by Kim Newman
Godalming glanced over the paper. ‘Sodomy? Why should that so offend the Prince Consort?’
‘You forget, Godalming. Dracula has not the Englishman’s tolerance. He spent some years of his youth as a hostage to the Turks, and we must assume his captors made use of him from time to time. Indeed, his brother Radu, significantly known as “the Handsome”, developed a taste for masculine attentions. Since Radu betrayed him in one of his family’s innumerable internal intrigues, the Prince Consort has chosen to take an extreme position in regard to matters homosexual.’
‘This seems a very minor business.’
Ruthven flared his nostrils. ‘Your understanding is limited, Godalming. Just consider: there is hardly an upstanding member of either house who has not, at one time or another, buggered a telegraph boy. Come December, Dracula will have some very prominent fairies slowly sinking on to the Christmas trees they are surmounting.’
‘A curious image, my Lord.’
The Prime Minister waved away the remark, diamond-shaped nails catching the light.
‘Tchah, Godalming, tchah! Of course, in that canny brain, our Wallachian Prince may have many purposes to one action.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that there is in this city a certain new-born poet, an Irishman, as known for his amatory preferences as for his unwise association with a countryman whose memory is much out of favour. And, dare I say it, better known for either attribute than for his verse.’
‘You mean Oscar Wilde?’
‘Of course I mean Wilde.’
‘He is not much at Mrs Stoker’s lately.’
‘Neither should you be, if you value your heart. My protection can only cloak so much.’
Godalming nodded, gravely. He had his reasons for continuing to attend Florence Stoker’s after-darks.
‘I have a report on the doings of Mr Oscar Wilde somewhere,’ Ruthven said, indicating another pyramid of papers. ‘Commissioned in my private capacity as a gentleman of letters, with an interest in the continuing health of our finest creative minds. Wilde has embraced the vampire state with enthusiasm, you’ll be pleased to know. Currently, sampling the blood of young men is his favoured pursuit, somewhat eclipsing his aesthetic fervour, and completely obliterating the flirtation with Fabian socialism that regrettably preoccupied him at the beginning of the year.’
‘You’ve obviously taken an interest in the fellow. For myself, I always find him tiresome, tittering behind his hand to hide his bad teeth.’
Ruthven threw himself into a chair and ran a hand through his longish hair. The Prime Minister was something of a dandy, given to an extravagance of cuffs and cravats. Punch called him ‘the compleat murgatroyd’.
‘We contemplate the dread possibility that Alfred, Lord Tennyson, will hold the post of poet laureate for dreary centuries. Egads, imagine Locksley Hall Six Hundred Years After? I would rather drink vinegar than live in an England that would allow such a horror, and so I have been casting around for a merciful alternative. If things had been otherwise, Godalming, I should have chosen to be a poet, and yet tyrannous fate, with the invaluable assistance of the Prince Consort, has bound me to the rock of bureaucracy, the eagle of politics pecking at my liver.’
Now Ruthven stood up and wandered to his book-cases, where he remained, contemplating his beloved volumes. The Prime Minister had lengthy passages of Shelley, Byron, Keats and Coleridge by heart, and could disgorge chunks from Goethe and Schiller in the original. His current enthusiasms were French, and decadent. Beaudelaire, de Nerval, Rimbaud, Rachilde, Verlaine, Mallarmé; most, if not all, of whom the Prince Consort would have gleefully impaled. Godalming had heard Ruthven declare that a purportedly scandalous novel, A Rebours by J.K. Huysmans, should be placed before every schoolboy, and that he would, in a utopia, make vampires only of poets and painters. It was said, however, that one symptom of the un-dead state was a withering of the creative abilities. A proud philistine who would rather have hunt scenes on his walls than William Morris paper, Godalming never had anything that might be considered an artistic inclination, and so could not bear witness to the phenomenon.
