Blood to Blood (13 page)

In the two months he'd been in England, Van Helsing had grown thoroughly sick of Arthur Holmwood's—Lord Godalming's!—hospitality.

Not that Arthur wasn't a gracious host… indeed. Van Helsing's problem was that Arthur seemed
too
gracious. Whenever Van Helsing visited London, Arthur insisted he stay with him at the modest—at least by British standards—estate in West Kensington that he'd inherited from his uncle. Ian, the aging butler—or gentleman's gentleman or whatever someone like him was called—who stayed wherever Arthur was staying, had been instructed to see to his every need. Van Helsing, unused to servants, had no idea how to tell the man he merely wished to be alone.

In the evenings, Arthur constantly dragged Van Helsing away from the library he'd given him leave to use, and the contemplation and meditation that kept the doctor's cerebral life at its best. As a result. Van Helsing had seen more of London than he had ever hoped to see, and met a number of its more eccentric characters in the process. Though he found it interesting to eavesdrop on the cutting wit of Oscar Wilde and or share the odd adventures of Arthur's theater crowd, he longed for the silence of a good library or bookstore. There was plenty of both in London and he stole away from Arthur's presence as often as he could, until Arthur suggested that he might be more comfortable in Mayfair, at a small flat Arthur kept for theater friends and those nights when he didn't feel like riding home.

For solace. Van Helsing often found himself seeking out the droll company of Arthur's artist friend Beardsley. Barely twenty, the young man always looked as if he would be dead within a fortnight.

"Aubrey's been that way for as long as I've known him," Arthur explained soon after he introduced the pair. "I hear that he's known he is dying since he was seven."

As have we all. Van Helsing thought, though he admitted that for most, death had far less of a presence.

Though most of Beardsley's work was far too risque for Van Helsing, he could not help but admire the young man's talent, his drive and his deep philosophical acceptance of his dwindling future. He soon found himself scouring texts and writing fellow physicians in Germany, hoping to find some new treatment for consumption that would prolong the young man's life or at least diminish his pain. He did discover one odd prescription, which included an elixir made from moldy bread, unfermented beer and lemon juice. Though Van Helsing was doubtful about the efficacy of such a foul-tasting drink, the physician who recommended it swore by it, as did Aubrey after only a few days of treatment. Soon the old man and a companion a third his age were strolling the streets of Mayfair on sunny afternoons, often stopping for lunch in their favorite outdoor cafe near the Arcade. Van Helsing wasn't certain which of them was slowing his pace for the other's sake, but it made no difference.

They were dining when Arthur found them. He joined them at the table, laying his hat and walking stick on an empty chair.

"I've received a note from Mrs. Harker," he said, sliding the unopened telegram across the table.

As Arthur ordered a glass of wine, he watched Van Helsing open and read the telegram, trying to judge the tone of it from the older man's expression. He needn't have bothered. As soon as Van Helsing was finished, he handed the note to Arthur. "She's asking me to come for a visit," he explained, "and hopes that you will be able to come as well."

Arthur read the telegram, nothing more than the doctor had already conveyed, disappointed that Mina did not say more. But telegrams were hardly private, and she promised that a letter would follow and that they would receive it soon. Hopefully more would be explained then.

Arthur leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out alongside the table. This was a charming spot to dine and he knew why Aubrey and Van Helsing chose it so often. The tall buildings on either side of it kept the cold sea wind away, and in early afternoon, with the sun beating down from above, the place seemed almost tropical—good for old bones and for weak lungs as well.

Last fall he had sat at this same table, feigning disapproval while Oscar and Gance planned a bachelor party for him that would have done the old Hellfire Clubs proud. But the wedding had ended in death and mutilation, and with Lucy and Gance rotting in their Exeter crypts. In spite of his vow to discard the past, it was no surprise that Aubrey was the one he turned to for solice, even though he could hardly explain the real reason why. Even after so many months, he still felt most comfortable among the near-dead.

Before his thoughts grew too dark, he ordered a glass of wine, then forced himself to concentrate on the story Aubrey was relating to him and Van Helsing. It concerned a woman he'd encountered the night before.

"I tell you both, I have never seen a creature of such incredible beauty… well, not beauty, not exactly. "Presence" might be a better word. Even with all the smudges on her face, I could not take my eyes off her."

"Dirt?" Arthur leaned forward, his fingers playing with the stem of his wineglass. "Where did you see this ragged creature?"

So Aubrey finally had Arthur's interest. And his concern. Aubrey easily guessed why and tried to brush the matter off. "I never said she was ragged, just dirty. I saw her on the embankment on Cheyne Walk near Battersea Bridge. I'd just left King's Head when I glimpsed some motion, a darkness against darkness in the shadows along the river close by the bridge."

"Darkness! Good lord, Aubrey! You should have been at home!"

Van Helsing moved his foot under the table and kicked

Arthur's shin as Aubrey's frown twisted into a bitter smile. "My days are numbered, damn it! Must my nights be too?"

Arthur laughed. "
Touché
," he said. "Go on."

"I called out to her and she looked up at me. Her face, filthy but exquisite. Her eyes, especially. They were…" His voice trailed off, surprisingly. Arthur had rarely seen him at such a loss for words. "They were strange—that is, when they focused on mine I felt myself the complete center of her attention."

"You should have been a poet instead of an artist, Aubrey."

"Do you think so?"

"And of course you were the center of her attention, if she meant to rob you or worse."

