Supping With Panthers (48 page)

‘Hello, Jack,’ she said. She swept back her hair, then rose to her feet. ‘How was Whitby? Not too boring, I hope?’

‘My God!’ exclaimed Westcote, finding his tongue at last ‘Charlotte! What is this?’

She smiled again, and glanced down mockingly at Lucy as she continued to writhe on the bed. ‘I congratulate you on your wife, Ned. I could never understand what you saw in her, the rude little trollop, but now I’ve had her I can almost understand. Who knows? I might even keep her for myself.’

Westcote suddenly screamed something, an unintelligible cry of horror and rage. He wrestled the gun from Eliot’s hands and, aiming it at his sister, fired at once. The bullet hit her in the shoulder; as the blood flew up from the wound, I imagined that she laughed; and then she was fading before our very eyes, turning into a vapour which rose up on the blood and spilled out through the window, vanishing into the night so that nothing of her was left behind. The Professor hurried across to the window, while Eliot and Westcote ran to Lucy’s side. She touched her breast, then raised her gore-stained fingers to her eyes; at the sight she gave a scream so wild and so despairing that it seems to me now that it will ring in my ears till my dying day. Westcote tried to hold her; but she would not allow it, writhing instead as though terrified of him, gazing out at the window and moaning ad the time. Her face was ghastly, with a pallor which was accentuated by the blood which smeared her lips, and cheeks, and chin; ad across her body more blood was smeared, or trickled from her wounds in a ruby flow.

‘Did I shoot her dead?’ screamed Westcote, still struggling to hold down his wife. ‘For God’s sake, Professor, is my sister dead?’

The Professor locked the window; then he slowly shook his head.

‘I will hunt her down!’ Westcote cried. ‘My God, I shad see her pay for this if it is the last thing I do.’

Again the Professor said nothing; but he glanced at Eliot, and I saw the perturbation and horror in his eyes. I wondered if he knew how the vampire might be killed. I wondered if he thought we had any hope at ad.

Later that evening, once Lucy had been tended to and sedated, we met for a conference in the drawing room. Eliot described to Westcote our pursuit of the woman we had known as Lady Mowberley; then, in response to the poor man’s disbelieving questions, the Professor explained the nature of vampirism and its prevalence in a land of which I had already heard much, die kingdom of Kalikshutra where his sister had been lost ‘Lost in every way,’ muttered Westcote. ‘Lost in hell.’ He glanced at the Professor. ‘Is there any hope for her, do you think?’

The Professor reached for Westcote’s hand. The gesture spoke louder than any words.

‘The letters, then,’ asked Westcote, ‘the ones I received from my father’s subaltern – fakes, you think? All of them – fakes?’

The Professor nodded, still wordlessly.

Westcote buried his head in his hands. ‘So there was never any need for her to have been found in India – for she had been in England ad the while. What an idiot I have been!’ he cried. ‘What a dupe! But how could I have known?’ He lifted his head and stared round at us imploringly. ‘How could I ever have guessed it? – that my sister was… that she had become…’

‘A vampire?’ It was Eliot who had spoken. ‘Yes, that is the word you must use. It is difficult, I know, even to utter it, still less to contemplate the full horror of its meaning. You must, though. For they thrive on their victims’ scepticism, as I know to my own cost ad too well.’

Poor Westcote ran his fingers through his hair. ‘But why? What has been her purpose? Why this adoption of the role of Lady Mowberley?’

‘She has been acting as another’s agent, I believe.’

‘Another’s?’

Eliot nodded. ‘The solution is regrettably self-evident Your sister was lost in Kalikshutra, where she was presumed to be dead; but in fact, as we now know, she had come to England to serve the purpose of those who had made her what she was – a vampire – a creature of their will. And it was as such a creature, no doubt, that she travelled to Whitby, where she destroyed and took the place of Sir George’s bride-to-be.’

‘But why such interest in Sir George?’ asked Westcote in disbelief. ‘Why go to these remarkable lengths?’

‘Because Sir George, at the time, had just entered the India Office, with responsibility for the Indian frontier – on which, as you will remember, Kalikshutra lies. Do not forget also the peculiar circumstances of Sir George’s engagement: he had not seen his wife-to-be for almost seven years and it was this, I am certain, which sealed both their dooms, for it ensured that an imposter would be able to pass unrecognised. Clearly, your sister had been seized and bent to the will of someone who had needed just such an imposter, as part of her scheme to protect Kalikshutra from possible annexation. She had wanted an agent in the Minister’s very bed.’

