Supping With Panthers (26 page)

‘Well, then,’ I answered with a shrug, ‘you have no reason to reject her offer of peace.’

‘But I told you, Jack, we don’t need the money.’

I looked around. ‘Is that so?’ I asked.

Lucy flushed. ‘We have my earnings, and Ned’s allowance while he studies for the Bar.’

‘But surely, Lucy, you can find some better place to live? The Westcotes, for instance, Ned’s family – they must have a town house…’

My voice trailed away as I observed Lucy’s expression; she had turned deathly pale. She shook her head, then tried to smile. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It is just your suggestion of the Westcotes’ house – Ned has so conditioned me with his own horror of it that I seem to grow upset at the very mention of the place.’

‘Horror?’ I asked, surprised.

Lucy shrugged. ‘Ever since his mother and sister disappeared. Ned claims that the tragedy has touched the house. I don’t know how, but he is quite insistent about it. He cannot bear to go through the door. We went once – it is in the woods by Highgate – and we just stood there by the gates, then turned and hurried back. It was very strange, Jack. I felt it too – a sensation of… yes… horror. Almost physical. I knew at once what Ned had meant.’

I bowed my head. ‘I am very sorry, then, for having brought the matter up. It was most insensitive of me.’

Lucy smiled. ‘You weren’t to know.’ She took my hands, and looked around her. ‘And anyway,’ she murmured, ‘this may not be Highgate but it is very snug.’

‘Yes,’ I said slowly. I glanced up the stairs. ‘Exceedingly so.’

Lucy cocked an eyebrow. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

I shrugged, then smiled.

Lucy hit me with feigned frustration. ‘Really, Jack, I’m surprised at you. I had always thought you were a Socialist. Shouldn’t you be pleased to see us living in a slum?’

I smiled again faintly. ‘It wasn’t you so much I was thinking of.’

‘Oh?’

I bowed my head; then slowly I raised it to stare into her eyes. ‘I was thinking,’ I murmured, ‘more of your child.’

Lucy’s face froze. ‘You know,’ she whispered.

‘It wasn’t so hard to guess.’

‘No,’ she said at last. A smile touched her lips. ‘It never is with you.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Damn you, Jack, and there I was – nervous all this time that the baby might cry and give the game away. I needn’t have worried. How did you know?’

‘Oh, come, Lucy, a year’s illness and seclusion, a hurried marriage, a young girl leaving her guardian’s home – you could write it up into a melodrama and have it shown at the Lyceum.’

‘You missed out the wicked step-mother.’

‘But has she really been so very wicked?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

‘She refused to see Ned.’

‘Well, can you blame her?’

‘Jack!’

‘Just remember – they are not quite so… progressive … perhaps, in Yorkshire.’

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

‘You are the actress,’ I told her, ‘you are the one who is paid to see through other people’s eyes. Just try, Lucy. Lady Mowberley comes to London, after a lifetime spent in Whitby. Her husband’s ward demands to go on the stage. Then almost at once, this ward is bearing some strange man’s child. I think, in the circumstances, she’s entitled to feel a
bit
of moral outrage.’

‘Well…,’ Lucy frowned, then shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Just a little bit.’

I took out Lady Mowberley’s letter. ‘And now she wishes to be reconciled with you.’ I handed it to Lucy.

She read it through a couple of times, carefully. ‘But she still won’t see Ned,’ she murmured at last.

‘No,’ I replied, ‘but surely you can see why?’

Lucy shook her head.

‘Because by blaming him, she removes the need to blame you.’

‘Do you really think so?’

I nodded. ‘Give her time, Lucy. She will come round. But first of all, you must give her a chance yourself.’

Lucy smiled at me slyly. ‘If I didn’t know you better, Jack, I would think you admired Rosamund.’

‘But you do know me better, Lucy. I am merely acting on what I have observed.’

‘Oh?’ Lucy arched an eyebrow. ‘And what have you observed?’

‘That there is no reason I can make out for you two not to be friends.’

Lucy continued to stare at me; then she shrugged and folded the letter away. ‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘you may be right.’ She glanced up the stairs. ‘But there is my baby now as well.’

‘I don’t see why that should be a problem. It is only your husband she seems to have proscribed.’

Lucy nodded slowly. ‘Oh, Jack,’ she said suddenly, ‘he is the most beautiful child. I cannot regret what has happened, you know.’

‘Of course not. No one is asking you to.’

