by Kim Newman
‘Mr B, welcome,’ said the short, old man who emerged from behind a curtain. Gregory Fox Malleson had so many chins that there seemed to be nothing between his mouth and collar but rolls of jelly. He had a good-humoured, kindly look, and wore a dirty apron, black silk sheaths over his sleeves and green-tinted protective goggles shifted up on to his forehead.
‘It is always a pleasure to see one of the gentlemen from the Diogenes Club.’
He was warm. As a silversmith, he could hardly be anything else. The new-born outside would not dare to venture into the interior of Fox Malleson’s works. The silver particles in the air might get into his lungs and condemn him to lingering death.
‘I think you’ll be pleased with what we’ve done for you. Come, come, this way, this way...’
He drew aside the curtain and admitted Beauregard into the workrooms. A bed of hot coals burned forever in a smithy, pots of dull liquid silver standing over it. A gawky apprentice was melting down a mayoral chain, feeding it link by link into a pot.
‘So hard to get raw materials these days. With all the new rules and regulations. But we muddle through, Mr B, oh yes we do. In our own way.’
Silver bullets cooled on a bench, like scones on a baker’s tray.
‘A commission from the Palace,’ Fox Malleson said, with pride. He picked up a bullet between thumb and forefinger. The pads of his fingers all had hard burn-calluses. ‘For the Prince Consort’s Carpathian Guard.’
Beauregard wondered how nosferatu soldiers loaded their pistols. Either they had warm orderlies or thick leather gloves.
‘Actually, silver’s not much good for bullets. Too soft. You get the best effect with a core of lead. Silver-jackets, they’re called. Burst in the wound. That’d polish off anyone, un-dead or not. Very nasty.’
‘A costly weapon, surely?’ he asked.
‘Indeed so, Mr B. This is the Reid design. An American gentleman, Reid said bullets should be costly. A reminder that life is a currency not to be spent freely.’
‘An admirable thought. Surprising from an American.’
Fox Malleson was reputedly the finest silversmith in London. For a time, his profession completely outlawed, he had been confined in Pentonville. But expedience prevailed. Power is based, at bottom, on the ability to kill; thus the means of killing have to be available, even if only to a select few.
‘Look at the workmanship,’ Fox Malleson said, holding up a crucifix. Even without its jewels, the craft was evident in the sculpting of the figure of Christ. ‘You can see the suffering in the lines of the limbs.’
Beauregard examined it. A few truly feared the cross – the Prince Consort included, apparently – but most vampires were indifferent to religious artefacts. Some murgatroyds made a point of flaunting their immunity by wearing ivory crucifixes as earrings.
‘Popish silliness, of course,’ Fox Malleson said, a touch sadly. He passed the crucifix to his apprentice for the pot. ‘Still, I miss artistry sometimes. Bullets and blades are all very well but they’re just function. No form to speak of.’
Beauregard was unsure. The rows of bullets, like ranks of soldiers in pointed helmets, were shining and pleasing objects.
‘That’s why a commission such as yours is such a pleasure, Mr B. Such a pleasure.’
Fox Malleson took a long, thin bundle from a rack. It was wrapped in coarse cloth and tied up with string. The silversmith handled it as if it were Excalibur, and he the knight charged with it until the time Arthur should return.
‘Would you care to examine?’
Beauregard loosed the strings and slipped away the cloth. His sword-cane had been polished and refinished. The wood shone, black with a red undertone.
‘Lovely to see such work, Mr B. The original manufacturer was an artist.’
Beauregard pressed the catch and drew the sword. He laid down the sheathing wood and held up the blade, turning his wrist so it caught the red light from the embers. It sparkled and flashed and danced.
The weight was unchanged, the balance perfect. It felt as light as a willow switch, but a flick of the wrist was translated into a powerful slice. Beauregard cut at the air, smiling at the whistle.
‘Beautiful,’ he commented.
‘Oh yes, Mr B, beautiful. Like a fine lady, beautiful and sharp.’
He laid his thumb against the cold flat of the blade, and felt the smoothness.
‘I ask a favour of you,’ the silversmith said, ‘don’t use it for chopping sausage.’