‘But,’ the Prime Minister said, turning, ‘of us elders, who else has the wit to mediate between Prince Dracula and his subjects, to hold together this new empire of living and dead? That lunatic Sir Francis Varney, whom we have packed off to India? I think not. None of our Carpathian worthies will serve, either: not Iorga, not Von Krolock, not Meinster, not Tesla, not Brastov, not Mitterhouse, not Vulkan. And what of the hand-kissing Saint-Germain, the meddling Villanueva, the upstart Collins, the impenetrable Weyland, the buffoon Barlow, the oily Duval. I “hai me doots”, as the Scotsman says, I “hai me doots” indeed. Who then does that leave? The pale and uninteresting Karnstein, still mourning for his silly skewered girl? Come to that, what of the women? God, the vampire women! What a pack of foaming she-cats! Lady Ducayne and Countess Sarah Kenyon are at least English, even if they’ve not an ounce of brain between them. But Countess Zaleska of Roumania, Ethelind Fionguala of Ireland, Countess Dolingen of Graz, Princess Asa Vajda of Moldavia, Elizabeth Bathory of Hungary? None of these titled tarts would be acceptable, I think, either to the Prince Consort or to the peoples of Britain. You might as well give the job to one of those mindless woman-things Dracula set aside to marry plump Vicky. No. Of the elders, there is only me. Here I am: Lord Ruthven, wanderer and wit. A land-poor Englishman, long absent from his homeland, recalled to be of service to his country. Who would have thought I would ever occupy the office of Pitt and Palmerston and Gladstone and Disraeli? And who could succeed me? Apres moi, le déluge, Godalming. After me, the shower.’
8
THE MYSTERY OF THE HANSOM CAB
Beauregard strolled in the fog, endeavouring to digest all he had gleaned from the inquest. He would have to make a full report to the cabal; he must have the facts, such as they were, ordered.
His wandering was not random: from the Working Lads’ Institute, he walked down Whitechapel Road, turned right into Great Garden Street, left into Chicksand Street. He allowed himself to be drawn to the site of the recent murder. Even with the churning fog and the Silver Knife panic, the streets were crowded. As midnight approached, the un-dead emerged. Public houses and music halls were illuminated, crammed with laughing and shouting people. Costermongers hawked sheet music, phials of ‘human’ blood, scissors, Royal souvenirs. Chestnuts roasted in a barrel-fire on Old Montague Street were sold to new-born and warm alike. Vampires had no need of solid food, but the habit of eating was hard to leave behind. Boys sold fancifully illustrated broadsheets with gruesome details piping hot from Lulu Schön’s inquest. A good many more uniformed constables were about than was usual, mostly new-borns. Beauregard supposed any suspicious characters loitering around Whitechapel and Spitalfields must come in for close inspection, presenting the police with a thorny problem, since the district thronged with nothing but suspicious characters.
A street organ ground an air: ‘Take a Pair of Crimson Eyes’, from Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Vampyres of Venice; or: A Maid, a Shade and a Blade. That seemed apt. The maid – so to speak – and the blade were obviously present in the case. The shade was the murderer, obscured by fog and blood.
Despite Dr Jekyll’s testimony and Baxter’s verdict, he considered the notion that the crimes to date were the work of different hands, ritual killings like thuggee stranglings or Camorra executions. The extent of the mutilation was superfluous to necessity if the murderer’s purpose was simply to end life. The Pall Mall Gazette ventured that the savage excess of the crimes were reminiscent of an Aztec rite. Even more, Beauregard was reminded of incidents in China, Egypt and Sicily, in connection with secret societies. The purpose of such atrocities was not merely to eliminate an enemy but also to deliver a message to the victim’s confederates or any who might choose to stand with him. The metropolis was as warm with secret societies and their agents; it was not improbable that there were already Freemasonries sworn to conti
nue Abraham Van Helsing’s crusade against the Prince Consort and his get. In a sense, as an agent of the Diogenes Club, Beauregard was actually a member of such a faction; the ruling cabal was divided in itself, torn between loyalty to the Queen and suspicion of the Lord Protector.
Sharp eyes took note of his good clothes but their owners mainly kept out of his way. Beauregard was conscious of the watch in his waistcoat and the wallet in his inside breast pocket. Nimble fingers were around, and long-nailed claws. Blood was not all the new-borns wanted. He swung his cane purposefully, warding off evil.
