Supping With Panthers (14 page)

‘Yes.’ I nodded and I thought further. ‘Yes, I am sure you are right.’

He looked at me with interest. ‘Why, you have evidence of it yourself?’

I swallowed. ‘You are seeking for something which links the two men. Well, Dr Eliot, there is something. Whether it relates to George’s work, I do not know. George himself seemed to imply that it did, but I believe it was as great a mystery to him as it is to me now.’

‘Ah,’ said Dr Eliot, with something like contentment. He lounged back in his chair and closed his eyes again, then swished one hand lazily. ‘Continue, Lady Mowberley.’

I swallowed, as well I might. Prepare yourself, Lucy, for what you must now read, for I am afraid that it will not be easy for you. ‘It was just over a year ago,’ I said slowly, ‘when Arthur came round to our home for a light dinner.’ I then described to Dr Eliot what we had discussed that night: chiefly, dear Lucy, it had been you, and your determination to go back to the stage. You will remember how opposed your brother had been; and yet by the end of that evening he was laughing admiringly at your enthusiasm, and talking almost as though he would encourage you. ‘I see that Lucy is determined to be a New Woman,’ Arthur said, ‘and clearly will not be turned aside. For obsessions are irrational and almost daemonic things, and we delude ourselves if we think they are a malady alone of the young.’

‘Indeed,’ murmured Dr Eliot, who had been lolling with eyes closed as I gave him my account. ‘I remember at college Ruthven had a famous obsession of his own.’

‘And what was that?’ I inquired.

‘He was a great collector of ancient Greek coins.’

‘And so he still was when I knew him. Indeed, he often claimed within my hearing that his collection was quite unsurpassed.’

‘Amusing,’ murmured Dr Eliot faintly.

‘Yes. We all found it so, I believe. Arthur himself readily admitted that there was an absurd aspect to his enthusiasm, especially in one otherwise so sober and reserved. “But there is nothing I would not do,” he told us that night, “in pursuit of a coin from the age of the Greeks. I have the honour of my collection to uphold. Indeed, it seems that I have grown notorious, for see” – he reached in his bag – “I have only today received a personal challenge.” ‘

“‘A challenge?” I remember George exclaiming. “What the devil do you mean?”’

‘Arthur smiled faintly, but did not reply. Instead, he placed on the table a red wooden box. He opened it, and we saw that inside was a small piece of card with writing on it. “What is it?” I asked in astonishment.

‘“See for yourself,” said Arthur, handing it to me.

‘I took it. The card was of the highest quality but the writing was clumsy, and the ink of a strange quality, for it was a dark purple and flaked when touched. The message, however, was even more strange – so strange, indeed, that even now I can remember it perfectly.
Sir, you are a fool,
it read. Your
collection is worthless. You have allowed the greatest prize of all to slip through, your hands.
It was signed simply,
A rival.

‘George took the message from my hands and read it for himself. He began to laugh, and soon we had all joined in – Arthur the loudest, although it was clear, I think, that his pride had indeed been touched. We asked him how he intended to respond to his insolent challenger. Arthur shook his head and laughed again, but I was certain he intended to follow the mystery through. How, I wasn’t sure, for I didn’t press him, but behind his laughter I had recognised pique and resolve.

A week later, I asked him if he had discovered his challenger’s identity; he shrugged the question aside, but he smiled in that close way he always had and it was clear that the mystery had been preying on his mind. Two weeks later, Arthur Ruthven disappeared. A week after that, his corpse was found floating in the Thames off Rotherhithe, naked and wholly drained of its blood. Arthur’s expression, George reported to me, had been one of the utmost horror.’

I paused. Dr Eliot, his eyes half-closed, had laced his fingers together as though in prayer. ‘Your account,’ he said at last, ‘implies a link between Arthur’s disappearance and his earlier receipt of the peculiar box.’

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said, and cleared my throat. ‘When Arthur was pulled from the water, his hand was found to be clenched. The fingers were straightened out and a coin – a Greek coin – was discovered in his palm.’

‘Suggestive,’ observed Dr Eliot, ‘but not conclusive.’

‘The coin was certified to be of great value.’

Dr Eliot stared at me impassively. ‘You informed the police?’

‘I did.’

‘And their response?’

‘They were very polite, but…’

‘Ah.’ Dr Eliot smiled faintly. ‘You did not have the box, then?’

‘It was never found.’

