Summon Up the Blood (34 page)

‘I have cured myself of my addiction,’ protested Lord Marjoribanks, his thin lips clamped tightly together.

‘I congratulate you. It is not an easy thing to do, to open yourself to pain again. But there will be pleasure too, for I hear that you are recently engaged to be married. Your betrothed is Jane Lennox, I believe. What a spectacular couple you will make! It is clear that you did the right thing eliminating Sophie Armstrong all those years ago. Just imagine what a frump she would be today had you allowed her to live.’

Marjoribanks’ expression closed in on itself. Just as Sir Michael had, he remained silent.

Harry Lennox shifted uneasily in his seat. It was hard to gauge his expression beneath his mask, but he seemed to be reassessing his prospective son-in-law.

‘And what of us?’ said Count Erdélyi, gesturing to include Pinky. ‘I am interested to hear why you think we are capable of murder.’

‘You will have read of the recent spate of murders that are exercising our police here in the capital,’ answered Quinn. ‘What is not generally known is that all the victims are homosexuals. You gentlemen are familiar with that term?’

Pinky and Count Erdélyi indicated vaguely that they were.

‘The police have kept another detail out of the newspapers. All four victims were exsanguinated.’

‘Exsanguinated?’ hissed Pinky.

‘Yes. Drained of blood.’ Quinn turned back to Count Erdélyi. ‘I believe that your presence here in London has something to do with that case.’

‘Would you care to explain what you mean by that?’

‘As your name – your outside name – suggests, you are a Transylvanian Hungarian.’

‘What of it?’

‘There are stories of creatures in Transylvania who prey on the blood of others.’

‘I am familiar with such stories. Do you believe me to be a vampire?’ Count Erdélyi asked mockingly. His shoulders shook with laughter. But strangely there was no humour in his eyes.

‘I know you have hunted down and destroyed such creatures. Could it be that you are here, on your own account, to perform the same act on the monster perpetrating these crimes? The Exsanguinist, we might call him.’

‘I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about. And even if I did, it is nonsense. These murders are not, in point of fact, consistent with the behaviour of the vampire of Transylvanian lore, who do not slit the throat but bite it. And one need look for nothing more supernatural than a bucket to explain the bloodlessness of these victims. Have you never seen a pig being drained of its blood, my friend?’

Quinn narrowed his eyes as though he were considering a response, which he declined to give.

‘But what about me?’ said Pinky, petulant, it seemed, at being overlooked. ‘I couldn’t hurt a fly.’

Quinn turned slowly to face the Marquess. ‘All of the killer’s victims have been young men of the labouring classes who have turned to prostitution to supplement their legitimate but meagre earnings. Is it not true that you have a predilection for such youths?’

‘I have a predilection for beauty! What gentleman doesn’t?’

‘At any rate, you have a knack of persuading young men to go with you . . .’

‘There is no knack. It is simply a question of offering them sufficient money.’

‘But Pinky could not possibly be the murderer!’ objected Count Erdélyi.

‘Perhaps not,’ said Quinn. ‘But do you perhaps remember a youth called Algernon Foxe?’

‘Algie? I say, there’s no need to bring Algie up.’

‘He killed himself, did he not?’

‘I think you will find that the inquest delivered a verdict of death by misadventure.’

‘Shot himself while on a hunting party.’

‘The gun went off unexpectedly.’

‘He separated from the rest of the party. There was the sound of gunshot. They found him in a secluded spot, hidden behind a wall, hunched over his gun, dead.’

‘No one knows for certain what happened. We are dishonouring his memory if we assume it to be suicide.’

‘His friends spoke of him as a young man of great promise and exceptional beauty. They also spoke of an older man who pressured him into a sexual relationship and then abandoned him.’

Pinky’s nostrils twitched as if they had just been assailed by an unpleasant odour.

‘Be careful, my friend. You have overstepped the mark. This is dangerous slander,’ warned Sir Michael on the Marquess’s behalf. Pinky himself remained tight-lipped; his characteristic colour drained from his face.

‘Besides,’ continued Count Erdélyi, ‘the unfortunate youth’s death hardly amounts to murder.’

‘Perhaps not. But hours after Foxe’s death, this gentleman was seen enjoying the company of a young estate worker of rugged physique.’

