Supping With Panthers (35 page)

Mr Irving has just passed by, looking saturnine in his opera cloak. Not long now until the start of the play, and really I should put you aside, dear Ned, but there is something I have to tell you, you see. You probably guessed as much – you know me too well – for here I am, chattering away, just as I always do when I have something bad to confess. It
is
bad, I’m afraid, my love; and especially at the moment, when you are preoccupied with your family’s affairs. Because you see, I have broken my word to you. I know I had promised you I would not, but this morning whilst out on our walk we visited your family’s Highgate house. It was not intentional; I had failed to realise we were even close by until we rounded a comer and I saw it – the lane through the trees that leads up to your house. I wanted to go back; but Rosamund said that it was one of her favourite walks and begged to go on, and although Jack supported me once I had explained my qualms, I found myself suddenly filled with curiosity. I just couldn’t resist it: my fear, my promise to you, they were suddenly nothing – I had to go on. And so we walked down the lane as far as the gates, and then – I don’t know why – instead of passing them by, I led the way through. They were unlocked, you see, and I was afraid that perhaps there had been burglars, but I cannot pretend that was my true motive – as I said, I was curious, and that was all. I had to see the house. It suddenly seemed the most important thing in my life.

Well, Ned, you’ll be glad to know the house is quite secure. The shutters are closed, the front door locked, and although we tried we couldn’t get in. Should you not employ a watchman, though? Or at the very least, a gardener – the grounds are becoming terribly overgrown. I was thinking this as I looked about me, how wild and waste the whole place seemed, and then suddenly it came on me again – the dread … that same strange terror we had both felt before. Of my companions today, Rosamund appeared quite unaffected, but I think Jack – judging by the way he suddenly clenched his fists – may have felt it too; certainly, when I suggested that we continue with our walk he agreed with some haste. Rosamund came back with us but she lingered by the gates, pausing to breathe in the scent of wild flowers. She seemed positively charmed by the overgrown state of the garden and only left it reluctantly. She is a great admirer of Nature, of course, and misses it keenly; for my part, though, I found myself longing for crowded, bustling streets, and did not entirely recapture my nerves until we had hailed a cab and were heading back to town. Again, as on that occasion when I went with you, I could not explain the depth of my feelings. I fear though, Ned, that you are right; some shadow of evil has fallen on the place.

There – you see how acting can affect the brain – I am starting to write like a melodrama. I must stop scribbling anyhow, for Mr Irving has seen me and is baring his teeth in a threatening way – we start in five minutes. Forgive me, Ned (I certainly expect you to, now that I’ve acted so nobly in confessing all – I
do
feel guilty, though). I miss you, my love. Write and tell me when I can expect you back. Make it
soon!

The audience has fallen silent. The drums are rolling. Mr Irving is twirling his moustache. No more time. But I love you, Ned. Even on the stage, I’ll be thinking of you.

All, all love,

Your ever doting

L.

P.S. Arthur very well and beautiful. With Rosamund tonight. She quite dotes on him. She seems almost to
breathe
in his presence, much as Lord Ruthven does. Strange, is it not, how things can tum out?

Dr Eliot’s Diary.

1 July.
– A week that started pleasantly, but did not continue so for long. On Tuesday, a walk with Lucy and Lady Mowberley across Highgate Hill. Lucy seemed the very picture of good humour, although there was one curious incident which did occur. In the woods by Highgate Cemetery, we came across the lane which led up to the Westcotes’ house. Lucy was reluctant to proceed at first, then enthusiastic; then, once in the gardens, unsettled again. The house was very impressive but entirely abandoned, and I was not surprised, bearing in mind what Lucy had told me before, that she should have been disturbed by the place. Even I felt an irrational distaste for it; but were it to be repaired and inhabited again, then I am certain these responses would rapidly fade. I can understand Westcote’s association of the house with his bereavement; but to leave it deserted is merely to surrender to his grief. As it is, the place is a dispiriting one. It was noticeable how Lucy’s own spirits rose again, the further we left the house behind.

Lady Mowberley, by contrast, was much harder to comfort and, indeed, seemed exceedingly nervous and upset. She described George’s condition in terms which, at the time, I assumed to be exaggerated. I told her how important it was that I saw George for myself, and she then confessed her difficulty in persuading him to visit me; his absorption in his work, it seemed, had now grown almost total. He had promised her he would call on me at the end of the week; but Lady Mowberley clearly doubted whether he would keep to his word.

