by Kim Newman
‘Beauregard? He’s a quill-pusher...’
‘He is a member of the Diogenes Club, and the Diogenes Club is well-placed.’
Finding a tiny fold of lip caught between his teeth, Godalming bit down, swallowing the brief tang of his own blood. It was becoming a habit.
‘Beauregard has been haring around mysteriously. I have seen something of his fiancée. She is put out by his neglect.’
Ruthven laughed. ‘Ever the curly-haired roué, Godalming?’
‘Not at all,’ Godalming said, lying.
‘At any rate, watch Beauregard. I’ve no reports of him beyond the most basic; which suggests to me that he is a shiny little tool Admiral Messervy and his crew wish to keep all to themselves.’
He could not imagine Beauregard even knowing where Whitechapel was. But he had been in India. Godalming had heard odd hints from Penelope, hints that now formed a wavering picture of a man very different from the dull companion of Florence Stoker’s after-darks.
‘At any rate, we are expecting Sir Charles Warren within the half-hour. I shall breathe fire in his face and impress upon him the importance of bringing this affair to a speedy and happy conclusion. Then I intend to saddle the Commissioner with you.’
Godalming was quietly proud. A clever new-born might advance himself by doing such a service to his Prime Minister.
‘Godalming, this is an opportunity for you to erase forever that question mark by your name. Bring us Silver Knife and it’ll be as if you had never met Abraham Van Helsing. Few have a chance to change their past.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
‘And remember, our interests are singular. If the murderer is brought to book, then that will be good and just. But the most important aspect of the case is far removed from the fates of a few eviscerated demi-mondaines. When this is finished, the murderer must be reviled not revered.’
‘I don’t believe I fully understand.’
‘Let me illustrate. In New Mexico, ten years ago, a new-born ran riot, killing without thought. A warm man, Patrick Garrett, loaded a shotgun with sixteen silver dollars and peppered his heart with razor-shards. The new-born was Henry Antrim or William Bonney, a cretin leech who deserved his fate. Soon after, stories began to circulate. Dime novels elaborated upon his youth and romantic appeal. Billy the Kid, they call him now, Billy Blood. Squalid murder and pathetic crime are forgotten and the American West has a a range-riding vampire demi-god. You can read in the penny press how he rescued fair maidens and was rewarded with their freely-bestowed favours, how he stood up for poor farmers against cattle kings, how he only became a killer to avenge the death of his father-in-darkness. It’s all bunkum, Godalming, all a pretty lie for the newspapers. Billy Bonney was so low he’d bleed his own horse, but now he is a true hero. That will not happen in this case. When Silver Knife is hoisted to the stake, I want a dead madman not an unkillable legend.’
Godalming understood.
‘Warren and the others merely wish to finish Silver Knife for 1888. I want you to make sure he is destroyed for all time.’
20
NEW GRUB STREET
September was nearly done. It was the morning of the 28th. Silver Knife had not murdered since Lulu Schön, on the 17th. Of course, Whitechapel was now so crowded with policemen and reporters that the killer might be overcome with shyness. Unless, as some had theorised, he was a policeman or a reporter.
With the sun up, the streets were sparsely populated. The fog had blown away for the moment, giving him a cold, clear look at the place that had become his second home. Beauregard had to admit he did not much care for it, by day or night. After another fruitless shift with resentful detectives, he was tired to the point of exhaustion. Professional feeling was that the trail was cooling fast. The murderer might have succumbed to his own mania and turned his knife against himself. Or simply hopped on a steamer for America or Australia. Soon, everywhere in the world you could go, there would be vampires.
‘Maybe he’s just stopped,’ Sergeant Thick had suggested. ‘They do sometimes. He could spend the rest of his life sniggering every time he passes a copper. Maybe he doesn’t get his jollies with the knife, maybe the thing is that he wants to have a secret all to himself.’
