Supping With Panthers (49 page)

‘Yes,’ said Westcote desperately, staring at his wife, ‘but when? They have been away for hours,’ He gestured at Lucy. ‘Look at her, Stoker. She is growing worse. Eliot should be here. I have half a mind to go and fetch him myself.’

‘We should wait,’ I repeated.

Westcote shook his head. ‘We can’t,’ he said simply. He stared into my eyes. ‘Stoker – please. Go to Eliot. Tell him it is urgent.’

‘I don’t want to leave you.’

‘Damn it,’ said Westcote, ‘it is my wife, not myself, we should be worrying about now. Just look at her!’ He pointed at Lucy again. ‘Damn it, she needs Eliot as soon as she can. Now, Stoker,
now!’

I saw, in short, that he would not be appeased until he had had his way. It was with a heavy heart, though, that I left for Whitechapel, urging my driver to go as fast as he could. Eliot, when I found him, was still hard at work, crouched over slides and tubes, but once I had explained the situation to him he rose and came back with me immediately. He told me as we went that he still did not hold out much hope; his research, it seemed, was not proceeding wed. For my own part, my regret at having left Westcote alone with his wife was intensifying ad the time, so that neither of us was feeling greatly at ease.

Unfortunately, since my drive across to Whitechapel, the traffic had grown considerably worse, and it took us longer than it should have done to return to Westcote’s house. By now, such was the nature of the presentiments affecting us that we were almost desperate. We ran up to the door; and when the maid answered our hammerings I at once began to ask her if ad was well in the house. She seemed puzzled. Of course ad was wed, she replied. Her master and mistress were both still upstairs; why, they had even had a visitor.

At once, I froze. Who had the visitor been, I inquired. Her master’s sister, the servant replied. Miss Westcote had brought Arthur with her, she added, as we sprinted up the stairs. She had heard Miss Westcote leave perhaps twenty minutes ago.

I scarcely registered that final comment; yet once I had entered Lucy’s room and seen how her bed was empty, with all the restraints snapped and tossed on to the floor, I understood at last what the maid had said. ‘She has taken Lucy!’ I exclaimed, before the horror of it struck me dumb, and I slumped on to the bed in a numbed state of grief.

‘Here,’ said Eliot, from behind the open door.

‘What is it?’ I asked, scarcely lifting my head.

Eliot shut the door and I saw there was a chair against the wall. Westcote was slumped in it, for ad the world as though taking an afternoon nap. Carefully, Eliot lifted his chin. I saw to my shock, but scarcely my surprise, that he was quite dead; his skin had been bleached to an unnatural paleness, and the bones beneath the flesh seemed brittle and thin. There were dreadful gashes to his stomach and throat, but again the wounds seemed perfectly dry. Eliot continued to inspect him.

‘Drained,’ he said at last. There is scarcely a drop of blood left in him. But it is puzzling …’

‘Why?’ I asked, as his voice trailed away. ‘Surely it is his sister’s doing?’

‘Oh, evidently,’ Eliot replied, ‘but that is not what is puzzling me. No, what is strange is that he appears to have put up no fight. It is almost as though he sat here and welcomed it…’ He continued to frown; and then suddenly I saw his haggard face light up. He leaned forward and took something from Westcote’s pocket. ‘You mentioned a letter that came for him.’ He held up an envelope. ‘Was it this one?’

I inspected it shortly, then nodded. ‘It may have been.’

‘And it was after receiving this letter that Westcote demanded you go away?’

Again I nodded.

Eliot removed the letter from the envelope. ‘Let us see what was in it, then,’ he murmured, almost to himself. He scanned the letter. ‘I recognise the handwriting, at least. Lady Mowberley’s – or Charlotte Westcote’s, I should say. Now then. To the letter itself.’ He began to read. ‘Dear
Ned – It is no good, you know. You will never defeat me. Ask Jack Eliot – he will tell you as much, for he knows it in his heart. But I have a bargain to propose. I must have Westcote blood, you see – if not yours, then another Westcote’s will do. I think you understand me. A life for a life, Ned – yours for your son’s. What do you say? I know you have one of your friends with you now. Send him away. When I see him go, I will accept that as a signal that you have agreed to my proposal and I will join you promptly. I am so sorry, Ned. But as you may have realised, I am no longer myself. Such is
– or
was, at any rate – life. Your loving sister, C.’