Beauregard laughed. ‘You have my word, Fox Malleson.’
He took the cane, and with a click sheathed the silver-coated sword. He would feel safer in Whitechapel, knowing he could defend himself against anyone.
‘Now, Mr B, you must sign the Poisons Book.’
18
MR VAMPIRE
‘You’re to come quick, Miss Dee,’ Rebecca Kosminski said. ‘It’s Lily. She’s took poorly.’
The self-possessed little girl vampire led Geneviève through the streets away from the Hall. She was discharging her errand with meticulous attention. As they walked, Geneviève asked Rebecca about herself and her family. The child was reluctant to give answers that suggested she was in a position to be pitied. The new-born already had an independent spirit. She dressed like a miniature adult and gave no answer when asked about favourite dolls. She had evolved away from the childhood of her body. The cruellest question anyone could ever ask Rebecca was: ‘What would you want to be if you could grow up?’
In the Minories, Geneviève became aware again that she was being followed at a distance. Over the last few nights, she had almost always been half-conscious of something just out of mind’s reach. Something in yellow that hopped.
‘Are you very old, Miss Dee?’ Rebecca asked.
‘Yes. Sixteen years warm, and four hundred and fifty-six dark.’
‘Are you an elder?’
‘I suppose so. My first ball was in 1429.’
‘Will I be an elder?’
It was unlikely. Few vampires lived as long as they would have unturned. If Rebecca lasted her first century, then she would most likely live several more. Most likely.
‘If I become an elder, I hope to be just like you.’
‘Be careful what you hope for, Rebecca.’
They came to the railway bridge, and Geneviève saw a huddle of women and men under the arches. The thing out of range stopped too, she thought. She had an impression of something truly old, but not truly dead.
‘Here, Miss Dee.’
Rebecca took her hand and led her to the group. At the centre of attention was Cathy Eddowes, sitting on the cobbles with Lily’s head in her lap. Neither new-born looked well. Cathy was thinner than she had been a few nights ago. Her rash had crept to cover her cheeks and forehead. The scarf wrapped about her head did not conceal the extent of her blemishes. The onlookers let Geneviève through and Cathy smiled up at her. Lily was in a kind of fit, with only the whites of her eyes showing.
‘She nearly swallowed ’er tongue, poor mite,’ Cathy said. ‘I ’ad to stick me thumb in there.’
‘What’s wrong with Lily?’ Rebecca asked.
Geneviève laid a hand on the child, and felt her shaking. Bones moved under her skin, as if her skeleton were trying to assume new form, misshaping her flesh.
‘I don’t really know,’ Geneviève admitted. ‘She’s trying to shape-shift and she’s not very good at it.’
‘I’d like to shift my shape, Miss Dee. I could be a bird or a big cat...’
Geneviève looked at Rebecca and let the new-born look at Lily. Rebecca understood.
‘I suppose I should wait until I’m older.’
‘Keep that thought, Rebecca.’
A murgatroyd from the West End had turned Lily, for a lark. Geneviève resolved to find that new-born and inculcate in him an awareness of his responsibility to his abandoned child-in-darkness. If he would not listen, she might hurt him enough to convince him never again to be profligate with his Dark K
iss. Then she thought to herself, ‘Careful.’ She sounded too much like the Old Testament.
Lily’s arm was still most sorely affected. It was a complete batwing now, withered and dead, membrane stretched between bony spines. A tiny useless hand sprouted from a node of the ribs.
‘She’ll never fly,’ Geneviève said.
‘What’s to be done?’ Cathy asked.
‘I’ll take her to the Hall. Maybe Dr Seward has some treatment.’
‘There’s no ’ope, is there?’
‘There’s always hope, Cathy. No matter how much you suffer. You must see the doctor too. I’ve told you before.’
Cathy cringed. She was afraid of doctors and hospitals, more afraid than of policemen and jails.
‘Strewth,’ someone swore. ‘What in God’s blood is that?’
Geneviève turned to look. Most of the crowd faded away into the fog. She was left with Cathy, Lily and Rebecca. Something was coming near, emerging from the murk.