Fortunately, although he was exceedingly late, George did in the end arrive. I had almost given him up when he was finally shown into my rooms, complaining bitterly at being forced from his Bill; I made him strip, which helped to silence him. I could tell at once that Lady Mowberley was perfectly justified in her fears, for his appearance was indeed shocking. His face and body were thin and very pale; he had symptoms of fever although, bafflingly, a normal temperature as well. Blood tests revealed no abnormalities; certainly no anaemia. I experimented, adding a drop of my own blood to his slide; to my great relief, however, there was no phagocytic response – the appearance and behaviour of white cells instead quite normal. There was evidence of cuts, though, around the neck and wrists. Very faint, but disturbing to find them. There had clearly been considerable loss of blood.

I asked him about Lilah. At once, he grew defensive and almost surly. Most unlike George. It was as though, now I too had met her, he was jealous of me. I tried to determine the cause of the cuts. George was unable to offer any explanation other than the one that he had given me before – namely his carelessness with a shaving blade. And the lacerations to his wrist? No reply. I then asked him if the cuts had materialised during his visits to Lilah. He said not. I asked him about his bad dreams: had they been worst during the nights of these visits? Again a flat denial. Indeed, he claimed the opposite: he was most oppressed, he told me, when he had not seen Lilah at all. I can see no pattern or solution here.

Short-term treatment: transfusion of blood, Llewellyn and myself as donors, the operation completed satisfactorily. Immediate signs of improvement. I advised George to cut back on his work, but I suspect this advice will be ignored. Indeed, he barely listened to me, so impatient he was to leave; I did not try to hold him, but instead escorted him as far as Commercial Street.

On the way, a horrific incident occurred. Outside a tavern we passed a cluster of drunk, rough-looking men and their prostitutes. One of the women in particular caught my eye. Her face was violently painted, and it took me a second to recognise Mary Jane Kelly. Her eyes were gleaming and her mouth was twisted; even through her cosmetics, I could tell she was very pale. At first I assumed that it was the sight of me which was upsetting her, and I was just preparing to cross the street so as to spare her embarrassment when I suddenly realised that she had not even noticed me, but instead was staring at George. She glanced down at her wrist and I saw her whole face seem to melt into an expression of the utmost loathing and fear. She screamed violently and jabbed a finger at George. ‘My blood, look at it, that’s my blood on his face!’ Her voice was that of a madwoman. She launched herself at George, knocking him down into the street. Remembering the fate of the poor dog she had attacked, I was on to her quickly. I pulled her away from George and, calling out for help, was able to drag her back to the surgery. George, meanwhile, was fortunately unhurt, with only a few minor bruises and scars. Needless to say, he was utterly baffled by the whole affair. ‘Charming neighbourhood you’ve got here,’ he kept muttering, ‘charming neighbourhood.’ He left in a hansom as soon as he could.

Since then, Mary Kelly has remained feverish. Sometimes she will throw herself against a far wall, apparently attempting to escape. Her desperation is the same as on the previous occasion when this mania occurred. During her brief moments of lucidity, I have attempted to ask her why she attacked George. But she can give no coherent explanation, beyond saying that she had imagined his face to be streaked with her blood; felt a terrible rage, imagining he had stolen it from her; then remembered nothing more. The orderlies have told me that she sometimes mutters of asylums, sobbing and wailing, and is clearly terrified of being taken to one. Let us hope it does not come to that.

Her mention of asylums, however, reminds me of what the police told me some months back, that there was a second prostitute who was drained of her blood and yet survived the attack. I would be interested to visit the asylum where she is held. I have looked up the address.

Bram Stoker’s Journal
(continued).

… The summer passed, however, and Eliot’s interest in the case seemed to decline. Instead, he appeared increasingly absorbed in issues of medical research, and as a consequence I saw him even less than before. On the few occasions when we did meet, he would update me on the state of Mary Kelly’s health, but otherwise he remained silent on our adventure of a few months before. I asked him once if he believed Lucy still to be in danger. He fixed me with his hawk-like stare. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he answered shortly, and then would say no more. I did not attempt to press him, for I could see he was determined to keep his suspicions to himself.

