Supping With Panthers (25 page)

‘This way,’ said Eliot, pointing towards the flickering of a gas lamp. He kept glancing over his shoulder as we went, but no one followed us, and as we reached the main street I knew that we were safe, for a large crowd was gathered on the pavement of the road. I was surprised to see so many people together, for it was early in the morning; the crowd stood in the shadows away from the lamp, where the darkness was still pitch, and at first the object of their interest was impossible to make out. There was a policeman bending down beside a crumpled silhouette. Eliot asked him what had occurred; the constable replied that a woman had been assaulted and left for dead. At once, of course, Eliot offered his services; as he bent down, I saw him frown suddenly and reach for one of the victim’s wrists. ‘Quick!’ he shouted. ‘That rag, give it quickly!’ He tied it around the wrist, and I saw a purple stain slowly spread across the cloth. Eliot looked up at the policeman. ‘Didn’t you see,’ he asked, ‘that her wrist had been cut?’

‘So were the others!’ shouted a woman from the crowd. ‘They all had cuts to them like that, they all did, some to their throats, some to their bodies, and some to their wrists!’

‘Others?’ Eliot asked.

‘All around here,’ nodded the woman. Others from the crowd shouted out their agreement with her. ‘The police don’t do nothing for us!’ ‘They don’t care!’ ‘They keep it all hushed!’

The constable swallowed; he looked very young. He told Eliot in a low voice that he didn’t know anything about the case. Rotherhithe wasn’t his beat. He had come from the north docks, to investigate the reported sound of gunfire on the Thames, and though he had found no evidence of the gunfire, he had come across the woman, and he was doing his best – and as he’d already said, it wasn’t his beat. He stared down nervously at the woman’s blood-stained wrist, and swallowed again. ‘Will she live?’ he asked at length.

Eliot nodded. ‘I think so,’ he said, ‘but she must be got to a surgery at once.’ He stared up at the policeman. ‘Presumably, if you are from the north docks, you have a launch here now?’

The constable nodded.

‘Good,’ said Eliot, rising to his feet. ‘Then you will take us across. I can treat her best in Whitechapel.’

The policeman nodded, then suddenly frowned. ‘Excuse me, sir, for asking, but what are you doing here?’

‘Us?’ Eliot shrugged. ‘We have been’ – he smiled faintly – ‘enjoying the nightlife of the docks.’ He gestured down at Sir George whose leg wound, I observed, he had been careful to conceal. ‘And some of us, I’m afraid, have been enjoying it rather too much.’

The policeman nodded slowly. ‘Yes, sir.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘So I see.’

‘Be obliged if you’d keep it to yourself,’ said Eliot briskly. ‘And now let’s not waste any more time. Come on. We need to get this poor woman into your boat, and then into a bed.’

And so it was that we were soon crossing back to the north bank of the Thames, and on to Whitechapel. Once there, a couple of policemen helped to carry the injured woman into the surgery; Eliot, before accompanying them to treat her, asked me to take Sir George upstairs. ‘And for God’s sake,’ he whispered, ‘keep that leg wound covered.’

I nodded. I transported my burden without mishap, and stayed by his side for upwards of an hour. At length Eliot joined me again. ‘She will pull through,’ he said, sitting down beside Sir George. ‘I have got her asleep in a bed downstairs.’

‘And him?’ I asked, gesturing at Sir George.

‘Him?’ Eliot smiled. ‘Oh, he has been misbehaving badly. We must send him back to his wife at once.’

‘But is he really all right, do you think?’

‘I am certain of it. But let me just examine him, and treat his wound which, as you can see …’ – he exposed it – ‘is really just a scratch…’ He paused for a moment to stare at Sir George’s face; then he smiled faintly and shook his head; then he frowned, as though embarrassed, and returned to dressing the wound. But there had been affection in his smile, and such affection in a man as cold as Eliot, I thought, must be worth a good deal.

‘You are very close to him?’ I asked.

Eliot shook his head. ‘Not now. But once. We were drawn as opposites so often are. Myself – and Ruthven – and Mowberley.’

I nodded and stared at Sir George’s face again. ‘When did you know?’ I asked at length.

‘What – that he and the Rajah were the same man?’

‘Yes.’

