Supping With Panthers (40 page)

I shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

Huree nodded and continued on his way down the stairs, when he suddenly paused and turned again. ‘You know, Jack,’ he said, ‘you have not attained the breakthrough in this case because you are not yet expecting the impossible. Your reason is no bloody use to you now. You must search for leads that should not logically be there. That is why you have been needing me. I can lead you where you wouldn’t think to go. Just remember, Jack – anything is possible now.’ He smiled, and bobbed his head.
‘Anything.’

Yes. He is right, of course. Just as Suzette was. The rules of this game are like nothing I have known. It is time I at last began to master them.

Hansard’s Parliamentary Debates, Vol. CCCXXIX[August 1, 1888].

ORDERS OF THE DAY

IMPERIAL FRONTIERS

(INDIA)BILL.—[BILL 337.]

(Sir George Mowberley.)

CONSIDERATION.

Bill, as amended,
farther considered.

THE SECRETARY OF STATE FOR INDIA (Sir G. Mowberley) (Kensington) moved that in view of the overwhelming support for his Bill in both Houses, he would accept no more amendments. The frontier proposals were in the best interests of both the Indian peoples, and of the British Empire. The full and unconditional recognition of the independence of the kingdoms of Bhushan, Kathnagar and Kalikshutra, in particular, was in full accord with the principle of securing a lasting peace on the frontier of the Indian Empire. The attention of Honourable Members was drawn to the Imperial Defence Bill [Bill 346], and any further questions on military expenditure were requested to be referred to The Secretary of State for War (Mr. E. Stanhope). The Secretary of State for India concluded by thanking Hon. Gentlemen in all parts of the House for the assistance they had given to him in his endeavours to settle the great and complicated question which could now at last be considered as resolved.

Question put, and
agreed to.

Bill read the third time, and
passed.

Cutting from
The Times,
2 August.

ILLNESS OF SIR G. MOWBERLEY

The illness of Sir George Mowberley, Secretary of State for India, is reported. Shortly after the successful passage of the Imperial Frontiers (India) Bill through the House of Commons late last night, a measure on which Sir George himself had delivered the concluding speech, the Secretary of State was taken ill in the Lobby Hall. He was transported to his home in a state of unconsciousness.

His condition at present is reported to be stable.

Dr Eliot’s Diary.

2 August.
– In the papers, George was reported as having collapsed. Huree called on me early; he confirmed the news but added – what the papers had not mentioned – that George had also been taken ill while giving the speech itself, and had needed to rest for a minute before continuing. Obviously, at the distance he was sitting from George in the Visitors’ Gallery, it was impossible for Huree to arrive at a firm diagnosis; he saw nothing, however, to contradict our initial hypothesis.

I wonder now though if our suspicions may not have been premature – at least with regard to George. Huree is still convinced; I am not so certain that the evidence will support the inferences we have been placing upon it. Certainly, when we called on Lady Mowberley this afternoon she seemed less afraid for George’s health than she had been before. She is convinced that he is suffering from exhaustion, and nothing worse than that; indeed, was quite insistent on the point. She clearly feels he can be in little danger, for she is leaving for Whitby tomorrow on her family business and will be away from her husband for almost three days. Sadly, she could not permit me to inspect George myself, since it appears that his hostility towards me continues unabated, but when Huree mentioned the cuts to George’s wrists and neck she was able to tell us that even these had disappeared. She hopes to persuade her husband to travel abroad, to the South of France, perhaps; in the meantime, while he continues so weak, she feels at liberty to meet with me again once she is returned from Whitby. She has promised to inform us of any further developments.

I will not take Huree to meet her again, though. He was very short and rude with her. Virtually accused her of lying about the state of George’s health. He sometimes has a very unfortunate manner – cannot bear his theories to be disproved. I recognise the same trait in myself, of course.
6 August.
– Huree absent for several days now. I still don’t know what he is working on.

Took out my papers, and samples of blood. Reviewed my research so far. Must visit Lord Ruthven soon.

8 August.
– Late night spent reviewing the case with Huree. We have agreed to suspend judgement on George’s illness, for lack of evidence, but to continue our search for the murderer of Arthur Ruthven. If we assume that it is indeed a vampire for which we are searching, then the field becomes somewhat narrow. Huree is keen to meet Polidori. We shall travel to Rotherhithe tomorrow.