‘Ah,’ nodded Dr Eliot again. ‘That is a shame.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘But perhaps, Lady Mowberley, since you obviously feel it worth your time to be here, you have some further evidence yourself?’

I lowered my eyes. ‘I do,’ I whispered.

‘Tell me.’

Again, dear Lucy, I had to compose myself. I swallowed. ‘Some months ago,’ I said softly, ‘a parcel came, addressed to our house. Inside there was a box…’

‘And the box was the same as that which Arthur had received?’

‘In almost every way.’

‘Remarkable,’ said Dr Eliot, rubbing his hands. ‘There was a piece of card too, then, addressed to George?’

‘No, sir,’ I replied. ‘It was addressed to me.’

‘Ah.’ He narrowed his eyes again. ‘Intriguing. What was its message, Lady Mowberley?’

‘An insulting one.’

‘But of course.’

‘Why, “of course”?’

‘Because the message to Arthur had been insulting as well. What did your message say, Lady Mowberley?’

‘I am reluctant to reveal it’

‘Come, come, I must have all the facts.’

‘Yes.’ I swallowed. I closed my eyes, then repeated the message from memory.
‘Madam, you are blind. Your husband does not love you. He has countless women apart from you.’
I choked, and sat in silence. At length I opened my eyes again.

‘You are quite right,’ said Dr Eliot softly. ‘That is indeed insulting.’ He paused. ‘Do you have the message and box with you now?’

I nodded. I reached down and then handed the box across to Dr Eliot, who had risen to his feet He took it gingerly, and crossed to a light where he studied the box with careful attention. ‘It is clearly of no great workmanship,’ he said. ‘I would judge it has been used to transport merchandise – yes – see here … there are words below the paint, in a Chinese script.’ He glanced up at me. ‘I would guess it to be from the docks,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘What would a person from the docks have to do with George or myself?’

Well, now,’ said Dr Eliot, ‘that is the mystery, is it not?’ He smiled faintly and opened the box to take out the card. As he studied it, his smile faded and grew into a frown. ‘Whoever wrote this,’ he said at last, ‘is a better pensman than she pretends to be, for the cursives are quite inappropriate to what is otherwise a clumsy hand. I say she, for the style of writing is a feminine one. Also, the ink – you will have guessed, of course – it is clearly an admixture of water and blood.’

‘Blood?’ I exclaimed.

‘Undoubtedly,’ he replied.

‘But …’ I swallowed. ‘You are sure?’ I shook my head and swallowed again. ‘But, yes. Yes, of course you are.’

Dr Eliot furrowed his brow. ‘There is clearly an intention expressed here, not only to insult but to frighten you.’ He studied the card again, then shrugged faintly and returned it to the box. ‘You showed this to your husband, I presume?’

I nodded wordlessly.

‘What was his response?’

‘Outrage. Utter outrage.’

‘He denied the message’s accusation?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And you – forgive me for asking this, Lady Mowberley, but I must – you believed him?’

‘Yes, sir, I did. Why should I not have done? George had always been the best of husbands, and the most transparent of men. If he had been betraying me, I would have known of it.’

Dr Eliot nodded slowly. ‘Good,’ he murmured, ‘very good.’ He sank back into his chair. ‘So proceed, Lady Mowberley. What happened next?’

‘Three days after the receipt of the box, George too disappeared.’

‘Indeed?’ Dr Eliot’s face grew dark and intense. ‘That must have been a terrible shock to you.’

‘I was terrified, I freely admit.’

‘You went to the police?’

‘No, sir, I could not bear to, for I was afraid to admit that he might be truly gone. And indeed, after I had passed two sleepless nights, he returned to me – white-faced, glazed-eyed, but still my own sweet George, perfectly alive. Some great mystery, however, had clearly engulfed him, for whenever I pressed him on the reasons for his sudden disappearance a shadow would cross his face, and he would ask me to forget that he had ever been gone. He found it hard to sleep, Dr Eliot; sometimes, when he believed I was asleep myself, he would cross to the window and stare out at the street. At other times, whenever he did chance to dream, he would toss and turn and mutter strange names. Finally, some three weeks after his initial disappearance, he disappeared again. This second time he was gone for several days, and I was almost frantic when he finally returned. I demanded to know what was happening but George continued to obfuscate. He did imply, however, that the mystery was related to his Government work. How or why he didn’t say, but I received the impression of some great conspiracy, centring on the Bill he had to steer through Parliament, and requiring all his attention and time. He asked me not to worry, and promised that one day he would reveal the full truth to me. In the meantime, I would have to tolerate his occasional absences and his lengthy hours at the Ministry. He asked for my understanding and support.’