A thick-necked vampire with size-twelve boots lounged opposite where Lulu had been killed, trying half-heartedly not to look like a detective constable posted on the off chance that the old saw about the murderer returning to the scene of the crime were true. The area around the Kosminskis’ doorway had been picked clean by the police and souvenir hunters. He tried to imagine the last moments of the vampire girl. The detective, the monotony of his duty broken by the presence of a man in a cloak with morbid interests, lumbered from his spot. Beauregard had his card out ready. The new-born saw the words ‘Diogenes Club’ and did a curious little dance with his hands and face, half-salute and half-snarl. Then he stepped in front of the doorway, shielding Beauregard from sight, like the look-out for a cracksman.
He stood on the spot where the girl had died and felt nothing but the cold. Psychical mediums were reputedly able to track a man by invisible ectoplasmic residue, like a bloodhound following a trail. Any such who had offered assistance to the Metropolitan Police had not achieved notable results. The hollow where Silver Knife had worked was tiny. Lulu Schön, a small woman, had had to be twisted and trampled to be crammed down into it. Scrubbed-clean brickwork blotches, as shocking on the soot-blackened wall as an exposed patch of white bone, showed unmistakably where the blood-stains had been. There was nothing more, Beauregard thought, to be gained by this macabre visit.
He bade the detective a good-night and walked off to find a cab. A vampire whore in Flower & Dean Street offered to make him immortal for an ounce or two of his blood. He flipped her a copper coin and went on his way. How long would he have the strength to resist? At thirty-five, he was already aware that he was slowing. In the cold, he felt his wounds. At fifty, at sixty, would his resolve to stay warm to the grave seem ridiculous, perverse? Sinful, even? Was refusing vampirism the moral equivalent of suicide? His father had died at fifty-eight.
Vampires needed the warm to feed and succour them, to keep the city running through the days. There were already un-dead – here in the East End, if not in the salons of Mayfair – starving as the poor had always starved. How soon would it be before the ‘desperate measures’ Sir Danvers Carew advocated in Parliament were seriously considered? Carew favoured the penning-up of still more warm, not only criminals but any simply healthy specimens, to serve as cattle for the vampires of breeding essential to the governance of the country. Stories crept back from Devil’s Dyke that made ice of Beauregard’s heart. Already the definition of criminality extended to include too many good men and women who were simply unable to come to an accommodation with the new regime.
At length, he found a hansom and offered the cabby two florins to take him back to Cheyne Walk. The driver touched his whip to the brim of his topper. Beauregard settled down behind the folding half-doors. With an interior upholstered in red like the plush coffins displayed in the shops along Oxford Street, the hansom was altogether too luxurious a conveyance for this quarter. He wondered whether it had carried a distinguished visitor in search of amorous adventures. Houses all over the district catered to every taste. Women and boys, warm and vampire, were freely available for a few shillings. Drabs like Polly Nichols and Lulu Schön could be had for coppers or a squirt of blood. It was possible the murderer was not from the area, that he was just another toff pursuing peculiar pleasures. You could get anything in Whitechapel, either by paying for it or taking it.
His duties had taken him to worse places. He had spent weeks as a one-eyed beggar in Afghanistan, dogging the movements of a Russian envoy suspected of stirring up the hill-tribes. During the Boer Rebellion, he had negotiated a treaty with the Amahagger, whose idea of an evening’s entertainment was baking the heads of captives in pots. However it had been something of a surprise to return, after a spell abroad in the discreet service of Her Majesty, to find London itself transformed into a city more strange, dangerous and bizarre than any in his experience. No longer the heart of Empire, it was a sponge absorbing the blood of the realm until it burst.
The cab’s wheels rattled on the road, lulling him like the soft crash of waves under a ship. Beauregard thought again of his possible secret society; the Hermetic Order of the Stake perhaps, or the Friends of Van Helsing. In one feature, the crimes were unlike ritual murders: in such cases it was important there be an unmistakable signature, like the five orange pips sent by the Ku Klux Klan to a traitor or the cold fish left beside a Sicilian who defied the mafia. Here the only signature was a kind of directed frenzy. This was the doing of a madman not an insurrectionist. That would not prevent street-corner ranters like those who had interrupted the inquest from claiming these pathetic eviscerations as victories for the warm. It would not be beyond the capabilities of many a secret society to take advantage of a hapless lunatic, systematically to drive a man mad in a certain direction as if he were a weapon being aimed, then discharging him into the streets to do his bloody business.