Eliot paused, then folded the letter away. He stared down at Westcote again; he closed his eyes.

‘So Westcote agreed then, you think?’ I asked. ‘He sat here and allowed her to drink his life away?’

‘Evidently,’ replied Eliot.

I was struck again by the horror of what we were confronting. I gazed about the room, making certain – after what I had heard Eliot read – that Arthur had indeed been taken, and was not there after ad. But there was no sign of him. ‘She betrayed him,’ I said bitterly. ‘He gave her his life, and still she betrayed him.’

Eliot too had been studying the room. ‘I am not so certain,’ he replied.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘There is a mystery here,’ He gestured at the door. ‘Observe the hand prints on the very base.’

I had not noticed them before. But now that I looked, I saw that Eliot was perfectly correct and that there were indeed hand-prints, very tiny, marked in blood.

‘Only a young child could have left these,’ said Eliot, ‘which corroborates die maid’s evidence: Arthur was indeed here. That should not be surprising, of course – Westcote would hardly have surrendered his life so willingly if Charlotte had not brought Arthur with her. But the evidence surely suggests that these prints were left here once Charlotte had gone. When else would die child have got the blood on his hands? Not during the attack itself – that is highly improbable. No, no, it must have been when he was left here alone with his father’s corpse. Doubtless he clung to his father, seeking comfort; and when none was forthcoming he attempted to scratch his way out through the door. Yes,’ said Eliot, staring at the handprints again, ‘it is ad quite dear.’

‘But in that case…’ I said slowly.

‘Yes?’ Eliot asked.

I looked about the room again. ‘Where
is
the child?’

Eliot gestured at the windows. For the first time I saw that they were open, and had obviously been forced for a pane of glass had been smashed from the outside on to the floor.

‘So you think …’ – I swallowed – ‘what…? – someone came in through there?’

He nodded shortly.

‘But… Charlotte – when she took Lucy – they left through the front door. The servant girl heard them.’

‘Then doubtless,’ said Eliot, ‘we are dealing with someone other than her.’

‘Another vampire, you mean?’

He shrugged faintly. It was as good as a nod.

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘That,’ said Eliot, ‘is the mystery.’

And so it remains. That Eliot had his own suspicions, I was certain at the time; and subsequent events have confirmed as much. For he was eager ad that afternoon to pursue the leads which he believed would still resolve the case; once the Professor had returned from Kew and seen for himself the catastrophe, Eliot began to speak to him in the same terms I had overheard the night before, talking of the ‘she’ who had to be confronted – not Charlotte but another, even deadlier. The Professor, however, refused to countenance the attempt, not until they were better prepared; brave man though he is, he insisted that the woman was too dangerous as yet; he demanded that Eliot delay his attempt. Reluctantly, Eliot appeared to agree; and so we left it on the evening of that terrible day. Before we parted, however, the Professor gave us ad a bulb of Kirghiz Silver, which he promised would preserve us from the vampire’s thirst. It was certainly a remarkable looking plant, and reassuringly outlandish. I have worn it about me ever since.

Whether Eliot did, however, we may never know. For despite his promise to delay his investigation, that very same evening he disappeared. Neither the Professor nor myself have caught a glimpse of him since. He left no message in his study, not even a scrap of paper; instead, he has vanished as utterly as Lucy or her child. I wonder whether we shad ever see any of them again. The Professor and myself have continued our search, but we have very few clues and those we did have now seem to be gone. For the Professor revealed to me – what I had not at first guessed – that the woman mentioned by Eliot and himself had lived in Rotherhithe, in that very same warehouse from which we had rescued Sir George. Of course, as soon as it was evident that Eliot had disappeared, we sped there at once; but there was now no trace of the warehouse at ad – it was utterly gone. Even Polidori’s shop had been boarded up, and although we forced our way inside, we found no evidence there which might have helped us with our search.