"I could have knocked her flat, she was that thin."

"And you followed her?" Arthur asked, more concerned.

"It was early evening. There were still plenty of people about. Yes, I followed her. But when I reached the bridge, she seemed to have vanished."

"She probably crossed it and you couldn't see her."

"I thought of that, but it was a clear night. I should have seen her cross. Then I thought she might have jumped, her expression was that frantic. So I looked over the side. There was hardly a ripple on the water."

"Did you go on?" Van Helsing asked.

"There was already mist rising from the water. It did not seem wise to be outside much longer. I may never see her again, but at least she gave me an idea for a drawing for Le Morte D'Arthur. She'll be The Lady of the Lake, I think."

"I'd like to see it when you're done," Van Helsing commented.

"The final will be finished within a few days, but I have the rough with me." He opened the sketchbook he carried everywhere and handed it to the professor.

Van Helsing studied the drawing for a moment, then handed it over to Arthur. "Beautifully done," he said.

Something in his tone made Aubrey look at him curiously. "It's just a rough," he said. "More her than the finished piece will be." He retrieved his sketchbook from Arthur before his friend started turning pages and reached for the check.

Arthur moved faster. Aubrey smiled and protested as he always did, then as always gave in. His friends supported him, and he was thankful, since he never had more than a pound to spend on himself in any month.

Arthur saw to that money, too. He owned a dozen original Beardsley drawings, purchased anonymously through the man's publisher and hidden away where no one would see them. He never let on that he owned them, lest Aubrey think his motive pure charity.

It wasn't. Someday they'd be worth a fortune, whether or not Aubrey survived to enjoy the fame.

"He's looking better, isn't he?" Arthur commented after the artist had gone.

"And eating better, as well. Even steamed pudding for dessert." Van Helsing lit a cigar, something he refused to do in Aubrey's presence lest the smoke start another bout of coughing. "Did you notice the face on the woman?"

"Much like Aubrey's other caricatures," Arthur said.

"The straight brows and nose, the deep-set eyes. They are much like his and his sister's."

"I'm sure there are many who look much like him." They never spoke the count's name in public, rarely when alone.

"It's more than that. Did you see the morning
Times
?"

"I suppose you're referring to the murders," Arthur said stiffly. "Nothing out of the ordinary for summer in London."

"A woman killed. Her body tossed in the river."

"My point exactly." Arthur countered.

"That river can hide so much."

"And has for centuries. Besides, it could be the Ripper again."

"The Ripper always mutilated his victims, then left them for the police to find, no?"

"Madmen evolve," Arthur countered, not liking the turn this conversation had taken. He had no desire to ever go near stakes and mallets again. He suspected that a game of croquet might make him queasy. Van Helsing ignored the last remark. "Three ships arrived from the Black Sea in the past two months. There were two women passengers on the most recent one—one of them from Turkey and the other a servant who had been in her employ for some months, or so the captain told me. But there was only one death—an act of self-defense on the part of the Turkish passenger. The captain did not think it unusual, given the reputation of the sailor who was killed. Even so, it would be best if we did meet with the Harkers, and soon."

"Should they come here?"

"No. No. it would be too dangerous for them if she watches us. Better we go to them, I think."

Arthur looked at the professor and saw the determination in his expression. No use arguing, he thought. "I'll send them each a telegram," he said.

"That is good. We will go on Saturday so we may meet when Jonathan is not occupied."

His tone, Arthur thought, held a hint of distaste.

Arthur sat a while after Van Helsing had gone, composing the telegram on a piece of paper he begged from the waiter. After dropping by the telegraph office, he flagged a cab and headed for the docks to do some investigating of his own.

The ship had long since left on its return voyage, but after buying two rounds in a rowdy dockside pub, Arthur found a sailor who'd served on the crew. He ordered the man a meal, watching as he devoured the sausage rolls, licking the grease from his fingers, washing it all down with another pint.

"She kept to herself. Her servant was a lively one, though. I learned a lot more about her than the other."

"Did you ever see the woman?"

"See? I suppose. Never spoke to her, though. She only came on deck at night."

"Strange, isn't it?"

"Not so. Passengers who are seasick often come up for air when it's dark. Easier on the stomach when you can't see the horizon bobbing up and down."

"What did she look like?"

The sailor looked up from the last of his dinner, frowning. "Why do you want to know?"

The man's sudden shift in tone made Arthur thankful that he had paid the hansom driver to stay outside and act as a bodyguard were he needed. "Curious, that's all," he said and grinned.

"Curious. Her servant says there's plenty that's curious."

He paused, his thin mustache a dark, stubborn line above his tightly closed lips. "I'm an Englishman. I would not mean the woman any harm, I swear on my father's grave."

Arthur wasn't sure if his tone or the potential for more coin broke the silence, but one of them did. "Okay to talk now, I suppose," the sailor said. "Never saw her anyway… well, not so's I'd know her face. She was a bit bloody after the attack. She stabbed Gordy with his own knife. An expected end for a bastard like him. He was even lifting from his mates at the end, so why shouldn't he stoop to robbery and possible murder? One of us would of thrown him over if she hadn't finished him first."

He went on, describing the sort of man Gordy had been and how he'd tried to lock the woman in her own steamer trunk.

"He undoubtedly deserved what he got," Arthur said when he'd finished the story.

"She must of been terrified. She looked it, with her dark hair all soaked in his blood."