Supping With Panthers (15 page)

‘Dark and bright simultaneously?’

‘Yes.’

Dr Eliot shrugged faintly. ‘And so what did this remarkable woman then do?’

‘Nothing. She just stood there staring at me. Then she smiled suddenly, and turned. She left my room and I saw her, through the open doors, gliding towards the stairway.’

‘Did you follow her?’

‘Not at first. I felt, as I told you, paralysed. At length, though, I summoned up all my resolve and rose from my bed. I crossed to the doors and walked on until I was standing at the head of the stairway to the hall. The woman was below me, at the foot of the stairs. She had pulled her hood up again. Then the door to my husband’s study opened and the foreign gentleman walked out He had papers under his arm.’

‘The foreigner, describe him.’

‘Large, black-bearded, as I said, dark-skinned.’

‘And what did he do? He approached the woman?’

‘Yes. She seemed to speak to him, though I didn’t hear her words, and they both of them turned to look up at me. Their faces were quite blank, and their eyes gleamed terribly…’

Dr Eliot’s frown increased. ‘And so what happened next?’

‘The woman took the gentleman’s arm. He still had the papers. They turned and walked away across the hall, disappearing from my view. I hurried down the stairway and saw them as they walked through the open front door. I ran across the hall and out into the street, but though I looked both ways I could see no trace of them. It was as though they had vanished on the early-morning light. I returned inside and woke the servants. We inspected the contents of the house carefully, but there was no sign of any burglary. Even in my husband’s study, no drawer or cabinet seemed to have been forced. Everything was exactly as I remembered it’

‘You mentioned the open front door. Had that been forced?’

‘Not that I could see.’

‘A window, perhaps?’

‘I don’t think so. Certainly not obviously.’

‘So how do you think they entered, Lady Mowberley?’

‘I confess, I am baffled. Indeed, in the hours following the episode I began to believe myself the victim of some hallucination conjured up from my troubled brain, and I worried, as I told you, that I might be turning mad. Then, however, came the morning post. Amongst the letters was one without a stamp. I read it at once. I am afraid – yes, afraid, Dr Eliot – that I am not mad at all.’

I had the letter with me. I pulled it out, and handed it across. Dr Eliot read it and his face darkened. Yes, Lucy, it was that same printed message that I have told you of before: ‘I HAVE SEEN G. MURDERED.’ Dr Eliot studied the letter, then he rose and crossed to a lamp on his desk. ‘I thought as much,’ he said, turning bade to me. ‘This letter was surely posted by a woman.’

‘How can you tell?’ I asked him, rising to my feet.

He pointed out some smudged marks on the back of the letter. ‘This is powder,’ he said. ‘The letter has been written on a table which has also been used for the application of cosmetics. You will observe that the marks are quite pronounced. I would judge that the writer of this letter is in the habit of applying a great deal of powder to her face.’ He turned to the envelope and held it to the light. ‘Yes,’ he said, pointing to a mark by the edge. ‘See the sheen? This is grease-paint. The evidence is irrefutable.’

Irrefutable, dear Lucy. I am prepared to accept that the Doctor is right. What class of woman, then, should I suspect of writing the letter to me? One, I dread to mention; the other, of course, you represent yourself. Lucy – I am desperate and so I must be blunt. I know of no actress save yourself, and certainly of no actress who would also be an intimate of George. Did you write me the letter? You do not see me as your friend, I know, but George you love, and it is in his name that I appeal to you. If it was not you who wrote to me, then I must fear the very worst – both that George is dead, and that before his murder he was betraying me. I cannot believe such a thing of him, however.
I cannot.
Therefore, again, I appeal to you. Did you write the letter? And if you did, will you please – please, dear Lucy – help Dr Eliot?

For I must tell you now that he has agreed to take on the case. I have mentioned your name in association with the letter, and so I suspect he will shortly be visiting you. Do not feel threatened by him. Even if it was not you who wrote the letter, I am certain you will be able to afford him some assistance. I have given you all the details of this mystery, as I understand them, both because I think that it is time you knew the truth and because you will be better able to help with the case. Do not reject my appeal, dearest Lucy – both for George’s and your own sake.