That had not sounded right to Beauregard. From the autopsies, he believed Silver Knife got his jollies cutting up vampire women. Although the victims were not conventionally violated, it was obvious the crimes were sexual in nature. Privately, Dr Phillips, the H Division Police Surgeon, theorised that the murderer might practice the sin of Onan at the site of his crimes. Little connected with this case was not utterly repulsive to decent sensibilities.
‘Mr Beauregard,’ a female voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Charles?’
A young person with a black bonnet and smoked glasses crossed the street to talk to him. Although it was not raining, she had up a black umbrella, shading her face. The wind caught and it tilted, swinging back the shadow.
‘Why, it’s Miss Reed,’ Beauregard exclaimed, surprised. ‘Kate?’
The girl smiled to be remembered.
‘What brings you to these unsavoury parts?’
‘Journalism, Charles. Remember, I scribble.’
‘Of course. Your essay on the consequences of the match-girl strike in Our Corner was exemplary. Radical, of course, but exceedingly fair.’
‘That is probably the first and only time the expression “exceedingly fair” will be used in connection with me, but I thank you for the compliment.’
‘You underrate yourself, Miss Reed.’
‘Perhaps,’ she mused, before proceeding to her current business. ‘I’m looking for Uncle Diarmid. Have you seen him?’
Beauregard knew Kate’s uncle was one of the head men at the Central News Agency. The police thought highly of him, rating him one of the few scrupulous pressmen on the crime circuit.
‘Not recently. Is he here? On a story?’
‘The story. Silver Knife.’
Kate was fidgety, holding close a mannish document folder which seemed to have some totemic value. Her umbrella was larger than she could easily manage.
‘There’s something different about you, Miss Reed. Have you perhaps changed the style of your hair?’
‘No, Mr Beauregard.’
‘Odd. I could have sworn...’
‘Maybe you haven’t seen me since I turned.’
It hit him at once that she was nosferatu. ‘I beg your pardon.’
She shrugged. ‘That’s all right. A lot of the girls are turning, you know. My – what do they call them? – father-in-darkness has many get. He is Mr Frank Harris, the editor.’
‘I have heard of him. He is a friend of Florence Stoker’s, isn’t he?’
‘He used to be, I think.’
Her patron, famous for championing people then breaking with them, was notoriously profligate with his affections. Kate was a direct young woman; Beauregard could see why she might appeal to Mr Frank Harris, the editor.
She must have some important mission to venture out by day, even heavily shrouded from the sun, so soon after turning.
‘There is a café nearby where the reporters gather. It’s not quite the place for an unaccompanied young lady, but...’
‘Then, Mr Beauregard, you must accompany me, for I have something Uncle Diarmid must see immediately. I hope you do not think me forward or presumptuous. I would not ask if it were not important.’
Kate Reed had always been pale and thin. The turn actually made her complexion seem healthier. Beauregard felt the force of her will, and was not inclined to resist.
‘Very well, Miss Reed. This way...’
‘Call me Kate. Charles.’
‘Of course. Kate.’
‘How is Penny? I have not seen her since...’
‘I’m rather afraid that neither have I. My guess is that she is in something of a pet.’
‘Not the first time.’
Beauregard frowned.
‘Oh, I am
sorry, Charles. I didn’t mean to say that. I can be a fearful twit at times.’
She made him smile.
‘Here,’ he said.
The Café de Paris was on Commercial Street, near the police station. A pie-and-eels-and-pitchers-of-tea establishment, formerly catering to market porters and police constables, it was now full of men with curly moustaches and check suits, arguing about bylines and headlines. The reason the place was such a hit with the press was that the proprietor had installed one of the new telephone devices. He allowed reporters, for a penny a time, to place calls to their head offices, even to the extent of dictating stories over the wire.
‘Welcome to futurity,’ he said, holding open the door for Kate.
She saw what he meant. ‘Oh, how wonderful.’
An angry little American in a rumpled white suit and a straw hat from the last decade was holding the mouth- and ear-pieces of the apparatus, and yelling at an unseen editor.
‘I’m telling you,’ he shouted, loud enough to render the miracle of modern science superfluous, ‘I’ve a dozen witnesses who swear the Silver Knife is a were-wolf.’