What else we can do, I find it hard now to know. We have contacted the police, of course, but a case such as this is beyond their ability to solve; they are in any case preoccupied at the moment with the Whitechapel murders, and the demands of the public that their perpetrator be found. In effect, we remain as we were before: alone. The Professor is content that this should be so; he knows that the reality of the vampire is ad too easily scorned.

But for ad his expertise, we remain no nearer a solution to the case: Eliot, Lucy, her child, ad are gone, and the vampires too are dispersed God knows where. Somewhere in the foul shadows they must be lurking – not only Charlotte but also the mysterious, unnameable ‘she’ – and I hope there may yet be a breakthrough in our investigation; but I have my doubts. I wish I did not have to finish my narrative in such a despairing frame of mind, but since it has been my determination to invent nothing throughout, I conclude, as I started, by telling the truth. I lay down my pen now in the hope that one day I have cause to pick it up again. Pray God, when that occurs, I may have something happier to write.

Letter, Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar to Mr Bram Stoker.

16, Bloomsbury Square.

20 September 1888.

Dear Mr Stoker,

I must thank you most gratefully for the loan of your narrative. I believe it to be accurate in all the essentials. If you wish to pursue vampirology further, perhaps I could recommend a book of my own,
The Vampire Myths of India and Roumania: A Comparative Study.
Although I say it myself, it is excellent. However, beware! – although the nature of the vampire is unchanging, different cultural understandings of this nature can be exceedingly varied. As a Britisher, you will be more familiar with the Roumanian as opposed to the Indian breed. May I suggest in particular the chapters on Transylvania? Jody interesting.

I have also been remembering our conversation, where you discussed with me your intention of adapting your narrative into a novel or a play. It was very kind of you, I must say, to consider me as a model for the hero of such a work. Please, though, Mr Stoker, I must insist that you abandon that particular idea; if you can make of me the hero of a romance, then I am a Dutchman. Invent, Mr Stoker – always invent. Otherwise, no one will believe you at ad.

I will, of course, inform you at once if I hear any news. My hopes for our dear friend, though, are fading by the day.

Guard yourself, Mr Stoker,

Your colleague,

HUREE JYOTI NAVALKAR.

Reminiscence composed by Detective Inspector ‘Steve’

White, relating to the events of 30
September 1888.

For five nights we had been watching a certain alley just behind die Whitechapel Road. It could only be entered from where we had two men posted in hiding, and persons entering the alley were under observation by the two men. It was a bitter cold night when I arrived at the scene to take the report of the two men in hiding. I was turning away when I saw a man coming out of the alley. He was walking quickly but noiselessly. I stood aside to let the man pass, and as he came under the wall lamp I got a good look at him.

He was about five feet ten inches in height, and was dressed rather shabbily, though it was obvious that the material of his clothes was good. His face was long and thin, nostrils rather delicate, and his hair was jet-black. His complexion was inclined to be sallow, as though he had been for some time in the tropics. The most striking thing about him, however, was the extraordinary brilliance of his eyes. They looked like two very luminous glow-worms coming through the darkness. The man was slightly bent at the shoulders, though he was obviously quite young – about thirty-three, at the most – and gave one the idea of having been a student or professional man. His hands were snow-white, and the fingers long and tapering.

As the man passed me at the lamp I had an uneasy feeling that there was something more than usually sinister about him, and I was strongly moved to find some pretext for detaining him; but the more I thought it over, the more was I forced to the conclusion that it was not in keeping with British police methods that I should do so. My only excuse for interfering with the passage of this man would have been his association with the man we were looking for, and I had no real grounds for connecting him with the murder. It is true I had a sort of intuition that die man was not quite right. Still, if one acted on intuition in the police force, there would be more frequent outcries about interference with the liberty of subject, and at that time the police were criticised enough to make it undesirable to take risks.

The man stumbled a few feet away from me, and I made that an excuse for engaging him in conversation. He turned sharply at the sound of my voice and scowled at me in surly fashion, but he said ‘Good-night’ and agreed with me that it was cold.

His voice was a surprise to me. It was soft and musical, with just a tinge of melancholy in it, and it was the voice of a man of culture – a voice altogether out of keeping with the squalid surroundings of the East End.