‘I needed consoling!’

‘Please, do not misunderstand me. I do not say this to condemn you. And it goes without saying that I would not repeat any of this to anyone other than ourselves. This is all, as it were, between friends.’

‘You have not mentioned me yet,’ said Harry Lennox uneasily. ‘I have the feeling I know you. Have we met before?’

‘Now now,’ intervened Sir Michael. ‘The rules of the club forbid you from even asking such a question.’

‘But are you not curious to know how this fellow knows so much about us all?’ protested Lennox.

‘Everything that I have said is in the public domain,’ said Quinn. ‘Are you capable of murder? Perhaps not. But you are certainly capable of profiting from it. Which therefore gives you a motive for perpetrating it, or at least encouraging it. Perhaps it is absurd to suggest that you would commit murder in order to sell newspapers. However, you cannot escape the charge that newspapers like yours have created an atmosphere in which a man may achieve a degree of fame by pursuing such a course.’

‘If that is all you have to accuse me of, then it is not very much.’

‘Let me say again, I am not here to accuse but applaud. This is the Panther Club, after all.’

‘Perhaps you are the murderer!’ cried Count Erdélyi, turning on Quinn with vindictive glee. ‘Yes,
you
are the – what was it? – the Exsanguinist!’

‘I wondered who would be the first to suggest that.’

‘I was recently in Vienna,’ continued Count Erdélyi, turning to his companions delightedly, ‘where I attended a series of interesting talks given by a noted specialist in dream interpretation.’ He turned back to Quinn. ‘I cannot help wondering what he would make of that dream you told us earlier.’

‘Was it Doctor Freud?’ asked Sir Michael. ‘I rather fear that he sees phalluses everywhere.’

‘How wonderful,’ said Pinky, licking his lips.

‘It was a disciple of Freud’s,’ admitted Count Erdélyi. ‘And from what I understand of Freud’s theories, our friend’s dream suggests the repression of homosexual desire. Indeed, as you suggest, Ezzelino, the razor
can
be seen as standing for his phallus. He creates a wound in the other student’s neck, which is to be interpreted as a surrogate vagina. The meaning is clear: that he wished to have sexual relations with the boy and not his landlady’s daughter. The words spoken by the wound make this explicit. And the outpouring of blood is nothing less than an ecstatic ejaculation, which is transferred to the murdered youth, rather than experienced directly by the dreamer. None of this could be admitted by his conflicted psyche. In fact, to suppress the desire, he kills the object of his desire. But only in his dream. He failed to do so in real life. Hence his remark about not finding peace until he has tracked down and killed his erstwhile rival. Is it not conceivable that the crimes of the Exsanguinist are in some way playing out that intention? But instead of finding and killing the one he loved – who would by now have aged somewhat – he is repeatedly obliterating the idea of him
as he once was
, in the form of other youths.’

‘It is an interesting theory,’ said Quinn. He took out from his pocket a silver cigarette case. He opened the cigarette case and offered it around the company, allowing the inscription on the inside of the lid to be clearly seen:

The danger was half the excitement.

D.P.

Quinn noted the reactions of the men as they accepted a cigarette from him.

‘Ah dear, dear Oscar,’ said Pinky affectionately.

Sir Michael’s ‘Oh’ was disapproving, as if he had borne witness to a lamentable breach of protocol.

‘
Like feasting with panthers
,’ said Count Erdélyi, completing the quote.

Harry Lennox frowned in confusion at the words. ‘What
is
that?’

‘It’s a quote from a compatriot of yours, Oscar Wilde,’ said Sir Michael. ‘Of course, much as I admire Wilde, I cannot approve of him. Except when I am here, of course.’

The only one of the group who did not make a comment on the inscription was Lord Tobias Marjoribanks, who also declined to take a cigarette. His brows drew together in deep consternation. He rose slowly to his feet. ‘Who are you?’

‘Your nemesis.’

‘That won’t do.’ Marjoribanks’ voice rose to a whine. ‘I don’t believe in all that superstitious rot. There is no universal law that says a man must have a nemesis.’

‘Are there any universal laws at all, I wonder? Other than,
that which is realized is right
? Or,
the only sin is shallowness
.’

‘I cannot stay here talking to you. I have important work to do.’

