Supping With Panthers (11 page)

I asked Eliot what the
brahmin
had been saying to us. He frowned and looked uncomfortable, and as he spoke I began to feel pretty bad myself. The
brahmin’s
village, it seemed, had fallen prey to the disease; in his eyes, it was we who had brought the wrath of Kali down.

‘And his curse?’ I asked.

Eliot looked me in the eye. ‘Colonel Paxton should beware.’

‘Of what?’

Eliot frowned, and then shrugged. ‘Of a wretchedness such as the
brahmin
has known.’

This worried me for a day or two, and I asked Pumper to watch his back. But he was an old lion and scorned my fears; as the days went by, I too found the
brahmin
slipping from my mind. We reached Simla. I was kept there for a while by the pen-pushers, and I had nothing much to do but kick my heels. I saw quite a bit of Pumper, naturally, and also Eliot, whose gammy leg was by now starting to mend. He had decided to return to England, I think, for his faith in his own research had been badly knocked by his experiences, and he told me he feared the disease in Kalikshutra was incurable. It disturbed me that he thought so, for I had seen for myself how fast it could spread, and I wondered if it would always be confined to the Himalayan heights. I remembered the
brahmin.
A couple of times, I had thought I saw him. I told myself that I had been mistaken or imagining things, but then one evening Eliot reported that he too had met him face to face in the bazaar. He had slipped away, but Eliot was certain it had been him. The medical authorities were informed, and a search begun. It turned up nothing – not a trace of the
brahmin
or the sickness was found.

Even so, I warned Pumper to be on his mettle. He did agree to carry a gun at all times, but more in a spirit of compromise, I think, than from any conviction he might really be in danger, and I had the sense that he was humouring me. The days passed; still the
brahmin
wasn’t found, and I began to worry that I had been a bit of a fool. Pumper started to drop his guard. He was ribbing me by now, and one evening at the Club he got me to agree that the danger must have passed. He had a good laugh about it and I joined in, and I’m afraid we both ended up rather merry that night. We staggered out at quite a latish hour, and since Pumper’s digs were nearer to the Club than mine, he offered to rustle me up a bed for the night. I agreed; Pumper’s house was more pleasant than my quarters anyway, having as it did the family touch, and I was quite content to be staying there. The
tonga
raided up the drive and stopped outside Pumper’s bungalow; we both clambered out and paid the driver off. All seemed quiet within, so we paused on the verandah and gazed out at the stars. Suddenly, from inside the house we heard a scream, and then a shot rang out.

We hurried inside, of course, as fast as our legs would carry us. We were met by a terrible sight: Mrs Paxton standing there with a smoking gun and lying on the floor, quite dead, the
brahmin.
I bent down over the corpse. The bullet, by some miracle, had gone clean through the heart, and as I rolled the body over I looked up with a smile. ‘He’s gone,’ I said.

But Mrs Paxton was shaking uncontrollably now. ‘No, no,’ she sobbed, ‘you don’t understand.’ She dropped the gun, then turned and pointed to an open door. ‘It’s Timothy. He’s …’ She swallowed. ‘He’s … ’ She burst into tears. ‘He’s
dead!

We hurried into Timothy’s room. The boy was laid out on his bed. His throat had been torn away, and the mosquito net was spattered with blood. ‘No,’ Pumper gasped. ‘No!’ He knelt down beside Timothy’s bed; he reached out to stroke his boy’s hair, then he bent his head forward in the most terrible grief. It quite tore at my heart to see this brave man weep like a babe, and I knew there was nothing I could possibly say. Mrs Paxton had joined him now, and he rose to hold her in his arms. Suddenly, though, I saw her freeze.

‘I saw him move,’ she cried out. ‘I tell you, I saw him move!’

Both Pumper and I stared at Timothy’s face. He wore a smile now, which he had certainly not done before. ‘Well, I’ll be …’ Pumper whispered to himself. Then suddenly Timothy opened his eyes.

‘Oh, my dear God,’ laughed Mrs Paxton, ‘he’s alive, he’s alive!’

‘Get Eliot,’ I said.

‘But why?’ asked Mrs Paxton. ‘You can see he’s all right.’

‘Is he?’ I asked. We all turned to look at Timothy. He had half-risen up, and the wound to his throat was still bubbling blood. But it was the look of hunger in his eyes which was most terrible, and the way that it seemed to pinch his white face. ‘Get Eliot,’ I repeated. Mrs Paxton sobbed and turned, and ran out of the room. Pumper and I followed her, bolting the door after us.

Eliot turned up twenty minutes later. I went into Timothy’s room with him, and I saw the immediate look of despair on his face. ‘Leave me,’ he said. I did as he requested and then, a few minutes later, Professor Jyoti arrived as well.

‘I was informed,’ he said and then, without any further explanation, he followed Eliot into Timothy’s room. We heard muffled voices; the two of them seemed to be arguing. Then the door opened again; Eliot came out and spoke to Mrs Paxton. He requested permission to operate; she gave it wordlessly, and Eliot nodded. He looked quite terrible, and I could tell that he didn’t hold out much hope. He closed the door behind him and I heard the key being turned in the lock.

An hour later he came out again, his shirt covered with blood and failure writ large across his face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and by George, he looked it. He walked across to Mrs Paxton, took her by the hands and pressed them. ‘There was nothing I could do.’

He asked the Paxtons not to go into the room, but Pumper insisted. ‘He is … was … my boy,’ he said. I accompanied him in. The room was absolutely spattered with blood. Timothy lay spreadeagled on his bed; he had the look of an anatomist’s specimen, for his chest had been sliced open and his heart removed. Pumper stared at the corpse for an eternity. ‘And this was necessary?’ he finally asked.