‘After Arthur … well – I missed him so badly, you know. The mystery of his death, the horror of it, so like our father’s end …’ She swallowed and paused. ‘Apart from Ned, Arthur was all I’d ever had. I could never believe that he had really gone.’ She shook her head; then she turned and began to hurry up the stairs. She glanced back at me. ‘Well, come on, then.’

‘What?’

She stopped, and almost stamped her foot. ‘Oh, Jack, you are impossible! Even if you don’t want to see Arthur, you could at least pretend you do.’

‘Arthur?’

‘Oh, Jack, for goodness’ sake, my
baby!’
She held out her hand. ‘You’ve got to come upstairs and say he’s wonderful.’

I went with her uncomplainingly. The youthfull Arthur, it turned out, was fast asleep. Admiration much easier as a consequence. He is indeed, as his mother claims, a most beautiful and
placid
child, rather as I remember his namesake, though without the moustache. I was about to mention this, when the doorbell rang. ‘Don’t make him cry,’ said Lucy, ‘or I shall be cross with you.’ Down below, the housemaid was answering the bell. Lucy left me, closing the nursery door behind her and then hurrying downstairs. For several minutes I heard the murmur of conversation. I couldn’t tell who the visitor might be. Then I heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Lucy opened the nursery door again. ‘In here,’ she whispered. There was a figure behind her and I blinked with surprise. It was Lord Ruthven whom Lucy was ushering in.

He seemed less anaemic than before – definite colour in his cheeks, and more animation in his general bearing. Very good-looking and very young, though he somehow makes me feel nervous and overawed – remarkable
power
in his presence. Not sure why – not in the habit of being impressed by aristocrats.

Lord Ruthven walked across the room to the crib. He bent over the sleeping Arthur and smiled with delight as he studied the child; then he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, almost as though savouring some pleasurable scent. (
Mem.
His response to Lucy’s costume in the dressing room – very similar. Interesting.) At length he opened his eyes again. ‘Dr Eliot,’ he murmured, speaking for the first time since entering the room. ‘What an unexpected pleasure!’

Lucy was clearly surprised that we knew each other. I told her of our earlier meeting, but when I mentioned the programme she had sent to Lord Ruthven her look of bemusement grew only more profound. ‘But I sent out no programme,’ she exclaimed. She turned to him. ‘It must have been someone else who sent it to you, I’m afraid.’

‘No matter,’ replied Lord Ruthven. Gracefully, he reached for Lucy’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘It is the result that matters, not the cause.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ I asked.

‘When I am feeling particularly idle, yes.’ He arched an eyebrow in a manner that was clearly a Ruthven family trait. ‘You disagree, Dr Eliot? As I remember, the provenance of my programme was interesting you before.’

‘It seemed curious,’ I replied, ‘in the circumstances.’

Lord Ruthven stared at me keenly. ‘Indeed?’ he asked. ‘And what circumstances would they be?’

I wondered, remembering how both Arthur Ruthven and Lady Mowberley had similarly been contacted anonymously, even though the coincidence in Lord Ruthven’s case was not exact. ‘Have you ever heard of a John Polidori?’ I asked.

I had not really expected him to; for die briefest moment however, a shadow seemed to pass across Lord Ruthven’s face, and then his expression was perfectly composed once again. ‘No,’ he said nonchalantly. But he was lying, I could tell that he was, and he himself seemed to know that I knew. He stared at me icily; then, as I opened my mouth to press him further, he reached for Arthur and, picking die child up, held him close to his chest.

Lucy had moved forward with an involuntary start. ‘You have woken him,’ she said.

But Lord Ruthven made no apology. ‘He is happy to be awake.’ And Arthur did indeed seem perfectly content. He made not a sound, but stared instead into his Lordship’s eyes and reached up to stroke his pale, smooth cheeks.

‘I am not usually an admirer of children,’ Lord Ruthven murmured, ‘and indeed have always had the greatest respect for Herod. This child, however …’ He paused, and a flicker of pleasure curled the comers of his lips. ‘This child …’ he smiled again – ‘he almost persuades me to change my mind.’

‘You are just showing off, my Lord,’ said Lucy briskly, ‘and pretending to be more wicked than you really are, when you say you dislike children.’ She turned to me. ‘It is only since the opening night of
Faust
that we have become acquainted, my cousin and I, but the very first time he visited me, Jack, he seemed to know at once that there was a child in the house. I hadn’t told him. He must be almost as clever as you.’