The man at the other end shouted, giving the exasperated reporter a chance to draw breath. ‘Anthony,’ he said, ‘this is news. We work for a newspaper, we are supposed to print news!’
The reporter wrestled with the device, shutting off the call, and passed it on to the next man, a startled new-born, in the queue for the device.
‘Over to you, LeQueux,’ the American said. ‘Better luck with your runaway steam-driven automaton theory.’
LeQueux, whom Beauregard had read in the Globe, rattled the telephone, and began whispering to the operator.
A small group of urchins played marbles in a corner, while Diarmid Reed held court by an open fire. He sucked on a pipe as he lectured a circle of Grub Street toilers.
‘A story is like a woman, lads,’ he said, ‘you can chase her and catch her, but you can’t make her stay longer than she wants to. Sometimes, you come down to a kipper breakfast and she’s upped stakes.’
Beauregard coughed to attract Reed’s attention lest he embarrass himself before his niece. Reed looked up, and grinned.
‘Katie,’ he said, without a speck of regret for his indecent metaphor. ‘Come in and have some tea. And Beauregard, isn’t it? Where did you find my benighted niece? Not in some house hereabouts, I hope. Her poor mother always said she’d be the ruin of the family.’
‘Uncle, this is important.’
He looked benignly sceptical. ‘Just as your women’s suffrage story was important?’
‘Uncle, whether or not you agree with my views on that question, you must concede that a mass expression of them, involving many of the greatest and wisest in the land, is news. Especially when the Prime Minister responds by sending in the Carpathians.’
‘Tell ’em girl,’ said the man in the straw hat.
Kate gave Beauregard her umbrella and unbuckled her document case. She laid a paper on the table, between teacups and ashtrays.
‘This came in yesterday. Remember, you had me opening letters as a punishment.’
Reed was examining the paper closely. It was covered in a spidery red hand.
‘You have brought this straight to me?’
‘I’ve been looking for you all night.’
‘There’s a good little vampire,’ said a stripe-shirted new-born newsman with waxed moustache points.
‘Shut up, D’Onston,’ Reed said. ‘My niece drinks printers’ ink, not blood. She’s got news in her veins just where you’ve got warm water.’
‘What is it?’ LeQueux asked, breaking his telephone connection to catch up with the development.
Reed ignored the question. He found a penny in his waistcoat pocket and summoned one of the urchins.
‘Ned, go to the police station and find someone above the rank of sergeant. You know what that means.’
The sharp-eyed child made a face that suggested he knew all about the varieties and habits of policemen.
‘Tell them the Central News Agency has received a letter, purporting to be from Silver Knife. Just those words, exactly.’
‘Pr’porten?’
‘Purporting.’
The barefoot Mercury snatched the tossed penny out of the air and dashed off.
‘I tell you,’ he began, ‘kids like Ned will inherit the earth. The twentieth century will be beyond our imagining.’
No one wanted to listen to social theories. Everyone wanted a look at the letter.
‘Careful,’ Beauregard said. ‘That is evidence, I believe.’
‘Well said. Now, back off boys, and give me some room.’
Reed held the letter carefully, rereading it.
‘One thing,’ he said when he had finished. ‘This is an end for Silver Knife.’
‘What?’ said LeQueux.
‘“Don’t mind me giving the trade name,” it says in the postscript.’
‘Trade name?’ D’Onstan asked.
‘“Jack the Ripper”. He signs himself “Yours truly, Jack the Ripper”.’
D’Onstan whispered the name, rolling it around his mouth. Others joined in the chorus. The Ripper. Jack the Ripper. Jack. The Ripper. Beauregard felt a chill.
Kate was pleased, and looked modestly at her boot-toes.
‘Beauregard, would you care?’
Reed gave him the letter, exciting grumbles of envy from the rival newspapermen.
‘Read it out,’ the American suggested. Feeling a touch self-conscious, Beauregard tried to recite.