‘She?’ exclaimed Westcote. ‘But who is this “she”?’

Eliot made no reply; instead, he rose and stared out into the darkness of the street.

‘Answer me, Eliot! Who is this person? Damn it!’ he exclaimed in sudden fury. ‘This “she” may have Arthur, my child!’

Eliot turned to face him again. ‘No,’ he said slowly.

‘What do you mean, no?’

‘Lady Mowberley … Charlotte … it is she who has your child. Forget this other person. She is beyond our reach. It is your sister we must hunt down.’

‘But how can you be so certain that she is the one who has Arthur?’

‘Because Charlotte has an interest in your son which is hers alone.’

‘What do you mean?’

Eliot approached Westcote; he touched him on his shoulder. ‘When Lucy married you,’ he continued gently, ‘she presented Charlotte with an unexpected problem. Clearly, your sister could not allow herself to be seen by you – that would have exposed her identity utterly. Hence the refusal even to meet with you once. But Lucy’s marriage also presented her with a source of unexpected pleasure. You will recall, perhaps, how eager she grew to see Lucy once your child had been born?’

‘Yes. Encouraged by you, as I seem to remember.’

Eliot bowed his head in a gesture of regret, but Westcote seemed scarcely to observe this. His face appeared numbed by a rising sense of fear. ‘Go on,’ he whispered at length.

Eliot swallowed. ‘The vampire is drawn to shared blood.’

‘Shared?’

‘The blood of a relative,’ interposed the Professor. ‘It gives them, as Jack has put it, an especial pleasure.’

‘You mean Arthur?’ Westcote stared at him in horrified disbelief. ‘My son? Charlotte has been attracted by her own nephew’s blood?’

The Professor shifted and sighed. ‘I am afraid so, yes.’

Westcote’s face crumpled. ‘Then by now, she will have…’

‘Killed him?’ The Professor shook his head. ‘It is, of course, possible. However, from my study of these creatures I think it unlikely. It appears to be the custom to leave children until they are of an age to breed.’

‘To breed?’

‘The blood-line,’ said the Professor softly. ‘It must be – perpetuated – you see. If anyone is in danger from her…’

‘Yes?’

‘Then I’m afraid that it is you.’

Westcote nodded slowly. ‘Yes, of course, of course.’ Suddenly his face seemed positively to beam with relief. ‘Then there is hope, you think? My son may still be alive? You think that is possible?’

‘I am sure there is still hope.’

‘How are we to find him?’

Eliot sighed. ‘It may be difficult. While we were away on our wild goose-chase to Yorkshire, your sister would have had ad the time she needed to conceal your son. Judging by the skid with which she has orchestrated the rest of her plot, her hideaway will have been carefully prepared.’

‘But what can we do? We can’t just wait here, doing nothing at ad.’

‘For now,’ replied the Professor, ‘difficult though it will be, we have no other choice. And in the meantime, of course, there is always your wife to protect.’

‘Yes,’ said Westcote, ‘yes, of course.’ And again his spirits seemed to revive. ‘She, at least, we
know
is still alive.’

‘Exactly so!’ exclaimed the Professor, clapping together his hands. ‘And let us do ad we can to ensure she stays that way. After ad – we are not defeated yet!’ And as he proclaimed this, I could almost imagine he believed it to be true; as we sat there, we four, drawing up our plans, with ad the Professor’s knowledge of the Undead at our service, and Eliot’s keen brain, and Westcote’s courage, I could truly believe that the game was not yet lost. The Professor spoke encouragingly of a plant by the name of Kirghiz Silver, an infallible cure it seemed against the vampire’s threat; he would travel the next day to Kew, and search for it in the hothouses of the Gardens there. Eliot, meanwhile, would tend to Lucy; Westcote would guard her; and I – I would stand guard over both of them. And so it was.

That night, Westcote and I stayed on watch in Lucy’s room. The poor girl was still sound asleep – the effect, no doubt, of die sedatives – but although she would stir occasionally and mutter in her dreams, I could still – looking upon her dear, sweet face – remember the Lucy of a month before, and pray that she would soon be restored to us ad. My hopes, so badly damaged by recent events, began to stir and flutter feebly again.

