Supping With Panthers (27 page)

He led me downstairs to a private room, where we were shortly joined by an officer from Rotherhithe. Eliot rose and left us, and when he returned he had Mary Kelly by his side. She seemed nervous, but much recovered nonetheless, and agreed to describe what she could remember of heir assault. Eliot, I observed, was watching her with sudden uncertainty; and I noticed how she seemed distracted by the bustle of the street outside. Opposite the window was a rubbish tip; stray dogs were nosing amongst the litter for scraps, and the patient could scarcely keep her eyes from them. When Eliot pressed her, however, she assured him that she still felt perfectly well. And so the interview began.

Her story was a simple one. She had been drinking in a pub by the Greenland Dock, where she had fallen into conversation with a sailor who had told her of a friend who was looking for a girl. Kelly, being short of funds, had agreed to accompany him. The sailor had led her to a hansom waiting outside; the door was opened to her, and Kelly had clambered in.

At this point in her story, however, she began to shake. She staggered to her feet and crossed to the window, pressing her face against the pane of glass. Again, I observed how she was staring at the dogs. Eliot attempted to lead her back to her seat, but she shrugged him away. She asked that the dogs be allowed to sit with her, and when Eliot refused her demand Kelly pressed her lips together and wouldn’t say a further word. Instead, she continued to stare out at the dogs on the tip. Eliot, I could tell, was growing worried now; he clearly thought it best, when the patient’s recovery was still so fragile, to humour her whims, and so he ordered that a dog be brought in for her. Kelly greeted it with delight and, sitting down again, settled it on her lap. After a couple of minutes, she continued with her tale.

Inside the cab, she told us, the sailor’s friend had been waiting for her. This friend, however, had not been a man. At once I saw Eliot lean forward in his chair, and I too listened to Kelly’s description of the woman with particular care. It did not, however, match either Lucy’s or Lady Mowberley’s, for the woman Kelly had seen had been a negress – though again, of a beauty which had struck Kelly literally dumb. Indeed, when Eliot pressed her on this point, she agreed that the woman’s loveliness had
frightened
her. The negress had then – I blush to record it – stripped her of her clothes and fondled her in a most lewd and offensive manner; Kelly had been too nervous even to object. The negress had also brought out a jar – made of gold, Kelly said, and wonderfully decorated. The negress had held her wrist and sliced it with a knife; the blood had begun to spill into the jar. At this point Kelly had screamed; she had opened the carriage door and leaped into the street. The carriage hadn’t stopped. Kelly had lain where she had fallen; slowly, her consciousness had slipped away.

At this point she fell silent The policeman tried to press her on a few further points but she refused to answer him, stroking and fondling the dog instead. At length, the policeman sighed and rose to his feet Eliot called for an attendant to remove Kelly back to her bed, but when she came Kelly wouldn’t be budged from her chair. Instead she dung to the dog, moaning to herself, then suddenly staring at the wound to her wrist. She began to scream unintelligibly, and to rub at the scar. ‘My blood,’ she shrieked, ‘my blood, it’s been stolen, it’s all gone!’ She ripped at her bandages and a thick stream of blood began to drip on to die dog. Kelly stared at it, fascinated, as the dog began to whine and to lick at the blood, twisting and writhing on the woman’s lap. Eliot tried to remove the animal, but Kelly clung to it desperately, then shuddered and moaned and threw it to the floor. The dog yelped with fear; but as it tried to run from the room, Kelly seized it by the throat. ‘My blood,’ she screamed at me, ‘don’t you see, it’s been given my blood!’ With her bare hands, she ripped apart the poor dog’s throat. It thrashed desperately, but before anyone could lay his hands on Kelly, she had severed the artery with her nails, and the dog expired with a frothing howl of pain; as the blood pumped out Kelly rubbed her wrist against it, as though seeking to absorb the flow into her scar. By now the attendants had seized her; she was removed from the room, but as she was led away she broke free and threw herself against a far wall, scrabbling against it desperately as though attempting to pull it down with her fingernails. The patient was seized again, and tranquillised.