I am, although you do not believe it, your very dear friend,

ROSAMUND, LADY MOWBERLEY.

Postscript.
I add this late at night. Dr Eliot called round this evening. I was surprised to see him. He had told me on my visit this morning that it would take him some time to sort his surgery out, but not as long, it would seem, as he had originally thought. ‘Llewellyn, my colleague at the surgery, has been away for three weeks’, he told me as the footman took his hat. ‘The least he can do is to act as my locum for a couple of days.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘That is all the time you think you will require?’

He shrugged. ‘We shall have to see.’ Then he began to stare around the hall. I guessed that he wished to inspect George’s study, so I indicated it to him and followed him as he walked through the door. For several minutes he stalked around the room, rather like a bloodhound sniffing out its prey. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘I can find no trace of a forced entry through the windows, but this’ – he indicated the surface of the desk – ‘is of some interest.’

I stared at it, but could see nothing out of the ordinary.

‘I am assuming,’ said Dr Eliot, ‘that you have forbidden the servants entry here since last night?’

I agreed that I had. ‘I wanted to leave it as I found it,’ I told him.

‘Excellent,’ he exclaimed. ‘The over-zealous housemaid can be the bane of an investigator’s life. Now observe closely, Lady Mowberley. There is a very thin layer of dust on the desk. It is even everywhere, except for here.’ He pointed. ‘You see? A rectangle which exactly fits this red-lined box – here.’

He had stalked across the room to another table, on which one of George’s Government boxes had been placed. ‘Clearly,’ he said, ‘this was moved last night and must therefore have been the object of your intruder’s attentions. What is in it?’

‘George’s papers,’ I replied.

‘Relating to the Bill on the Indian frontier?’

‘Presumably.’

‘Well then, let us see.’ Dr Eliot pressed down the catches on the box. ‘Locked,’ he muttered. He peered down at the box. ‘Again, no sign of it having been forced.’

‘Perhaps the intruder was alerted by his companion before he could open it?’

‘Perhaps.’ Dr Eliot furrowed his brow. ‘Do you have the key?’

‘I do not’

‘Very well.’ He felt in his pocket. ‘I trust the India Office will forgive me for this.’ I observed that he had a small piece of wire in his hand which he fitted in the lock. He twisted and jiggled it and at last, after several faded attempts, I heard the lock give. Dr Eliot smiled. ‘The thieves of Lahore swear by this little tool,’ he said, slipping the ‘key’ back into his pocket. Then he opened the lid of the box. He stood back, and I gasped. For, Lucy – imagine my horror – there was nothing there! The papers were gone!

Dr Eliot, however, seemed positively gratified. ‘We had to expect this, of course,’ he said as he glanced round the study again. ‘I doubt we will find much more of interest here. Lady Mowberley, I would like to see your bedroom now, if I may.’

Still stunned by the magnitude of the crime we had just uncovered, I led him upstairs. Again, Dr Eliot prowled around the room. By my
cabinet de toilette
he paused and frowned. Then he picked up my bottle of medicine. ‘This is for helping you to cope with the London air?’ he asked.

I told him that it was.

‘It is full,’ he said, almost accusingly.

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I have only just begun it.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘Do you still have the bottle that you had finished before that?’

‘The maid would have thrown it away.’

‘Could you retrieve it?’

I rang for the housemaid and ordered her to bring the empty bottle up to me. ‘You surely don’t suspect,’ I asked Dr Eliot as we waited, ‘that someone might have been drugging me?’

He looked round at me. ‘It is suggestive, is it not, that you should have been woken by your mysterious woman on the very night that you had changed your medicine?’

‘Dr Eliot, what are you implying?’

He ignored my question. ‘You had always slept soundly,’ he inquired, ‘before last night?’

I agreed that I had. ‘But why would anyone have been drugging me?’ I persisted.

He shrugged. ‘There are clearly things in this house that are of value to someone,’ he replied.

‘George’s papers?’