Letter, Mrs Lucy Westcote to Mr Bram Stoker.

12, Myddleton Street,

London.

9
August.

Dear Mr Stoker,

I am afraid I will be a terrible disappointment to you and Mr Irving, but you must warn Kitty to start rehearsing my lines, for I am ill and unable to act in tonight’s performance. I am not quite certain what my malady is; I have been suffering from bad dreams, and woke this morning so weak that I was barely able to lift myself from bed. You will doubtless think I am being true to my background, and playing the society lady; but I assure you my faintness is entirely genuine, for I feel dizzy all the time, and have grown very pale, and in short am an abject picture of woe.

I know it is bad form to let you down like this. But I have been feeling ill now for almost a week, and I am sure that a day’s rest will restore me to full health. I plan to be with you again in an evening or two.

Until then, Mr Stoker,

Your wretched friend,

LUCY.

Dr Eliot’s Diary.

9
August.
– A frustrating morning’s work. I took a hansom to Coldlair Lane, but Polidori’s shop was bolted up, without a sign of movement or light from inside, and a piece of paper with a scrawled message was attached to the door: ‘Closed due to unforeseen circumstances. Normal business will resume on my return.’ Huree took this sheet of paper with evident gratification, and slipped it into his coat pocket. I am not convinced of its value myself. I am aware of the uses that the science of graphology can sometimes have in the field of detection; but in Polidori’s case I doubt that his handwriting will tell us much we do not already know. Of course, Huree may want it for some other purpose; he is still reluctant to discuss his ideas.

Searched for the entrance to the warehouse, but could not find it. Neither of us, I think, greatly surprised. Returned to Whitechapel. This afternoon, must continue to work through my research papers.

5
a.m.
– Woke from a strange dream. Had fallen asleep while working at my desk. Most unusual. I had imagined I was in India again, on the summit of the temple in Kalikshutra. Flames were raging and corpses were scattered everywhere, but there was a deathly silence and I seemed to be the only living person there. I had to heal the dead, bring them back to life. There was a terrible urgency which I didn’t understand, but seemed all the more real for that very reason. I couldn’t do it, though. No matter how hard I worked, they wouldn’t come alive. I knew there was some secret I was missing, hidden away from me. I began to dissect the bodies – with a scalpel at first, then with my bare hands. Lucy was there, and Huree, and everyone I knew; I ripped open their stomachs, probing their organs, then shredding them apart, desperate to find the cure that would bring the corpses back to life. I was starting to slither and slip in the mess I was creating. I tried to clean myself, even as I continued to dissect, but I was too stained with blood and I couldn’t wash it away. I was wading now in blood. It was sucking me down … it submerged me. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was dead.

I opened my eyes. Lilah was standing before me. She was naked. Her lips were red and cruel; her eyes gleamed black below painted, drooping lids; her beauty was quite impossible and yet it was there, a beauty that seemed formed from man’s most fantastic passions, his most exquisite dreams, from the very desires of the world, yet to be something more than any of these and therefore, for that very reason, touched with over-ripeness and corruption. And as I understood this, I felt myself wanting her all the more, and I stepped forward and she took me in her arms. I’m writing nonsense, of course; but I felt it – as I feel it even now, when I dose my eyes. She kissed me. As she did so, my mind seemed to unfurl and expand, and all the secrets, all the mysteries which had been my torments before, seemed ready to be unveiled and given to me. I could feel myself waking. I struggled to stay asleep, for I wanted the fulfilment that I knew would then be mine, if I could only stay asleep, if I could only stay asleep. It was there, this fulfilment, a distant prick of light, but as I moved towards it I realised that it was also the point at which I would have to awake, and leave Lilah’s arms and be myself again. I reached out to touch it; I opened my eyes. I was sitting at my desk, slumped in my chair. I was quite alone.

As I said, a very strange dream.

6 p.m.
– Continue distracted. Don’t know what the problem can be. Seems pointless to continue with my work in this present mood. Perhaps I should visit Lilah?