‘Oh, hardly,’ murmured Lord Ruthven. ‘Perhaps, though’ – he smiled – ‘it is just that I have a nose for them.’ He puckered his nostrils. As he did so, Arthur choked and began to cry, but Lord Ruthven fixed him with his stare again and at once the baby’s sobs trailed away. ‘You see,’ said Lucy, ‘the power that he has? Wouldn’t he make Arthur a wonderful nurse?’

Lord Ruthven laughed. There was something cold in his amusement, and almost mocking, I felt. ‘I must be going,’ I said. I turned away, and after kissing Lucy on her cheeks began to walk down the stairs.

‘Dr Eliot’

Lord Ruthven’s voice had been almost a whisper. My first instinct was not to look round again, to pretend that I hadn’t heard his call. But I was intrigued by Ruthven, despite myself.

He was standing at the top of the stairs, Lucy’s baby still in his arms. ‘When are you going to visit me?’ he asked.

I shrugged. ‘I am still not clear what you want to discuss.’

‘Your paper, Dr Eliot.’

‘Paper?’

Lord Ruthven smiled. ‘You published it earlier this year. “A Himalayan Testcase: Sanguigens and Agglutination.” That was the tide you gave it, I believe?’

I stared at him in surprise. ‘Yes, it was,’ I agreed, ‘but I hadn’t realised…’

‘That I was interested in such matters?’

‘It is a rather obscure branch of medical research.’

‘Indeed it is. And your paper is particularly obscure, for to the complexity of the subject you bring the radicalism of your views – if I understood them correctly, that is. But then … it is always the radical which is most intriguing, is it not?’

‘An interesting sentiment from a member of the House of Lords.’

Lord Ruthven smiled faintly. ‘We must talk, Dr Eliot.’

I considered this request. ‘The last time we spoke, you mentioned funds for the surgery…’

‘Yes.’

‘And in return…’

‘In return, all you have to do is to dine with me.’

‘I am busy, I am afraid…’

‘There is no urgency. Sunday, the third weekend in May. That should give you time to clear your diary, I hope?’

‘Yes,’ I shrugged, ‘I’m sure…’

‘Good,’ said Lord Ruthven, interrupting me. ‘Come at eight. You have my address.’ He nodded, then turned and was gone before I even had time to agree. But I shall go anyway, of course. Even a small donation to our surgery would be invaluable. And besides – Lord Ruthven seems an interesting man. I am sure his company will prove stimulating. Yes, I shall certainly go.

During my return to Whitechapel, I continued to have the sensation of being watched. It persisted as far as Liverpool Street. I was struck there, amidst the crowds that were thronging Bishopsgate, by a woman of remarkable beauty, seated in a carriage. She seemed to be studying me. Her hair, however, was not dark but blonde, and her features undoubtedly European. Powerful attraction towards her – like nothing I have ever known. Greater even than the desire I felt for the woman captured by Moorfield at the Kalibari Pass. A feeling too – very strong – like the one we all experienced on the Kalikshutra wall: my mind being probed. Ridiculous, of course.

Must
catch up on my sleep. Shall retire to bed shortly.

Bram Stoker’s Journal
(continued).

… My interest in the case seemed not to abate, but to grow with the passage of time. Eager to discuss it further, I would sometimes invite Eliot to share a meal with me. He would answer my invitations only irregularly, for quite apart from the pressures of his work he was by nature, I think, a solitary man. Nevertheless, we would sometimes meet, and on such occasions I would press him to recount any developments.

He told me that Sir George was recovering gradually, but that he had not himself paid his friend a visit yet. Of the prostitute we had rescued, he had more certain news. Her name was Kelly – Mary Jane Kelly – and she was not in fact from Rotherhithe at all but from a tenement half a mile from Eliot’s own surgery. He told me that he had sent an orderly to the address; he had found a man there, claiming to be the woman’s husband but seemingly unconcerned by his wife’s condition. He had been abusive and drunk. In the circumstances, Eliot was determined to keep his patient for as long as he could. Funds were low, though, he told me. ‘She cannot stay with us indefinitely,’ he sighed. ‘A wretched business – as it always is.’

One evening he sent me a note, informing me that Kelly was due to be interviewed by the Rotherhithe police the next day. Naturally I was eager to witness such a session, and so arranged my affairs that I was able to attend. Arriving at Whitechapel the following morning, I went straight up to Eliot’s rooms. He was huddled amongst his tubes and bunsen flames, but seemed pleased to see me despite being disturbed. ‘I was certain you would come, Stoker,’ he exclaimed, rising to greet me. Our adventure is not yet quite at an end.’