Eliot stayed almost an hour by her side. When he rejoined me, he could only shake his head. ‘Mental illness is not,’ he confessed, ‘my speciality, and yet I am reluctant to see the woman removed to an asylum. She was so close, I felt, to recovery.’ He sighed, and slumped into a chair. ‘I should never have let her be questioned. I am entirely at fault’

He mentioned one possible line of inquiry. It seemed that the angry crowd we had encountered in Rotherhithe had been perfectly correct, and that Kelly might not have been the only victim of the mysterious negress. Other women too, and sailors from foreign ships, had indeed been reported missing, with no subsequent trace of them ever being found. A prostitute, however, had been discovered in Rotherhithe – like Mary Kelly almost drained of her blood, and now accounted clinically insane. Eliot tapped his notebook. ‘I have the address of die asylum where she is kept. If Mary Kelly’s symptoms persist, it may be worth my while visiting there.’

‘And I shall accompany you,’ I said at once.

Eliot smiled. ‘Naturally,’ he replied. ‘But first we must see how poor Kelly improves. Do not worry, Stoker, I shall keep you informed. For now though, if you will forgive me –I have a lot of work to do.’

And so I left him, much perturbed and more puzzled than I had been before I arrived…

Letter, Sir George Mowberley to Dr John Eliot.

The India Office,

Whitehall,

London.

1 May 1888.

Dear Jack,

You’re a damn nuisance, aren’t you? Always beware of thin, clever men – wasn’t there some chap who said that once? Shakespeare probably, it usually is – and anyway, even if he didn’t, he should have done. Because, thanks to you, Jack Eliot, I am now in a pickle of rare proportions, what with die scratch to my leg and my amatory exploits exposed, and Rosamund angry and upset with me – well, I say she’s angry, but she isn’t really, because if truth be told she’s being an utter brick. In fact, it’s forgiveness all round
chez
Mowberley, which is pretty good of Rosa and sensible too, I suppose, because at the end of the day, it’s a simple fact of life, isn’t it, that men have needs and women don’t? You’re a scientist, Jack, you’ll back me up on that. I mean, hang it all, it’s biology. The female nurtures and builds up the home, while the male goes out and makes his way in the world. That’s all I’ve been doing – making my way in the world. I know I’ve been a brute – an utter pig – but as God is my witness, it didn’t seem like that at the time.

I know it’s hard to explain to you, because you’re such a damned cold fish and you’ve never had much time for the weaker sex, but these past few months I’ve been pretty much head-over-heels – bewitched, besotted, bowled first ball. Don’t worry, Jack – I’m not really cross with you for spoiling things, because I know you’ve done me a bloody good turn, and I am grateful, really I am, marriage being a sacred bond and all that rot – still, I’d like to try and explain it to you if I can, just so you don’t think I’m a total ass. Damn it! Now, who’s that? Some civil servant just come in through the door, droning on about something official, confound him to hell! Shall resume later.

Later.
Well, that’s that sorted out. Or not, as the case may be, because actually, between you and me, Jack, all these niggling details leave me rather cold – don’t have much time for them, more of a broad strokes man myself. That’s what I’m here for, after all, the broader picture – details are for clerks and bureaucrats, pen-pushers, don’t you know? It was Lilah who helped me understand that. I suppose you’ve been told I’m working on a pretty big Bill, future of the Empire at stake, etcetera, etcetera, all very hush-hush? Yes, Rosa would have told you. Anyway, it’s savagely complex, and before I met Lilah I was getting really quite swamped, but now I’ve got it all nicely in hand, and it’s three cheers for me for having sorted it out. I’ve made quite an impression, though I say it myself. Actually, you know, politics has turned out to be quite a lark. Amazing to think I ever found it difficult. But sorry, Jack, I’m heading off beam. Where was I? Oh, yes – my affair with Lilah, and how it all began.

Well, oddly enough, it was Rosamund’s fault No, not
fault
exactly, that’s the wrong word, of course, but she would keep on about this jewellery she’d seen in the front of Headley’s shop, and once she’d made her mind up – well, you know what women are like – nothing else would do for her. But here comes the catch – this jewellery turns out to be bloody fancy stuff, Indian, I think, and can only be bought in Rotherhithe. Rotherhithe! Not where a gentleman cares to be seen. But because Rosa’s upset with me, and because it’s her birthday soon, and because I’m sped by the wings of love and all that bilge, to Rotherhithe I head – and a ghastlier hell-hole I’ve never seen. Can you believe that people choose to live in such a place? Seems extraordinary to me. But anyhow, feeling like some true-hearted knight on a quest, I pick my way through all the turnip-heads and dung, reach the shop, go in, knock up the owner, ask for the jewels – and do you know what? – I’m informed, quite coolly, that the jewels have just been sold!