She would at last face the thing that had been dogging her. Standing, she looked about her. The railway arch was about twenty feet tall; a heavily-loaded wagon could get through. The thing was coming the way she had come, down from Aldgate. She heard it first, like a slow beat of a drum. The thing bounced like a rubber ball, but with an unnatural slowness as if fog were as thick as water. Its silhouette became apparent. It was tall and wore a tasselled cap. Its yellow garment was a long robe, huge sleeves dangling from extended arms. It had been a Chinaman a long time ago. It still wore slippers on its small feet.
Rebecca stared at the vampire thing.
‘That,’ Geneviève said, ‘is an elder.’
It kept leaping forwards like Spring-Heel’d Jack. Geneviève made out a face like an Egyptian mummy, with the addition of tusklike fangs and long moustaches. It set down a few yards away and let its arms fall, knife-taloned hands snickersnacking. The oldest vampire Geneviève had ever seen, the Chinese must have earned its wrinkles through countless centuries.
‘What do you want with me?’ she asked, first in Mandarin Chinese, then repeating herself in Cantonese. She had spent a dozen years travelling in China, but that had been a hundred-and-fifty years ago. She had lost most of her languages.
‘Cathy,’ she said, ‘take Rebecca and Lily to the Hall. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes’m,’ the new-born said. She was terrified.
‘Do it now, if you please.’
Cathy stood, cradling Lily against her shoulder, and took Rebecca by the hand. The three of them vanished at a trot through the arch, making to double around Fenchurch Street Station and back up towards Aldgate and Spitalfields.
Geneviève looked at the old vampire. She fell back on English. Elders went beyond the need for speech at some point, reading what they needed directly from others’ minds.
‘Well... we’re alone now.’
It hopped and landed immediately in front of her, face to hers, arms on her shoulders. Muscles wriggled like worms under the thin leather of its face. Its eyes were closed but it could see.
She made a fist and punched at its heart. Her blow should have staved through the ribs; instead, she felt she had taken a swing at a granite gargoyle. There were strange bloodlines in China. Ignoring the pain, she half-turned in the vampire’s near-embrace and brought up her leg, jamming her heel into its stomach and pushing, using its solidity to launch herself away. Her hands were out like springs when she landed on the cobbles on the other side of the bridge. She cowered in a street-lamp’s circle of light as if it offered protection. Her ankle hurt too, now. She jumped to her feet and looked back. The Chinese vampire was gone. Either no real harm was meant her or it played with its prey. She knew which she felt the most likely.
19
THE POSEUR
Lord Ruthven stood at a podium, one hand fisted sternly on his extravagantly ruffled breast, the other resting upon an imposing stack of books. The Prime Minister’s Carlyle, Godalming noticed, still had uncut pages. Ruthven wore a midnight black frock coat, frogged at the collar and on the pockets. A curly-brimmed top hat perched on his head; his face was a thoughtful blank. The portrait would be called The Great Man, or some such imposing title. My Lord Ruthven, the Vampire Statesman.
Several times Godalming had sat for painters; he had been possessed of a series of sudden, urgent needs to scratch or blink or twitch. Ruthven was uniquely able to stand motionless all afternoon, as patient as a lizard waiting on a rock for a morsel to crawl within range of a darting tongue.
‘It is a shame we are denied the miracle of photography,’ he declared, lips apparently unmoving. Godalming had seen attempted photographs of vampires. They developed in a blurred manner, the subjects appearing, if at all, as fuzzy silhouettes with corpselike features. The laws that affected mirrors somehow thwarted the photographic process.
‘But only a painter can capture the inner man,’ Ruthven said. ‘Human genius shall always be superior to mechanical-chemical trickery.’
The artist at hand was Basil Hallward, the society portraitist. He deftly sketched a series of studies, a preliminary to the full-length picture. Although more fashionable than inspired, Hallward had his moments. Even Whistler doled out a few kind words for his early work.
‘Godalming, what do you know about the Silver Knife business?’ Ruthven asked, suddenly.
‘The murders in Whitechapel? Three so far, I believe.’
‘Good, you’re up on it. Excellent man.’
‘I just glance at the newspapers.’