And then at four o’clock, shortly before we were due to be relieved, I heard the rumbling of a carriage from the street below. It halted directly outside Westcote’s door; several minutes passed, and still it did not continue on its way. Feeling perturbed by now, I crossed to the window and stared down at the street. The carriage was directly below me; a cloaked figure was leaning out from it, smelling the air – or more properly, I guessed, the scent of someone’s blood. He or she – I could not make out the sex of the figure – glanced up at me for the fraction of a second; I had the general impression of a remarkable pallor, and then the figure had withdrawn and the carriage was on its way. Even now, I am still not certain who it was I saw that night. At the time, of course, I assumed it to be Charlotte Westcote; but a conversation I overheard some hours later, while the Professor and Eliot were together on watch, alerted me to the likelihood of it being the mysterious “she”.

‘I must visit her,’ Eliot kept saying, ‘you know that It is the only way we will ever have a resolution. I
must
visit her.’

The Professor disagreed. ‘It is too dangerous. She is deadly.’ I strained to catch more, but at this point they lowered their voices, and what else they talked about I couldn’t tell. Of one thing, however, I was certain; the woman they were discussing was not Charlotte Westcote.

Despite my feelings of unease, however, I slept soundly from then on, for the last two days had been tiring ones, and when I woke again it was almost midday. I rose and, as I was climbing the stairs to Lucy’s bedroom, met the Professor coming down. The moment I saw his face, I knew his tidings were bad; I asked what news there was and he, without a word, turned and led me back up to Lucy’s room. Eliot was bending over his patient; he looked tired and distressed, and when he rose to greet me I at once understood why. For I could see now that Lucy had been bound to her bed: she was writhing uncontrollably and hissing almost like a snake, while her face was a parody of the one I knew so well – cruel, voluptuous and adamantine. I stood over her; and when she saw me her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a wanton smile. ‘Free me, Bram,’ she whispered. ‘You have always wanted me, haven’t you? So fresh and soft – so unlike your wife.’ She laughed. ‘My arms are hungry for you, Bram. Free me and we can rest together. Free me, Bram, free me!’

There was something so diabolically sweet in her tones, like the tingling of glass when struck by a knife, that it was ad I could do to look away from her. ‘My God,’ I asked Eliot, ‘what is happening to her?’

He compressed his lips. ‘The disease,’ he said, perfectly calmly, ‘appears to be spreading through her veins.’

‘Is there nothing you can do?’ I asked.

Eliot shrugged. ‘I have taken a blood sample. I will try to run tests on it. However…’ – he paused – ‘I must be honest with you… I am not hopeful.’

The Professor grunted. ‘There may still be cures beyond the reach of science.’ He turned and wandered back across to the door. ‘I shad be leaving now as wed. I have a cab below, to take me to Kew. We will see what effect the Kirghiz Silver has.’ He bowed to us both in the Hindoo fashion; then he trotted down the stairs. Eliot followed him. I was left alone with –
Lucy,
I was going to write… but let me say rather – the Thing which wore Lucy’s name and form, for of her former sweet nature there was nothing left at ad. The girl I had known was gone; silting there with her that day, I felt like a mourner at her wake.

And now, with a dread heart, I approach the climax of this tale. I was joined that afternoon by Westcote. He had clearly been forewarned of Lucy’s condition, for he concealed his evident agony and sat with her patiently, despite the combination of blandishments and abuse with which she sought to persuade him to set her free. I realised how grievously I had underestimated him; for the man I sat with that afternoon was a husband worthy of Lucy’s love. The hours passed and Westcote’s fortitude was tested to the limits; yet he never once wavered in his duty to his wife.

At around six there was a knocking on the door; Westcote left the room and stood listening on the balcony; it was a letter which must have been delivered, for I heard the maid coming up the stairs to where he stood, and when he returned to Lucy’s room he had an envelope tucked into his jacket pocket. He did not mention its contents to me, however, and so I did not choose to press him; I assumed its business was private. He sat down again by Lucy’s side; he held her hand but she wrenched it free. He tried to hold her; she spat in his face. The pain in his expression was terrible to witness. He rose, with her laughter ringing in his ears, and moved to the window, where he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists.

‘I cannot bear this,’ he said as I crossed to join him.

‘The others will be back soon,’ I replied, trying to comfort him.