He might have drifted into sleep, to be awakened outside his own front door by the cabby’s rap, but something irritated him. He had grown used to trusting his occasional feelings of irritation. On several occasions, they had been the saving of his life.
The cab was in the Commercial Road, heading east, not west. Towards Limehouse. Beauregard could smell the docks. He resolved to see this out. It was an intriguing development. He had hopes that the cabby did not merely intend to murder and rob him.
He eased aside the catch in the head of his cane and slid a few inches of shining steel out of the body of the stick. The sword would draw freely if he needed it. Still, it was only steel.
9
A CARPATHIAN QUARTET
Before returning to the Hall, Geneviève slipped into the pub opposite Spitalfields Market. She was well-known there, and in every other rowdy house within the so-called Terrible Quarter-Mile. As Angela Burdett-Coutts had shown, it was not sufficient to sit surrounded by improving tracts and soap in a comfortable church hall, waiting for the fallen to come and be improved. A reformer had to be familiar with the vilest sink-holes of drink and depravity. Of course, the Ten Bells on a week-night in 1888 was like one of the Aerated Bread Company’s tea-rooms set beside a Marseilles brothel in 1786, a St Petersburg palace in the days of Great Catherine, or the château of Gilles de Rais in 1437. If her unfortunates could have seen their Miss Dee in earlier years, when the vicissitudes of a long life brought her to low circumstances, they might have been shocked. At times, she would have looked up to Polly Nichols or Lulu Schön as a scullery maid looks up to a Duchess.
The atmosphere of the Ten Bells was steam-hot; thick with tobacco, beer and spilled blood. As she stepped through the doorway, her eye-teeth slid from their gumsheaths. She pinched shut her mouth, breathing through her nostrils. Animals trussed behind the bar squealed and fought their leather straps. Woodbridge, the barrel-bellied potman, took a sow by the ear and yanked her head around: the spigot-mouth of the tap driven into her neck was clotted. He gouged out the coagulated gore and turned the handle, disgorging a gushing dribble into a glass tankard. Pulling the pint, he joked in a rich Devon dialect with a new-born market porter. Geneviève knew too well the gamey taste of pig’s blood. It could keep the red thirst at bay, but never slake it. She swallowed her spittle. These nights, she did not have the opportunity to form attachments. Her work occupied so much time that she fed only rarely and then not well. Although strong with the strength of centuries, she could not push herself beyond certain limits.
She needed a willing partner and the tang of blood in her mouth.
She knew most of the regulars, at least by sight. Rose Mylett, a warm prostitute Geneviève thought was Lily’s mother, was cutting her finger with a penknife and bleeding into tiny glasses of gin which she sold for a penny. Woodbridge’s slightly hare-lipped son, Georgie, a soft-faced youth in an apron, darted between the tables, collecting the empties and wiping away glass-rings. Johnny Thain, a constable who had been putting in a deal of extra hours since he got a look at what Silver Knife left of Polly Nichols, was at a corner table with a couple of detectives, a tweed coat over his uniform. The casual trade fell into obvious groups: itinerant workmen hoping for a shift at the market, soldiers and sailors looking for a girl or two, new-borns thirsty for more than liquid pork.
By the bar, Cathy Eddowes was simpering up at a big man, stroking the tangle of his hair, pressing her cheek to a blocky shoulder. She turned from her potential client and waved at Geneviève. Her hand was wrapped in cloth, fingers sticking stiffly out of the bundle. If there were more time, she’d have been concerned. Mick Ripper, a knife-sharpener reputed to be the best three-fingered pickpocket in London, closed on Cathy’s beau. He got near enough to see the man’s face and backed off, plunging his hands deep into his pockets.
‘Evenin’, Miss Dee,’ said Georgie. ‘Rushed off ’em tonight, we are.’
‘So I see,’ she said. ‘I hope we shall see you at the Hall for the new course of lectures.’
Georgie looked doubtful but smiled. ‘If ’n Dad lets me off of an evenin’. An’ if ’n it’s safe to go out by night.’
‘Mr Druitt will be taking a class in the mornings in the new year, Georgie,’ she said. ‘Mathematics. You’re one of our promising young men. Never forget your potential.’