He shrugged again but his thin lips, I observed, had lightened into a smile. I asked him if he were any nearer a resolution of the mystery.

‘There are possible glimmerings of light,’ he replied, ‘but I may yet be wrong – these are early days, Lady Mowberley.’ At this moment the servant girl returned with the empty bottle. Eliot took it eagerly; he held it up to the light, then asked if he could also take the bottle I had just begun. I had plentiful supplies of the medicine, so I readily agreed and asked if there was anything else I could do. ‘No, no,’ he replied, ‘I have seen all I wished to see.’ He turned, and I accompanied him back to the hall, but as he prepared to depart he suddenly paused. ‘Lady Mowberley,’ he said, returning to me, ‘there was indeed a further question I wanted to ask. Your birthday – it would not have been a few days after George’s first disappearance, would it?’

I looked at him in astonishment. ‘Why, yes,’ I replied. ‘The day after he returned, in fact. But, I don’t understand – why…’

He cut me off with a wave of his hand. ‘I will keep you informed of developments,’ he said again. Then he turned and headed back down the street. This time he did not look round and I watched him until he had disappeared. I wondered what trail he could possibly have found.

As I still wonder now. I am staring down from my bedroom window at the street below. It is empty. The church bells have just sounded two o’clock. I must to bed. I hope I shall sleep. Certainly, my brain feels tired enough. The mystery seems to me, if anything, to have grown even more baffling. But perhaps, dearest Lucy, it will seem clearer to you. I can only hope so. I trust we shall have good tidings very soon. Good-night. Think of George – and me – in your prayers.

ROSA.

Letter, Hon. Edward Westcote to Miss Lucy Ruthven.

Gray’s Inn,

London.

14 April 1888.

My dearest
Lucy,

I cannot bear to think of you miserable. It is some terrible mystery, I know – and yet, my dearest, there must be no secrets between us. You have made me the happiest man in the world – yet you, by contrast, seem nervous and upset, and it pains me to the very depths of my sold. Is it Lady Mowberley? Has she been guilty of some fresh snub? Or are the phantoms from your past rising up again? You spoke of Arthur last night, in your dreams. But your brother is dead – just as my mother and sister too are dead. We must look forward, my love. What is gone is gone for ever. We have the future now.

Above all, my dearest Lucy, you mustn’t allow yourself to be distracted tonight. Only think! A first night at the Lyceum! Appearing on stage opposite Mr Henry Irving – there are not many actresses who can boast of such a thing! You will be the toast of London, I am sure! I shall be so proud, darling. Good luck, good luck, good luck, and good luck again, darling Lucy, your ever loving

NED.

Narrative composed by Bram Stoker, early September 1888.

I have not the slightest difficulty in recollecting the events which I must here narrate, for they were so striking in themselves, and so remarkable in their conclusion, that I believe anyone would have been impressed by them. I, however, had additional reasons for committing the adventure to memory, for it so happened that I was searching for a good story at the time, with the intention of turning it into a play, or – who knows? – even a work of prose. For the circumstances of early April, I should reveal at once, were very particular.

The celebrated actor for whom I am theatre manager, Mr Henry Irving, had just returned from a most successfull tour of the United States. Having conquered America, he was now preparing to receive once again the homage of London in that great temple to his art, the Lyceum Theatre. To open the summer season, Mr Irving and I had decided that the Lyceum would present
Faust,
a most spectacular production, and an evergreen favourite of the London crowds. It was not, however, an original production; nor were the plays we had scheduled for later in the season. Mr Irving himself was well aware of this, and in his conversations with me confessed that he regretted it. Many were the nights – many, indeed, still are the nights – when we would meet over a beefsteak and a glass of porter to discuss possible new roles for Mr Irving to play. In those early April weeks, however, we could find nothing suitable. At length I proposed that I write a new piece myself. Mr Irving, I regret to say, laughed at this suggestion and branded it ‘Dreadful’, but I was not discouraged; indeed, it was from that moment that I began to cast around for a possible theme. To that end, I began to record in my journal such unusual events or ideas as occurred to me, and it is those same jottings that I draw upon now.