Eliot smiled grimly. For a while, he continued with his work in silence and I had begun to think he wouldn’t answer me. ‘George was always …,’ he said suddenly. ‘He was always …,’ He shook his head. ‘Fond
of women.’

‘Yes, you said,’ I nodded slowly. ‘The prostitute in the alleyway, then?’

‘Exactly so.’

‘But… excuse me for any indelicacy … but – there are many men who … well… might not a Rajah have – you know – as well?’

‘Yes,’ said Eliot shortly. ‘Of course. But I had convinced myself that if the Rajah were indeed not Sir George, then his purpose with the prostitute would have been something quite other than sex.’

‘Indeed?’ I stared at Eliot in surprise. ‘In the name of God, what?’

‘I do not wish to say.’ His face froze. ‘It was a folly of mine.’

‘But surely…’

‘I do not wish to say.’
This was spoken with a sudden iciness and my expression must have been one of surprise, for Eliot immediately touched my shoulder in a gesture of apology. ‘Do not press me on this topic, please, Stoker,’ he asked. ‘It is a matter of some embarrassment to me. You will remember – my mention of the Kalikshutran disease … it is something I have attempted to put from my mind; yet it is clear I have not entirely succeeded, for I sometimes find myself suspecting its existence where it could not possibly be. Suffice it to say, though, that my imaginings were proved false and I knew –
I knew
– from that moment on – that Sir George was our man. When I saw him on the boat, the expression on his face once he had seen
me…
I was certain.’

‘There is one thing, though,’ I said, ‘which I still don’t understand.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes.’ I studied Sir George’s face again. ‘How
did
his features seem to change so much? How was it that we failed to recognise him?’

‘Ah.’ Eliot nodded slowly. ‘You will remember, Stoker, in Coldlair Lane, I mentioned that the case was perfectly clear to me save for one detail alone. Well – you have just touched on the detail which still baffles me. I confess – I cannot answer your question.’

‘Have you no theory?’

Eliot frowned. ‘Perhaps…’ he murmured.

‘Yes?’

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said at length, ‘it is impossible.’

‘Tell me,’ I pressed him.

‘I was merely going to comment,’ he said, ‘on the coincidence.’

‘Coincidence?’

Eliot nodded. ‘You will remember that Lucy, when she saw Mowberley’s face at the window, imagined it to be daubed with streaks of blood. Tonight also, when we discovered him ourselves, his face was again daubed with streaks of blood.’

‘Goodness, Eliot!’ I exclaimed. ‘You are perfectly right! What do you make of it?’

‘I confess,’ Eliot answered, ‘I can make nothing of it at all.’

My disappointment must have been evident in my face, for Eliot smiled. ‘We must wait, I am afraid,’ he said, rising to his feet, ‘for Mowberley to regain his consciousness. Perhaps then some light may be shed on the matter. And to that end, Stoker, I wonder if I could press you for one last favour.’

‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘you know I am keen to be of service in this case.’

Eliot had crossed to his desk. Now he sat down by it and began to scribble a note. ‘Mowberley must be restored to his home and his wife,’ he said. ‘Lady Mowberley has borne his absence very bravely. We cannot keep him from her any longer. Therefore, Stoker’ – he turned in his chair – ‘I was wondering if you might deliver the Minister on your way back home.’

‘It will be no trouble at all,’ I replied.

Eliot nodded. ‘I would come myself,’ he murmured, ‘but I have left Llewellyn alone here for too long as it is,’ He returned to his note. At length he finished it, sealed it up and handed it to me. ‘If you would be so kind, deliver this as well to Lady Mowberley.’

‘You must promise me, in return, to keep me informed of any developments.’

Eliot smiled. ‘But of course, my dear Stoker. To whom else could I possibly turn? But I doubt this case will trouble us much more. No, I think we can consider our solution to be found.’

And on that note, I left him. I had much to ponder, though, as I sat in my cab, for I could not be so certain that the mysteries were indeed resolved. I thought of all I had recently experienced and heard, until, exhausted as I was, the various images from the past few days began to blend in my mind. I saw Lucy; the Rajah; Lord Ruthven and Sir George; I was chasing them with Eliot in a boat down the Thames; then I was with them all in Polidori’s den. And then I thought of the portrait in the perfume-clouded room; and all of a sudden I was jerked back awake. I shuddered at the memory – why, I couldn’t say – save that the woman’s beauty had seemed so impossibly great that I wondered if it was that which was unsettling me. We still did not know who she was, nor what her purpose was in Rotherhithe – yet Eliot could talk as though the case were solved.

