by Kim Newman
The arch led to an enclosed square, and was covered with a greasy grey blanket on a string. The makeshift curtain was swept aside by a slender hand and a cloud of scented smoke drifted out. The glow-worms of opium pipes lit up wizened faces. A warm sailor, with scabs on his neck and nothing in his eyes, tottered out, his pay burned away in dream-smoke. He would be lucky to get out of the Jago with his sea-boots.
‘Just the thing,’ Charles said.
‘What are we doing?’ she asked him.
‘Rattling a web to attract a spider’s attention.’
‘Wonderful.’
A young Chinese, new-born and delicate, emerged from the courtyard. The roughs all deferred to her, which said much. She wore blue pyjamas and trod upon filthy cobbles with silk slippers. Her skin shone like fine porcelain. A tightly-bound rope of glossy black hair hung to her knees. Charles bowed to her, and she responded, arms outspread in welcome.
‘Charles Beauregard of the Diogenes Club sends his regards to your master, the Lord of Strange Deaths.’
The girl said nothing. Geneviève imagined some of the loiterers had slipped away and found something else to interest them.
‘I wish it known that this woman, Geneviève Dieudonné, is under my protection. I request that no further action be taken against her lest the bond of friendship between your master and myself be broken.’
The girl considered a moment and gave one sharp nod. She bowed once more and retreated behind the curtain. Through the thin blanket, Geneviève still saw the wavering red dots of the pipes.
‘That should do it, I think,’ Charles said.
Geneviève shook her head. She did not quite understand what had passed between Charles and the oriental new-born.
‘I have friends in strange places,’ he admitted.
They were alone. Even the children had disappeared. By invoking this ‘Lord of Strange Deaths’, Charles had cleared the street.
‘So Charles, I am under your protection?’
He looked almost amused. ‘Yes.’
She did not know what to think. Somehow she did feel safer, but also a touch irritated. ‘I suppose I should thank you.’
‘It might be an idea.’
She sighed. ‘So that was it, then? No battle of titanic forces, no magic destruction of the enemy, no heroic last stand?’
‘Just a little diplomacy. Always the best way.’
‘And your “friend” can really call off the elder, as a huntsman calls a dog to heel?’
‘Indubitably.’
They were walking out of the Jago, back towards the safer – safer!? – waters of Whitechapel. The slum was lit only by braziers of infernal embers in the courtyards, which gave the dark a reddish underglow. Now there were at least the usual hissing streetlights. By comparison, the fog here was almost friendly.
‘The Chinese believe that if you save a person from death, you’re responsible for the rest of their lives. Charles, are you prepared to take that burden? I’ve lived a long time and intend to live a great while longer.’
‘Geneviève, I think you unlikely to place too great a strain on my conscience.’
They stopped and she looked at him. He was barely able to conceal his smug amusement.
‘You only know me as I am now,’ she said. ‘I’m not the person I was, or the one I will be. Over the years, we don’t change on the outside but inside... that’s another thing.’
‘I’ll undertake the risk.’
With morning only an hour or so away, she was tired. She was still weak and should not have ventured out. The ache in her neck was worse than it had been. Amworth said that meant she was healing properly.
‘I have heard the expression before,’ she said.
‘The expression?’
‘“Lord of Strange Deaths”. One who goes by that title is mentioned, if very infrequently, in connection with a criminal tong. His reputation is not of the best.’
‘As I said, he is a devil from hell. But he is a devil of his word; he takes obligations seriously.’
‘He has an obligation to you?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then you’ve an obligation to him?’
Charles said nothing. His mind was also a blank, except for a railway station sign.
‘You’re doing that deliberately, are you not?’
‘What?’
‘Thinking of Basingstoke.’
Charles laughed. And, after a moment, she did too.
37
DOWNING STREET, BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
Godalming was late for his appointment. His neatly bandaged cut throbbed, the pain unlike anything since his turning. His head was fogged by Penelope; the old, warm Penelope who was no more, not the new-born he had left in Cadogan Square. In the cab, he slumped into a daze, reliving the passing of his bloodline. At once bloated and drained, he remembered the Dark Kiss. As himself and as Penelope. This would pass.