‘And all I ask is to be able to help you in it. To learn from you. Every great artist is a teacher. And you are a great artist. I will be Ruskin to your Turner. I will explain you to the world.’

‘I don’t need you.’ And with that, Marjoribanks dashed from the room.

Quinn took out a Set cigarette and lit it before bowing to the assembly and calmly taking his leave.

H
e found Fetherstonhaugh on the floor of the landing, hunched against the wall near the entrance to the reading room. His domino mask was off. He was bleeding from a deep gash in his right cheek. Quinn crouched down and peered into the wound. ‘That’s nasty,’ he said at last.

‘I tried to stop him. Möbius. I didn’t realize he had a razor. He lashed out at me.’ The words came in a rush, as if the wound had released a torrent of speech as well as blood. There was an excited, enlivened glint in Fetherstonhaugh’s eye.

‘That was very foolish of you. However, you will live. We may take it that had he wished to kill you, he would have done so.’

Fetherstonhaugh almost seemed disappointed.

‘I will get someone to take care of you. In the meantime, I must go after him.’

‘Do it for the Brotherhood,’ panted Fetherstonhaugh, the shock of the attack convulsing his body.

Quinn sprang to his feet and turned, just as the sound of panicked shouting reached him from the foyer below. He ran down the stairs to discover that the door to Bertie’s cage had been opened and Bertie was prowling the foyer with a languid feline curiosity. Club members and servants scattered ahead of her, pushing one another out of the way and slamming doors in the faces of those behind them.

The panther seemed unperturbed by the commotion. She turned to Quinn and lifted her head to sniff the air. She was standing between him and the door, blocking his way out. Then suddenly she must have caught the scent of something that interested her far more than he did. She padded past him, gathering speed until she was bounding up the stairs. He realized too late what was drawing her.

Fetherstonhaugh’s screams confirmed it. She had smelled blood.

Quinn chased up the stairs.

He found her pinning the man down with her front paws on his chest. She had her jaws around his face and shook his head as a domestic cat would shake a morsel of meat.

Quinn withdrew his revolver from its holster. He moved quickly, thrusting the muzzle against the side of the animal’s head as he squeezed the trigger. The force of the shot threw Bertie’s head to one side, as well as converting much of it to a spray of bloody matter. A sudden intensification of screaming suggested that the separation of teeth from his face had not been without pain for Fetherstonhaugh. He was slumped over completely now. In places, his face looked like raw minced meat.

Quinn felt for a pulse.

He looked up and saw a number of the club’s servants surrounding him nervously. ‘He is alive. Help him.’

As Lord Marjoribanks burst out of the Panther Club, he was accosted by a young man wrapped in a shimmering silk scarf.

‘You’re just the feller I was looking for,’ said Tommy Venables.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Tall, good-lookin’. Wearin’ a mask.’ Venables let out a burst of coarse laughter.

Marjoribanks showed him the bloodied razor in his hand.

‘Cut yerself shavin’, didyer? Y’ought to be more careful.’

‘Aren’t you afraid of me?’

‘Nah. I seen you with Pinky. If I were you, I’d put that away before a bobby sees it.’

Marjoribanks folded the blade away and pocketed it. ‘Of course – Pinky. He knows all the queer lowlife.’

‘There’s no need to take that attitude.’

‘Aren’t you the renter who was trying to blackmail him?’

‘Simple misunderstanding. All cleared up now.’

‘The vampire.’

‘I don’ know wha’ you mean.’

‘You’re like the scum that destroyed Oscar. You pull everything down to your own level. Nothing fine or beautiful is possible while there are louts like you in the world.’

‘If you’re talking about Oscar Wilde, you should hear the tales some of the old ’uns tell. Nothing fine or beautiful about what he liked to get up to.’

‘I don’t have time for this.’

‘Let me get you a taxi then.’ Venables threw up his hand and whistled. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

A taxi pulled up with remarkable speed, as if the driver had been waiting for Venables’ signal. Venables opened the rear door for Marjoribanks and then followed him in.

‘What are you doing? I didn’t invite you into my taxi.’

‘Where to, sir?’ asked the driver.

‘I thought you and me could go somewhere nice,’ said Venables.

‘It doesn’t work like that. I choose who goes with me. I am not chosen.’

‘Tonight’s different.’