Hallward released the Prime Minister and Ruthven sprang from his spot, eager to see the sketches, which the painter clutched to his heart.
‘Come now, just a peep,’ coaxed Ruthven, exerting considerable charm. At times, he was quite the larkish lad.
Hallward showed his pad and Ruthven flicked through, uttering approval.
‘Very fine, Hallward,’ he commented. ‘I do believe you’ve caught me. Godalming, look here, look at this expression. Is this not me?’
Godalming agreed with Ruthven. The Prime Minister was delighted.
‘You’re too much the new-born to have forgotten your own face, Godalming,’ Ruthven said, fingers at his own cheek. ‘When I was as barely-cool as you, I swore it would never happen. Ah, the resolutions of youth. Gone, gone, gone.’
From philosophy, Ruthven switched to natural science. ‘Actually, it is untrue that vampires lack a reflection. It is just that the reflection invariably does not reflect, as it were, what is out here in the world.’
Godalming, like every new-born, had stared at a shaving glass for a few hours, wondering. Some disappeared completely, while others saw an apparently empty suit of clothes. Godalming’s image was a black fudge like the photographs Ruthven had mentioned. The matter of mirrors was uniformly considered the most impenetrable of the mysteries of the un-dead.
‘Anyway, Godalming... Silver Knife? This beastly murderer. He preys only on our kind, does he not? Slits throats and stabs hearts?’
‘That is what they say.’
‘A fearless vampire killer, like your old associate Van Helsing?’
Godalming’s face burned; if still capable of blushing, he was doing so.
‘I’m sorry,’ the Prime Minister said with patent sincerity, ‘I did not intend to raise that matter. It must be painful for you.’
‘Things have changed, my lord.’
Ruthven fluttered his hand. ‘You lost your fiancée to this Van Helsing. Having suffered more at his hand than even Prince Dracula, you have been pardoned and forgiven your ignorance.’
Godalming remembered hammering at the stake, and Lucy’s hissing, blood-spitting death. A death that need never have been. Lucy would have been one of the first ladies of the court; like Wilhelmina Harker or the Prince Consort’s Carpathian mistresses. He would have lost her anyway.
‘You’ve cause to curse the Dutchman’s memory. For that reason, I wish you to represent my interests in the matter of Silver Knife.’
‘I do
n’t see what you mean.’
Ruthven was back at his podium, exactly in his former pose. Hallward’s quick fingers filled in detail on a large sketch.
‘The Palace has taken an interest. Our dear Queen is most upset. I have a personal note from Vicky. “This murderer is certainly not an Englishman,” she deduces, “and if he is, he is certainly not a gentleman.” Very astute.’
‘Whitechapel is a notorious nest of foreigners, my lord. The Queen may be right.’
Ruthven smiled ironically. ‘Rot, Godalming. We should all like to believe the English incapable of atrocious conduct, but such is not the case. Sir Francis Varney, after all, is an Englishman. The point is that our murderer is very choosy about his midnight surgical experiments.’
‘You think he’s a doctor?’
‘That’s hardly a fresh theory. It’s of no importance. No, the thing is that he is a vampire killer. An homicidal lunatic, almost certainly, but also a vampire killer. Given the delicacy of the situation, he is treading a knife-edge with the public. No matter how they may disapprove and cry “monster”, there is another view, a view which upholds the Silver Knife as an outlaw hero, a Robin Hood of the gutters.’
‘Surely no Englishman could believe so?’
‘Have you forgotten what it was like to be warm, Godalming? How did you feel when you were following Van Helsing about Kingstead Cemetery with hammer and stake?’
Godalming understood.
‘The best thing would be, and I am not commissioning such an act by any means, if our madman were to take his silver knife to some warm tart, and thus display an all-inclusive mania. If there is any sympathy for him, such a step would cause it to evaporate.’
‘Indeed so.’
‘But even this exalted office does not give me power over the minds of mad murderers. A pity.’
‘What would you have me do?’
‘Poke around, Godalming. We are late off the mark. Many interested parties have been tracking our man. Carpathians have been seen attending inquests and loitering in vile places. And a connection of yours, one Charles Beauregard, has been acting on behalf of our more secret services.’