In Downing Street, he was ushered quietly into the cabinet. In an instant, he was shocked sober. The room was filled, his private audience with Lord Ruthven superseded by what was obviously an important gathering. General Iorga and Sir Charles Warren were there. Also, Henry Matthews, the Home Secretary, and several other, equally distinguished vampires. Sir Danvers Carew, wearing his customary scowl, chewed an unlit cigar.
‘Godalming,’ Ruthven said, ‘sit down. Lady Ducayne will have to excuse you. We are discussing the evening’s atrocities.’
Godalming, befuddled, found a chair. He had missed the second act, and would have to pick up the thread.
‘The Carpathian Guard has been grossly insulted,’ Iorga said, ‘and must be avenged.’
‘Quite, quite, quite,’ mumbled Matthews. Not generally reckoned to be among the Government’s ablest men, he was sometimes unkindly likened to ‘a French dancing master’. ‘But it would be unwise to fly off the handle, what with the current delicate situation.’
Iorga thumped with a mailed fist, cracking the table. ‘Our blood must have blood!’
Ruthven looked with distaste at the damage the Carpathian had done. The fine finish was ruined.
‘Malefactors will not be allowed to escape unpunished,’ the Prime Minister told the General.
‘Indeed,’ put in Sir Charles. ‘We confidently expect arrests within twenty-four hours.’
‘Just as you have confidently expected at every opportunity for the last few months in this Ripper case,’ snorted Matthews.
The Home Secretary had quarrelled with the Commissioner before, notably in a bitter jurisdictional dispute over who was finally responsible for the newly formed Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police. At first, each had claimed the dynamic detectives as their own, but, of late, both had been less keen; especially with the Whitechapel murders still unsolved.
Sir Charles was angered by the needling. ‘As you well know, Home Secretary, the police failures in this matter owe more to your refusal to allot adequate funds than to any...’
‘Gentlemen,’ said Ruthven, quietly. ‘This is not under discussion.’
The Home Secretary and the Commissioner slumped, each glaring at the other.
‘Warren,’ Ruthven addressed himself to Sir Charles, ‘you are best placed to give an account of the position of the police force. Do so.’
Godalming listened intently. He might find out what this was about.
Sir Charles consulted his notebook like an ordinary constable in court, and cleared his throat. ‘At about midnight, an incident took place in St James’s Park...’
‘... within a few hundred yards of the Palace!’ Matthews put in.
‘... Indeed, in the immediate environs of Buckingham Palace, although at no time were the Royal Family endangered. An officer of the Carpathian Guard was escorting a group of insurrectionists arrested earlier, during the riots.’
‘Dangerous criminals!’ Iorga blustered.
‘That is conjecture. Reports vary. Inspector Mackenzie, a witness, describes the prisoners as “a
group of frightened young women”.’
Iorga grunted.
‘A band of men cornered the officer, Ezzelin von Klatka, and destroyed him. In a particularly revolting manner.’
‘How, exactly?’ Godalming put in, intrigued.
‘They stuck a stick of dynamite into his heart and set it off,’ Ruthven said. ‘An innovation, at least.’
‘It was a fine pretty mess,’ Sir Charles said.
‘As our American cousins might have it, that’s the Carpathian Guard all over,’ Ruthven remarked.
Iorga’s head was on the point of exploding, angry red swelling around his eyes. ‘Captain von Klatka died bravely,’ he snarled, ‘a hero.’
‘Come, come, Iorga,’ Ruthven said. ‘A little levity is always welcome.’
‘What of the culprits?’ Carew asked.
‘Men in masks,’ Matthews said. ‘A cross of St George was left by the body. Obviously, Sir Charles’s previous reports on the disorganisation of the Christian Crusade have been sorely in error.’
‘Some see this as retaliation for the attack on John Jago,’ Ruthven explained. ‘Someone has painted thin red crosses all over the city.’
‘Mackenzie says the murderer of von Klatka was a vampire,’ Sir Charles said.