I was relieved, though, that Lucy should have such a guardian. I felt this not only as a man with feelings of personal friendship for her, but also in my role as theatre manager, for she was increasingly shining as one of our brightest stars. One day Mr Oscar Wilde expressed to me an interest in her abilities, and since I knew that he was planning to write a comedy very soon, I determined that I would effect an introduction between the two of them. For it appeared to me that I had a duty to raise the profile of such a promising young actress; accordingly, I began to plan a dinner party which might promote her cause. I invited several guests whom I judged might aid Lucy in her career; and then, since he was an associate of us both, I decided also to invite Dr Eliot.

I walked across to Whitechapel one bright July morning. I caught Eliot just in time, for as I rounded the corner of Hanbury Street I saw him approaching a cab. He seemed pleased to see me, and when I extended my invitation to him he accepted, though with the proviso that he was not obliged to be witty or bright. I assured him, however, that I had never met any man more clever than himself, and he appeared gratified by this compliment. He shook his head, however, and gestured towards the cab he had been preparing to board. ‘You see there, Stoker, proof of my inadequacy. You remember Mary Jane Kelly?’

I assured him that, naturally, I did.

‘Very good,’ he continued. ‘Then you may also recall that I recently discharged her. Her condition, however, has suddenly taken another turn for the worse. My treatment of her, I confess, has done her no good at all.’

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ I replied. ‘But tell me, Eliot, what is the significance of the cab?’

‘Why, merely that it will convey me to New Cross, where I hope to visit Lizzie Seward, the prostitute who survived an attack very similar to that inflicted upon Mary Kelly. The unfortunate woman has since been committed as insane.’

‘May I accompany you?’ I inquired.

‘If you have the time,’ he replied, ‘then it would give me great pleasure to have you by my side once more. I should warn you, however,’ he added, as we climbed into the cab, ‘that the visit will not be a pleasant one.’

Eliot’s foreboding was justified. We arrived at the institution, which to my eye seemed more like a jad than a hospital, and were shown at once into the office of Dr Renfield, the asylum’s head. Eliot explained his interest in Lizzie Seward; Dr Renfield almost glowed with pride, and he described his patient’s condition as though boasting of a prize exhibit in a zoo. It seemed that Lizzie Seward liked to tear animals to shreds; she would then drink their blood and rub it across her skin. ‘I have even coined a phrase,’ Dr Renfield said, ‘to describe her condition.’ He paused for effect, looking pleased with himself. ‘Zoophagous – the consumption of living beasts. It sums her up very nicely, I think.’ He rose to his feet and gestured with his arm. ‘This way, please.’

We followed him down a long passageway and into the wards. The patient’s condition was terrible. Locked in a tiny cell, caked with dry blood, surrounded by feathers and tiny bones, she stared at us with uncomprehending eyes. ‘Watch this,’ said Dr Renfield, giving us a wink. He turned to a cage, evidently stored there purposely, and removed a dove. He opened the door and released the bird into the cell. I observed that its wings had been clipped; it started to flutter vainly. Lizzie Seward had meanwhile shrunk back into a comer, and was watching it through narrowed eyes. Suddenly, she gave a hideous cry of pain and rage, and seized the dove. Twisting off its head, she proceeded to drink the blood, sucking at the flow desperately as though expecting to discover some magical property in it. She then ripped apart the bird’s stomach, rubbing the blood and intestines across her face and hair rather as though she were soaping herself. Gradually, she sank down on to the floor of her cell. Prostrate amidst the feathers and gore, she began to weep.

Eliot’s face, I saw, was pale with anger at the sight of this spectacle, but Dr Renfield seemed not to observe his guest’s displeasure. ‘And the fun is not over,’ he whispered. ‘Just watch now.’

As he said this the patient started to twist and buck, her whole body arching as though preparing to vomit up some noxious substance. But after much retching she could only scream, the sound as piercing as Mary Kelly’s had been; she then launched herself against the far wall of her cell. She attempted to climb the stone, scrabbling with her bare nails until I saw blood start to flow from her fingertips. When Eliot protested to Dr Renfield he gave my companion a reproachful look, then shrugged and summoned two orderlies. They entered the cell, seized the patient and bound her into a leather harness. She was then strapped down to the plank which served her as a bed. The operation was conducted with quite unnecessary force. ‘I am now absolutely resolved,’ Eliot whispered in my ear, ‘that Mary Kelly shall never enter such a place.’