I shook my head. I was reluctant to doubt a man of such extraordinary powers – yet I suspected it would not be long before I heard from him again…

Letter, Dr John Eliot to Lady Mowberley.

Surgeon’s Court,

Whitechapel.

16 April 1888.

Dear Lady Mowberley,

I have had some success in our case. I am delivering George into the capable hands of Mr Bram Stoker and he in turn, I hope, will have delivered him to you by the time you read this note. The outline of the mystery is now fairly clear, the full details, however, must await George’s recovery, which I am certain will be rapid and without undue complications. He has much to tell you. However, you must demand the whole truth from him. As I recall, he is inclined to bluster.

You mentioned, when you visited me, that if there was anything you could do for me in return then I had only to ask. Perhaps you will regret that offer, for I do indeed now have a request. Please, Lady Mowberley – might you not be reconciled with Lucy Westcote? I do not know the nature of what has come between you, although I can hazard a guess. Perhaps all that is required for a reconciliation is that one of you should make die first move?

I shall call on you during the next week, to see how George progresses.

Until then, I remain, Lady Mowberley,

Your servant,

JACK ELIOT.

Letter, Lady Mowberley to Dr John Eliot.

2, Grosvenor Street

24 April

Dear Dr Eliot,

Words cannot express my gratitude. George has told me everything. It has been very painful for me – as you yourself must have known it would be. Your skill in teasing the solution out, and your courage in resolving it, cannot be praised too highly. George will write to you himself when he is more fully recovered. At the moment, he is still very weak.

I cannot, of course, refuse your appeal with regard to Lucy. It is true that I feel uncomfortable with her. She is a very headstrong young woman and I cannot approve of her conduct, which is altogether too
Parisian
for me. What seems proper to the London fast set, I am afraid, appears very immoral to a stick-in-the-mud like myself. My quarrel, however, has never properly been with Lucy but with the young man to whose abode she fled. The nature of his offence I am sure you can guess. Your appeal for reconciliation must therefore be directed towards Lucy herself. I am always willing to entertain her. Indeed, more than that – I am willing to persuade George to release her inheritance, for I know that she has been short of finances and that it is I who have been largely responsible for that. Maybe I was mistaken – but I did it for the best. Before you judge me too harshly, you must visit Lucy and extract the full story from her. I repeat, however – and you may tell her so yourself – that once George is recovered he will set about releasing money for her. I am certain that it can be arranged with the lawyers, so that she need not wait until she comes of age.

Dear Dr Eliot – again, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I am, sir, your most devoted and beholden friend,

ROSAMUND, LADY MOWBERLEY

Dr
Eliot’s Diary
(kept in phonograph)

24
April
– Much to record. In the morning, received a letter from Lady Mowberley which seems very promising. Since I had a morning free, I decided to act on it at once. Around nine, took the tram to Covent Garden. On the way, curious sensation of being watched. Clearly irrational, yet couldn’t shake the impression off. Maybe I have been working myself too hard. Need more sleep, perhaps? A false economy to deny myself, if the patients suffer as a consequence.

Arrived at the Lyceum. Lucy not yet there, but Stoker was in his office and gave me her address. He flushed at the first mention of her name. Poor fellow – I believe he is very much in love with Lucy. I wonder if he is quite aware of this himself?

The address he had given me was in Clerkenwell. I headed there at once. The street was not dingy, but nor was it fashionable; I recalled what Lady Mowberley had written, that Lucy was short of funds, and as I waited for her in the hall I could see signs all around me of economy. And indeed, when Lucy came hurrying down the stairs to greet me I thought I detected, even through the warmth of her welcome, traces of embarrassment, as though she were ashamed of being seen in such a place, especially by an old friend of her brother’s like myself. I was therefore confident she would welcome my news; but to my surprise, she merely laughed and shook her head. ‘We are perfectly happy here,’ she insisted. ‘I should be angry with you, Jack, for so misjudging me. The quarrel is not over any inheritance,’

‘Then what is the cause?’

She stared at me defiantly. ‘I don’t know – ask Lady Mowberley. I told you, Jack, her hostility has always seemed quite motiveless to me.’