Well, Jack, I was not pleased. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I was positively miffed. So I think, damn it, Rosa will just have to put up with some other gift; I’ve wasted enough time on these jewels as it is, there is an Empire out there and it doesn’t run itself. I storm out – or rather, I’m in mid-storm, because before I’ve left I have a sudden stroke of luck. The shop door opens and a woman comes in. She’s a stunner, Jack, a rare old eyeful, like no one I’ve ever seen before. Expensive-looking, damnably exotic, none of your prissy English miss about her – she’s got dark hair, red lips, all the fittings. But I can’t remotely do her justice because I’d have to be a poet, which I’m not, being totally unendowed on the description front; so all I will say, Jack, is that if you saw her, even you might turn your head. She was bewitching – what else can I say? To gaze was to fall like a weight beneath her spell. And I did gaze – goodness, did I gaze. Suddenly, it was springtime, and there were bluebirds twittering, and, oh God – you know – all the works.

Now, when bluebirds get a-twittering, you don’t hang back. We fell to chatting, me all gallant and her all shy, but I could see the come-hither in her eyes and I knew my luck was in. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten Rosa – damn it, I still love her and all that – but as I said, I just couldn’t help myself. And it was almost as if Fate had meant this beauty for me, because suddenly up pops the shopkeeper and it turns out she’s the one who bought his jewels, and when she finds out I want them she offers them to me, and I settle a price, and it’s all dandy as hell. Her carriage is outside. I get in with her, and we head off to her abode. It’s not far from the shop, and it’s … well … you’ve seen it, Jack, it’s a pretty stunning place. Not really to my taste, you understand, a bit too flamboyant and clever for me, but then she’s from foreign climes, so not her fault, I suppose, it’s just the way they breed them out there.

Anyway, she sits me down and gets out the jewels, and all the time servants are scurrying here and there, bringing me cushions, and champagne, and God knows what else, and I’m generally feeling like some Oriental despot. I mean to go but I don’t, I simply can’t move and then, before I know what I’m doing, I’m having her, there on the cushions, and it’s as though I’m entering Paradise, because I’ve never known a woman as perfect as her, who moves as she moves and does the things she does. Sorry to go into the details, old man, but it’s important you understand the effect she had, and anyway, you’re a doctor, you know about these things. It is Paradise, Jack, what she gives to me. I told her this at the time, and she laughed and said that the Muslim heaven was full of girls, but she hadn’t realised that the Christian heaven was. I told her, in that case I was planning to convert at once. She accepted this proposal quite solemnly. ‘The meaning of Islam is submission,’ she said. ‘From now on, I shall be your religion. Therefore, first, you must submit to me.’ Aren’t women charming, with their little whims and ways? And it paid too, you know, because as a reward for my submission I was allowed to enter Paradise again, where I stayed all night and the following day. Wonderful woman, Jack – wonderful!

But I don’t want you to think that it was just beastly animal lusts and all that. We talked too and even her voice was magical. Really, I could have sat there all night just listening to it – actually, come to think of it, that’s exactly what I did. Her real name was something foreign and unpronounceable, and when I tried to say it it only made me spit – so we settled for Lilah as a compromise. She was a Far East trader, she said, which explained what she was doing living by the docks, but do you know, Jack, when she also claimed she had royal blood I wasn’t in the least bit surprised? She had that air, if you know what I mean. I tried to find out where her royal blood came from, but she just laughed and said her homeland was all the world. I would think, though, that she is from India or Arabia – somewhere hot, anyway, where the skins are not as pale as ours and the passions a good deal more flammable. For she’s proud, Jack, proud as the devil, and with her servants at least she likes to crack a pretty nifty whip. My good self, by contrast, you’ll be glad to hear, she honours and obeys like a perfect slave. Damned flattering, as you can imagine. She’s clearly found something she is drawn to in me – the natural authority of the public man, perhaps? You will laugh, Jack and think I am boasting, but it is surely a fact of life, is it not, that an important national figure like myself must accrue an aura of power? It is to this, I am sure, that Lilah responds, for she is after all, only a woman, and a foreigner to boot, while I am a Minister in Her Majesty’s Government. Above all, Jack – and this is my proudest claim – I hold the tide of an English gentleman, and what foreign girl could ever rival such a boast? It is my birthright, after all, to order and command. Lilah, I think, is merely recognising this.