‘Absurd,’ Matthews shouted. ‘You all cling together, you policemen. You cover your mistakes with lies.’
‘Hold fire, Matthews,’ Sir Charles responded. ‘I merely repeat the claim of an observant man at the scene. For myself, I agree with you. It is unlikely that any vampire should wish harm to the Carpathian Guard. That would be practically the same as lifting a hand against our beloved Prince Consort.’
‘Yes,’ Ruthven said. ‘It would, wouldn’t it?’
‘What’s been done?’ Carew said, his habitual angry look turning to black-faced fury.
Sir Charles sighed. ‘I have issued orders for the arrest of the Crusade ringleaders still at liberty after this afternoon’s disturbances.’
‘Their heads should be on poles by sunrise.’
‘General Iorga, we operate under the rule of law. We must first establish the guilt of the felons.’
Iorga waved the irrelevance away. ‘Punish them all and let God decide who is guilty.’
Sir Charles continued. ‘We know the churches and chapels where Jago’s followers gather. All are being raided. In one night, we shall put an end to the Christian Crusade.’
Ruthven thanked the Commissioner. ‘Excellent, Warren. I am myself arranging for the Archbishop to condemn the crusaders as heretics. They will no longer have even the notional support of the Church.’
‘There must be further reprisals,’ Iorga insisted. ‘To stop the rot of rebellion. For von Klatka, a hundred must die.’
Ruthven considered the matter, before he took charge again. ‘We now come to our larger purpose. Even without this fresh outrage I should have convened this meeting within a few nights. This is not an isolated incident. It has not been released to the public, but a week ago an assassin tossed a bomb at Sir Francis Varney during an official visit to Lahore. It failed to explode, but the villain escaped into the crowds. Also, there was this morning an organised mutiny in Devil’s Dyke. That has been suppressed but several dangerous insurrectionists are being tracked on the Sussex Downs.’
Sir Charles looked stricken. This reflected badly on Scotland Yard. On his administration.
Ruthven continued. ‘Silent enim leges inter arma, as Cicero has it. Laws are dumb in the time of war. It may be necessary to suspend Habeas Corpus. The Prince Consort has already taken the title of Lord Protector, assuming the constitutional burden formerly shouldered by our dear Queen. He may yet find it useful to extend his personal powers. In that event, we in this room would most likely constitute the entire government of Great Britain and its Empire. We would be king’s ministers.’
Matthews was about to protest but fell silent. Still a new-born, like Sir Charles, he was in this room only on sufferance. Their seats could easily be filled by vampire elders. Or un-dead of the new breed, who had completely abandoned their warm ways. Godalming realised how close he was to power. He might soon learn what Ruthven was grooming him for.
A dour and silent vampire beside the Prime Minister gave him a ribbon-tied folder of papers. Godalming thought he was connected with the Secret Service.
‘Thank you, Mr Croft,’ Ruthven said, ripping the ribbon. He extracted a paper with finger and thumb and casually whirled it across the table to Sir Charles. ‘This is a list of prominent people suspected of conspiracy against the Crown. They are to be arrested before the sun sets tomorrow.’
Sir Charles’s lips moved as he read the list. He put it down and Godalming was able to glance over it.
Most of the names were familiar: George Bernard Shaw, W.T. Stead, Cunningham-Grahame, Annie Besant, Lord Tennyson. Others meant little: Marie Spartali Stilman, Adam Adamant, Olive Schreiner, Alfred Waterhouse, Edward Carpenter, C.L. Dodgson. There were some surprises.
‘Gilbert?’ Sir Charles asked. ‘Why? The man’s as much a vampire as you or I.’
‘As much as you, maybe. He has lampooned us constantly. Many cannot see a vampire elder without sniggering. Not, I think, an attitude we wish to foster.’
It was hardly a coincidence that the bad baronet in Ruddigore, whose name was a byword for a certain kind of vampire, was called Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd.
Matthews was looking over the list now, shaking his head. ‘And Gilbert is not the only vampire here,’ the Home Secretary said. ‘You have down Soames Forsyte, my own banker.’