11 August.
– I have been away for two nights. It seems impossible. I am a doctor; I have always been precise in my time-keeping; yet while I was with Lilah, I was evidently oblivious to the passing of the hours. Huree was waiting for me when I returned home from Rotherhithe to Hanbury Street; he is disturbed by Lilah, he says, and by the influence she appears to be gaining over me. I understand his concern; but I am not convinced it is justified. The seeming breakdown of time, for instance: that appears to me not as an indication of a malign influence, but a sign that I am on the right path, that I am passing beyond the frameworks of direct empirical observation to an understanding which may well prove remarkable in both its scope and implications. Huree may disagree, but I believe the progress I am making must justify any risk.

Certainly, I feel I have already glimpsed great possibilities, without any apparent threat of danger. Lilah seemed almost to be waiting for me when I arrived. She was in the arboretum, seated on a bench; Suzette was with her, tracing lines in a book, and when she heard my footsteps she looked up and showed me the open pages. There was a maze drawn on each one, the first of remarkable complexity and beautiful design, the second simple and clumsily drawn.

‘Which do you prefer?’ Suzette asked. I pointed to the first one. Suzette smiled. ‘That was mine,’ she said. ‘I win, then. We’ve been having a competition, you see.’

‘We?’ I asked.

Suzette nodded. ‘Me and ayah,’

‘Ayah?’

Suzette pointed. I turned and looked. Standing in the shadows, holding a tray of sweetmeats and drinks, was a plump young Indian girl. She flinched as I stared at her, and bowed her head. I glanced at Lilah inquiringly.

‘I took George’s advice,’ Lilah said, her eyes glittering. ‘I found Suzette a nanny.’

‘She’s stupid,’ said Suzette.

‘That’s all she needs to be,’ Lilah replied. ‘She only has to look after you. Woman’s work,’ she drawled, ‘as I think George described it once,’ She stretched out her arm and beckoned lazily. ‘Sarmistha.’ The girl lowered her tray and came scurrying across, as though terrified, Lilah ordered her to put Suzette to bed, and as Suzette opened her mouth to complain she silenced her with a glance. The ayah stretched out to take Suzette’s hand; Suzette stared at her with a malevolence that was quite unlike a child’s, so cold and passionless it seemed, then took the ayah’s hand and allowed herself to be led down the path. As she went, the ayah glanced back over her shoulder. She raised her sari to cover her head, as though embarrassed to be seen by me; then she turned again and led Suzette out through the arboretum door.

I asked Lilah if she had seen George recently. She shrugged, and said that she had heard he was sick; but now that the Bill is passed she doesn’t seem greatly to care. Reminded by my own fears for George, I began to discuss the state of my research, and specifically my agreement to work with Lord Ruthven again. Lilah was intrigued by this news; Lord Ruthven appears to fascinate her, though she claims never to have met him; doubtless she has heard stories from Polidori. Pressed her on this, but she was reticent; instead returned the discussion to the state of my research. Talked for… well … I am unable to say for how long. We left the arboretum, and climbed the stairs to the dome of glass where we could watch the stars. Conversation seemed expanded by the view. One avenue of thought particularly suggestive: what if there are instructions programmed into each individual cell – instructions that might be identified, and perhaps amended or rewritten? The search then would be for nothing less than the building blocks of life. Hopeless, perhaps; at least, that is how it strikes me as I sit here now. But talking with Lilah, the prospect seemed full of hope; my ideas energetic; my brain alive.

One thing in particular I remember her arguing, and Suzette and Huree in their own ways have said it too: insight cannot belong purely to the conscious mind. Reason is insufficient in itself; there must be a surrender to what lies beyond, a point of liberation, a taking off into flight. With Lilah, I experience this; without her, I don’t. When I am with her, watching her, listening to her thoughts, I seem conscious of profound distances waiting for me.

What is the cost, though? What do I need to understand before I can decide how far I should go?

12 August.
– A visit to Lord Ruthven has been arranged: requested by Huree and required by myself. It is evident, I think, from my study of the remarkable case before me now, that Virchow’s concept of cellular pathology is fundamentally correct, and that there is no morphologic element beyond the cell in which life is able to manifest itself. Clearly, then, I must focus my analysis of Lord Ruthven’s disease upon the bone marrow, to see if the production of cells has been affected – and if it has been, then to identify how. I suspect a cancer mutating the white cell lineage, though its origin, let alone its cure, is impossible as yet to divine.