‘“Dear Boss,”’ the letter began. ‘The hand is hurried and spiky, but suggests an education, a man used to writing.’
‘Cut the editorial,’ LeQueux said, ‘give it us straight.’
‘“I keep on hearing the police have caught me but they wont” – no apostrophe – “they wont fix me just yet. I have laughed when they look so clever and talk about being on the right track...”’
‘Bright boy,’ D’Onstan said. ‘He’s got Lestrade and Abberline bang to rights there.’
Everyone shushed the interruptor.
‘“That joke about Silver Knife gave me real fits. I am down on leeches and shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled. Grand work the last job was. I gave the lady no time to squeal. How can they catch me now. I love my work and want to start again. You will soon hear of me with my funny little games.”’
‘Degenerate filth,’ spluttered D’Onstan. Beauregard had to agree.
‘“I saved some of the proper red stuff in a ginger beer bottle over the last job to write with but it went thick like glue and I cant use it. Red ink is fit enough I hope. Ha ha. The next job I do I shall clip the ladys ears off and send to the police officers just for jolly wouldnt you...”’
‘Jolly wouldn’t you? What is that, a joke?’
‘Our man’s a comedian,’ said LeQueux. ‘Grimaldi reborn.’
‘“Keep this letter back till I do a bit more work, then give it out straight.”’
‘Sounds like my editor,’ said the American.
‘“My knife’s so nice and silver and sharp I want to get to work right away if I get a chance. Good luck.” And, as Reed said, “Yours truly, jack the Ripper. Dont mind me giving the trade name.” There’s another postscript. “Wasnt good enough to post this before I got all the red ink off my hands, curse it. No luck yet. They say I’m a doctor now, ha ha.”’
‘Ha ha,’ said an angry elderly man from the Star. ‘Ha bloody ha. I’d give him a ha-ha if he were here.’
‘How do we know he isn’t?’ said D’Onstan, rolling his eyes, wiping his moustache like a melodrama villain.
Ned was back, with Lestrade and a couple of constables, puffing as if they had been told the murderer himself, not merely a communication from him, were in the Café de Paris.
Beauregard handed the letter to the Inspector. As he read, his lips forming the words, the journalists discussed it.
‘It’s a ruddy hoax,’ someone said
. ‘Some joker making trouble for us all.’
‘I think it’s genuine,’ opined Kate. ‘There’s a creepiness about it that sounds authentic to me. All that fake funny. The perverse relish drips off the page. When I first opened it, even before reading, I had a profound sense of evil, of loneliness, of purpose.’
‘Whatever it is,’ the American said, ‘it’s news. They can’t stop us printing this.’
Lestrade put up his hand as if he might have some objection, but let it fall before he said anything.
‘Jack the Ripper, eh,’ said Reed. ‘We couldn’t have done better ourselves. The old Silver Knife monicker was wearing thin. Now, we’ve a proper name for the blighter.’
21
IN MEMORIAM
Dr Seward’s Diary (kept in phonograph)
29 SEPTEMBER
Today I went to Kingstead Cemetery to lay my annual wreath. Lilies, of course. It is three years to the day since Lucy’s destruction. The tomb bears the date of her first death, and only I – or so I thought – remember the date of Van Helsing’s expedition. The Prince Consort, after all, is hardly likely to make it a national holiday.
When I came out of the woods a little less than three years ago, I found the country turning. For months, as the Count climbed to his current position, I expected always to be struck down. Surely the invader who took such delight in the public ruination of Van Helsing would eventually reach out his claw and smash me. Eventually, as the fear subsided to a dull throb, I supposed I had become lost in the teeming crowds that so attracted our new master. Or maybe, with that diabolical cruelty for which he is famous, he had decided that allowing me my life would be a more fitting revenge. After all, I pose little threat to the Prince Consort. Since then, life has seemed a dream, a night-shadow of what should have been...
I still dream of Lucy, too much. Her lips, her pale skin, her hair, her eyes. Many times have dreams of Lucy been responsible for my nocturnal emissions. Wet kisses and wet dreams...