For once, Ruthven did not seem silly and trifling. Godalming saw cold steel claws inside the murgatroyd’s velvet glove.
‘Vampires are as capable of treason as the warm,’ Ruthven explained. ‘Every man and woman on that list has won their place in Devil’s Dyke fair and square.’
Sir Charles was concerned. ‘Devil’s Dyke was not constructed with vampires in mind.’
‘Then let us be thankful that we maintain the Tower of London. It shall be converted into a prison for vampires. General Iorga, have you under your command some officer whom you have had cause to reprimand for the severity of his treatment of underlings?’
Iorga grinned, a row of jagged beast-teeth flashing. ‘I can think of several. Graf Orlok is well-known for excess.’
‘Excellent. Orlok shall be made Governor of the Tower of London.’
‘But the man’s a maniacal brute,’ Matthews protested. ‘He is no longer welcome at half the houses in London. He looks barely human.’
‘Just the vampire for the job,’ Ruthven commented. ‘This is statesmanship, Matthews. There are positions for all. It is simply a matter of matching personality to the task.’
Mr Croft took a note, either of the Graf ’s appointment or of the Home Secretary’s protest. Godalming would not care to be listed in Mr Croft’s notebook.
‘Now, to other business. Warren, here is a draft of your new promotion policy.’
Sir Charles gasped as the paper was given him.
‘Only vampires are to be advanced,’ Ruthven said. ‘This is to be a general rule in all branches of civil and military service. The warm may turn or stay where they are. It is of no consequence. And remember, Warren, only the right sort of vampires are to be promoted. I shall expect you to clean your house.’
Ruthven turned his attention to the Home Secretary and gave him another document. ‘Matthews, this is a draft of the Emergency Powers Act which will pass in the house tomorrow evening. I consider it vital that we order the affairs of the daytime world rather more than under the haphazard system we have tolerated until the present. There will be restrictions on travel, assembly and commerce. Public houses will only open during the hours of darkness. It is time we rearranged the clock and calendar for our convenience, rather than bowed in everything to the wishes of the warm.’
Matthews swallowed the medicine. Sir Danvers Carew growled with something approaching pleasure. He was in line to replace Matthe
ws when Ruthven made him resign.
‘We are being forced to act swiftly,’ Ruthven declared to the room in general. ‘But this is no bad thing. We must keep to our decided course, whatever resistance we might meet. These are exciting nights, and we have a chance to lead the world. We are the wind from the East. We are the fury of the storm. In our wake, we will leave this country changed and tempered. Those who hesitate or stay their hands will be whisked away in the torrent. Like the Prince Consort, I intend to stand fast. Many will be destroyed utterly as the moon rises on our Empire. Mr Darwin was quite correct: only the fit shall survive. We must ensure that we are among the fittest of the fit.’
38
NEW-BORN
Art had left Penelope to see herself out. She was in a species of a swoon as he told her why he was dashing off. Something to do with the Prime Minister. Affairs of great import and urgency. Masculine matters, she assumed, and none of her concern. It seemed as if Art talked to her from the end of a long tunnel, a great wind blowing against him and carrying off his voice. Then he was gone and she was alone with herself...
... she was turning. It was not what she expected. She had been told it was quick: a brief pain like a tooth being pulled, then a period of dozing, comparable to the pupal stage of an insect, followed by a reawakening into the vampire state.
The pain, raging red throughout her body, was terrible. Suddenly, in a hot gush, her monthly was upon her. Her underthings were clogged. Kate had warned her, but she had forgotten. At the moment, there was little consolation in the prospect that this was the last time such feminine inconvenience would bother her. Vampire females, she understood, do not menstruate. That curse was lifted forever. As a woman, she was dead...
* * *
... on the divan where Art had taken her, where she had bled him, she gripped a bolster to her stomach. She had expelled every scrap of food on to Art’s Persian carpet. Then, in a more convenient moment, she had voided her bowels and bladder. She understood why, even as he was making a hasty escape, Art took the trouble to tell her where his privy was. During the turn, her body expelled all its wastes.