Professor Jyoti, who was standing on the far side of the room, bobbed his head fractionally. ‘I am sorry,’ he whispered.

Pumper nodded. He stared into Timothy’s face, which did not seem a little boy’s at all; it was still pinched and white, and sharp with cruelty. ‘Do not,’ said Pumper, ‘let my wife see this thing.’ Then he turned and left the room, and went back to Mrs Paxton. The body he ordered to be removed to the morgue. And this was the true ending of our mission to Kalikshutra.

The next day, my orders at last came through. As I travelled back down towards the plains, I did my best to put the whole ghastly business of the past month from my mind. Ahead of me was my regiment, and I would soon have little time for dwelling on it anyhow. New adventures awaited me, and fresh challenges.

Letter, Dr John Eliot to Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar.

Simla,

l July 1887

Huree-

What have we done? What have I done?

I am a doctor. A preserver of human life. You have persuaded me to become a killer.

Yes – I shall return to England. Your talk of vampires – of cruel demons, and bloodthirsty gods – how could I ever have listened to you? ‘Such things exist,’ you said. No! And again, I say, no!

In India, perhaps, one can believe in such things – but then, as you have often reminded me, I am not an Indian. So I shall go – as no doubt all we British should – back to my own world, where I can be certain of what is, and what is not. Where I can practise according to my own dictates. Above all, Huree, where I can expiate my fault –
where I can save, and not destroy, human lives.

I leave for Bombay tomorrow. My passage on the London steamer is booked. I doubt we shall ever meet again.

I am sorry, Huree, we part in this way.

I remain, though,

Your unwilling friend,

JACK.

WHAT HAVE WE DONE?

P
ART
T
WO

Letter, Dr John Eliot to Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar.

Surgeon’s Court,

Hanbury Street,

Whitechapel,

London.

5
January 1888.

My dear Huree,

You will see that I am now securely established in London. I trust you will note the address and perhaps, despite the nature of our parting, take advantage of it to write to me. I do not have much opportunity now for the type of arguments we used to enjoy. I have never been of a particularly convivial nature; and yet sometimes I find myself lonelier in this mighty city of six millions than I ever was amongst the Himalayan heights. Of my two oldest friends, one, Arthur Ruthven, is dead – the victim, it would seem, of a cruel and pointless murder – certainly a tragic waste, however he was killed. I miss him deeply, for he was a brilliant man. The other friend, Sir George Mowberley, you may have read of in the newspapers, for he is now a Minister in the Government – almost, as far as I am concerned, as upsetting a fate as poor Ruthven’s. I mourn them both.

I cannot regret my isolation too greatly, though. I have little enough time on my hands as it is. My practice is exceedingly vast; so vast, indeed, and overwhelming, that I find myself almost numbed by it. My rooms, you must understand, are situated in the most outcast comer of this great city of outcasts. There is no form of wretchedness or horror that its streets do not breed, and I have been able to feel nothing for a month now but anger and despair. I was arrogant in my motive for journeying abroad – why did I feel I had to travel to the East to relieve the burden of human suffering when here, in the richest city in the world, there is misery on a scale so terrible?

To you, I can confess my response to this place. With others, however – yes, and with myself as well – I am as cold as ice. There can be no other way. How else shall I survive what I see on my rounds? A man dying of smallpox in a cellar, his wife eight months pregnant, their children creeping naked in the filth. A small girl, dead for two weeks, found buried beneath the ordure of her brothers and sisters. A widow with scarlet fever, still selling her body in her tiny attic room, while her children shiver in the bitter winds outside. Not even amongst the slums of Bombay did I witness such scenes of wretchedness. Emotion, in these conditions, would be like a candle-flame in the gale – even anger, I am afraid, is an indulgence I can scarce afford. But fortunately I am by nature, as you remember, a passionless creature; the powers of logic and reason that I draw on now in Whitechapel have always been the predominant features of my mind. For all your efforts, Huree, I remain untouched by the teachings of the East. Perhaps you will think my years in India wasted. But I cannot help what I am. There can be no reality for me beyond that which I observe – observe and sometimes, perhaps, deduce.

What though, you will no doubt ask me again, of those things I glimpsed in Kalikshutra? Do I doubt their truth? Do I think I can explain them logically? Not yet, I admit – but I am working hard – and one day I will, I am confident. One thing for sure, Huree: I do not accept your explanations. Demons?
Vampires?
What has science to do with such fantastical ideas? Nothing. I say it again – I have no interest in impossibilities. The physician who dabbles in such things must soon sink to the level of a medicine man. I will not become such a degraded thing, a witch doctor performing ghastly rituals to appease horrors and spirits he cannot understand. The memory of poor Paxton’s son still haunts me, you see – the pain in his eyes, the blood that spurted from his skewered heart. What had he become, Huree? The victim of a terrible and inexplicable disease, yes – but not a ghoul, not a creature to be destroyed as he was. No doubt he
was
beyond the reach of my help; and yet I am haunted by the knowledge that I did not seek to cure him, but to kill him instead – to
murder
him. When I did so, I betrayed my entire life’s work.

For I repeat – I am an optimist, and a scientist. These continue to be my proudest boasts. The mysteries I work on must be capable of answers; the data I research must be observable. You remember my methods – I search out, I study, I deduce. I remain what I have always been, a rationalist, and my lifetime of research stays as valid as before. I have not given up, you see – far from it. I have set up a small laboratory in my rooms and, using the equipment I have there, I process the data that I gathered in the hills. I enclose with this letter a copy of a short article I have written, setting down some of my preliminary thoughts. You will observe that I have not yet abandoned my interest in these white blood cells I was studying before, and the puzzle of their remarkable longevity. I still have a long way to travel, of course; but I very much doubt it will be vampires that I find when I finally track the solutions to ground.