‘And you gave it?’

I nodded. ‘But of course.’

‘The absences continued?’

‘Sporadically.’

‘And his work in the Ministry?’

‘Has been brilliant, I believe. You may not be aware of George’s reputation now. He is remarkably young to have reached the position he holds. His mysterious behaviour, however it relates to the progress of his Bill, is clearly proving to be of great benefit to his political career. And yet…’ I paused and gazed into the eyes of Dr Eliot, which gleamed bright from his otherwise pallid face. ‘And yet,’ I repeated in a low voice, ‘I remain afraid.’

‘Well,’ said Dr Eliot briskly, ‘that is not to be wondered at. Remind me again – he has been absent now for over a week?’

‘A week and a day.’

‘That is unusual?’

‘Yes. Before now, he has never been absent for more than three days at a time.’

‘And that is why you have broken his injunction and come to me to seek for help?’

‘There are other reasons.’

‘Indeed?’ he exclaimed.

I nodded. ‘I will be frank, Dr Eliot I fear the worst – yet I am also afraid lest you should think me mad.’

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘If it is any comfort to you, Lady Mowberley, you strike me as being eminently sane.’

‘That is very kind of you,’ I replied, ‘although there have been times today when I have doubted it myself. This is what occurred to me last night. I retired late to bed. Once my maid had undressed me, I dismissed her and sat alone awhile, wishing that George were with me and wondering where he might be. At length, I rose and crossed to the window. It was a blustery night outside, and I sat staring at the rain-swept skyline of London as though searching for some clue which might lead me to George. Dimly, I became aware of footsteps sounding from the cobble-stones below. I looked down. Illumined by the gas lamp I saw two figures, a gentleman and a lady. I saw that beneath his cloak the gentleman was in evening dress; he was swarthy-skinned, with a dark, bushy beard, and so I guessed him to be a foreigner. The lady’s face I couldn’t see, for she was standing with her back to me, swathed in a hood and a flowing black cloak. At length she turned and took the gentleman’s arm; they both began to walk on down the street. As she went, however, the lady turned and glanced up, as though looking at me. I had no chance to make out her face, since it remained in the shadow cast by her hood, but for one second the street light caught her skin and it gleamed, Dr Eliot, I swear that it gleamed! Then she turned and was gone; but I was left with a feeling of the most abject horror. I cannot explain it But it was real – vividly real. I felt simply that I had seen something horrible.’

‘And this something horrible had been what? – the woman?’

‘I know that it sounds ridiculous.’

‘Yes,’ he mused, ‘but intriguing as well.’

‘You do not think me mad?’

‘On the contrary.’ He smiled faintly. ‘You have more to recount?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then do so. You retired to bed?’

‘Yes. I took my medication…’

‘Ah.’ He interrupted me at once by holding up his hand. ‘This was for your nerves?’

‘Yes.’

‘What would this medication have been?’

‘It is opiate-based, I believe.’

Dr Eliot nodded slowly. ‘I am sorry, Lady Mowberley. You were saying, I believe, that you had retired to bed?’

‘Yes. I slept well; I always do. Then, at four, the chiming of the church clock awoke me. I slipped back at once to sleep, but this time my dreams were bad. I woke up suddenly again, I opened my eyes – and my blood froze in my veins. The woman – I knew at once that it was the same one I had seen on the street – was staring at me. She was in my room. She still wore her cloak, but her hood was thrown back and her face was the most beautiful I had ever seen. At the same time, it was also the most terrible.’

‘In what exactly did this terror lie?’

‘I couldn’t say. But it filled me with fear. Staring at it, I was absolutely paralysed.’

‘Did you speak to her?’

‘I tried. I couldn’t though. I can’t explain it, Dr Eliot. I am afraid you will think me very weak.’

He shook his head. ‘Describe the woman.’

‘She was … I don’t know what age – young, I suppose, but – no …’ My voice traded away. ‘What I want to say, I suppose, is that she seemed almost
beyond
age. She was dark-haired – long-haired too, I would have guessed, although it was hard to tell for her tresses were concealed below her shoulders by her cloak. Her face was very pale. It almost seemed as though it were lit by a flame from somewhere within her. Her lips were red. Her eyes were dark, and very bright’