of these experiences and there is therefore no possibility of her having known of them.

  The second reason: again, a description of something I recognise. The room, with the picture of the lady and the single candle. I have seen it. I know it. I have lain there myself.

  It is a room in a warehouse in Rotherhithe. 25 August. – Early morning, an urgent summons to Myddleton Street. Westcote kneeling by his wife’s side; Stoker, ashen-faced, standing behind him. Lucy herself as ghastly-looking as before the transfusion; the bones of her face standing out prominently, her complexion chalky and drained of all colour. Conducted immediate emergency transfusion; as before, Westcote left very weak, and Lucy’s pallor only moderately improved. As I conducted the operation I saw how a pane of the window had been shattered, and asked to be told how the attack had occurred.

  It had come while Stoker was on guard; he had been on duty by Lucy’s bed for the second half of the night. At around 4 a.m. he had felt a desperate urge to sleep. He had begun to pace around, but still he couldn’t keep himself awake, and before he knew it he was dreaming confused snatches of nightmare: some terrible threat, trying to break in; being frozen in ice, struggling to break free; a human form on Lucy’s chest. I pressed him to describe this form. It had been a woman, eyes gleaming beneath her veil; as she drank from Lucy, she had been embracing her victim and fondling her.

  ‘Fondling her?’ I asked.

  Stoker swallowed and glanced at Westcote. Even beneath his beard, his blush was evident. ‘Fondling her lewdly,’ he whispered at length.

  I nodded. ‘And you are certain – quite certain – that it was a woman beneath this veil?’

  Stoker nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  Poor fellow, he was bowed by guilt. I assured him that he had no cause to blame himself; he could have no understanding of what we were up against. Stoker nodded; he said that Huree had hinted as much. I asked where Huree was, for I had been surprised not to see him, but it seemed that he had already arrived, and then hurried off almost at once in a state of great excitement and urgency. ‘The medallion,’ said Westcote, ‘the coin that was found in Arthur Ruthven’s hand – the Professor observed it hanging round Lucy’s neck, and asked to borrow it. I hope Lucy will not object. The Professor insisted it was very significant’ Interesting. I wonder what fresh trail Huree might be following now.

  Returned to Whitechapel. An orderly’s sanguigen proved compatible with Lucy’s; hurried back with him to Myddleton Street. During the transfusion, Lucy restless and half-awake; once the operation had been concluded, she began to clutch at her throat – not at her wounds, I realised, but at where her medallion had hung. She woke suddenly, demanded to know where it had gone; I explained, but she continued angry and upset. Then she began to ask where her baby was in a low, desperate scream, thrashing about in her bed from side to side. I told her that Arthur had been sent away to a place of greater safety. She demanded to know where; I told her. At the mention of Lady Mowberley’s name, Lucy sighed and smiled contentedly. ‘I am glad,’ she whispered; and then her eyes closed and she returned back to sleep. Much calmer now; her complexion likewise restored to full colour. The second transfusion an evident success.

  Prompted by my exchange with Lucy to call on Lady Mowberley. Concerned to warn her of the events of the previous night; Huree had been convinced that Arthur was in no danger and Lady Mowberley, although warned of the possible threat, had rejected our offer of protection. She was at home when I called; although obviously concerned for Lucy’s health, she listened to my account with the utmost calmness and once again refused my suggestion of guards. Did so quite categorically.

  I asked her, remembering the visitation in her own room all those months before, whether she had ever seen the same intruder again.

  She stared at me, a faint smile on her lips. ‘My husband’s mistress, you mean?’

  I bowed my head. ‘Yes, Lady Mowberley – your husband’s mistress.’ I paused. ‘Have you seen her recently, perhaps?’

  She frowned and suddenly shuddered, rose from her seat and crossed to the window, clutching at herself as though feeling the cold. She stared out in silence at the street below. ‘Yes,’ she said suddenly, ‘I have seen her.’

  ‘When?’ I asked.

  She turned to face me. ‘Last night,’ she answered. ‘I hadn’t been able to sleep. I was standing here, just as I am now. I saw her pass in the street below.’

  Very calmly, not wanting to alarm her, I crossed to where she stood. ‘Lady Mowberley,’ I asked; ‘do you remember, perhaps, what time this would have been?’

  ‘Indeed, yes,’ she replied. She turned to look out at the street again. ‘I remember it very precisely. There was a clock beside me, and I glanced at it. It was twenty minutes before four o’clock.’

  26 August. – I had to go. For upwards of an hour after completing my diary entry last night, I sat curled in my armchair, marshalling the fragments of evidence. It was clear to me then, as it is clear to me now, that the locus of our investigation must be Rotherhithe. But still there are details which elude my grasp. It is very frustrating, as though I am being denied the final fragment of a puzzle which otherwise would be perfectly simple to understand. Indeed, if anything, the situation appeared clearer last night. All the evidence then seemed to point towards Lilah; it still does, I suppose, but I am somehow less certain of that now. Must talk with Huree. He has left me an intriguing letter on my desk, if a little florid. For all his evident over-excitement, it seems he is clearer to understanding who Lilah might be. Will visit him shortly. First, though, must record what I can of last night.

  I was met at the door by Sarmistha, the Indian servant girl. She was even thinner than before; her dress hanging loose about her and her expression one of the most abject terror. I tried to question her, but she would not speak to me, covering her face instead and hurrying up the stairs. She led me to the conservatory where Lilah and Suzette were playing chess. They both looked up as I strode towards them. Lilah glanced at Suzette, and I saw how she smiled.

  I stood before her, in silence, for what seemed like
an eternity. Perhaps it was. I wondered what to say. Suzette watched me solemnly; Lilah, by contrast, continued to smile. I swallowed and felt suddenly ridiculous; then angry with them both, ragingly angry. ‘What are you?’ I asked. I shook; then clenched my fists; I could not surrender to my emotions now. ‘Are you vampires?’ I asked, as calmly as I could. ‘Or something worse? Tell me. What is your purpose in London? What is your purpose with me and my friends?’

  Lilah glanced up at Sarmistha, then back at Suzette. ‘I think he is very close now, my dear.’ She moved a chess piece. ‘Check,’ she said.

  Suzette continued to study me as solemnly as before. ‘Why, Dr Eliot?’ she asked at length. ‘What is it that Lilah is meant to have done?’

  I took a step forward. I was fighting to control my anger and fear. ‘Lucy Westcote is dying,’ I said. ‘Some – creature – some monster – is draining her of her blood.’

  Not a flicker of surprise crossed Suzette’s face. ‘And so?’ she asked.

  ‘A woman has been observed drinking from Lucy’s throat’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘You know what.’

  Now Suzette did smile. She glanced at Lilah, then down at die board. ‘How sad,’ she whispered, as though to herself. ‘I still don’t think he is close enough.’ She moved a piece and took Lilah’s king. ‘Disappointing.’ She stared up at Lilah. ‘I think I have won the game again.’

  Lilah looked down at the board; she laughed, then swept away the pieces with her hand. She rose to her feet, adjusting her dress as she did so with a movement of such grace, of such simple elegance, that all my desire and need for her returned, focused it seemed in that single simple gesture, so that I was enslaved again and knew I could not fight her, that I would follow her anywhere she cared to lead. She took my arm; ‘Come with me,’ she murmured. ‘Come with me for always.’ I felt, what I had never understood before meeting her, how terrible and fathomless a woman’s beauty can be, how dangerous, and how utterly incomparable. I knew, if she would have me, I would indeed never leave. I clung to her arm as though to hold her for all time.