Supping With Panthers (29 page)

One suggestive point of correspondence, though. In Lilah too, and in die negress seen by Mary Kelly – a loveliness which is reported to chill the blood.

11 p.m.
– A visit from George. Entirely unexpected; it was late, and George himself was still looking very weak. He came straight to the point. He wanted to visit Lilah, to ask her if she was indeed from Kalikshutra. It seems, then, that my suggestions have indeed been bearing fruit. Disturbed, though, that George should even contemplate returning to Rotherhithe. I repeated all my warnings, then made him sit down and write a letter breaking off his relationship with Lilah for good. I told him to leave it with me – that I would see it posted. He left around midnight, with many words of thanks.

15 May. – My date with Lord Ruthven. A very remarkable evening, which seems to promise unparalleled opportunities for research. I was late leaving – a lengthy surgery – and it was not until nine that I finally arrived. Lord Ruthven’s home is very splendid but not, I think, much lived in, for the furnishings seemed somewhat sepulchral for a man of his undoubted taste. I asked him if I was correct; he acknowledged that I was, explaining that he did not much care for the English cold. He spoke enthusiastically of Greece. And yet for a lover of sunnier climes he seems remarkably indifferent to the darkness of his home, for many of the rooms were lit by single candles, and even in the dining room the illumination was only fitful. Yet there were enough candles for me to see that, in this room at least, Lord Ruthven had spared no effort or expense, for it was magnificently decorated and the table itself was groaning with food.

‘Please help yourself,’ said my host, with a wave of his hand. ‘I don’t have the patience for anything formal,’ I did as he instructed, while a servant girl of astonishing prettiness served us both wine. I am not an expert on such matters, but I could tell at once that it was very good, and when I asked Lord Ruthven, he smiled and agreed that it was the best. ‘I have an agent in Paris,’ he murmured. ‘He sends me only the very finest vintages.’

I observed, however, that he did not drink much himself; nor, though his plate was full, did he really eat. Yet this did nothing to inhibit my own pleasure in the evening, for Lord Ruthven’s powers of conversation were very great, and I cannot remember a more fascinating or witty host; certainly, not one so young and yet so brilliant Indeed, there seemed something almost unearthly about his attractiveness, and listening to the magical tones of his voice, staring at his beauty lit gold by the flames, I felt that same shiver of uncertainty he had induced in me before – in the theatre, and standing on Lucy’s stairs. Almost without realising it, I began to resist the pleasure that his conversation was giving me, and I was even careful not to drink too much of his wine, as though afraid that it might be seducing me. I began to ask myself what such a seduction might mean: what power Lord Ruthven might choose to exert if I fell; of what enchantments he might be capable.

And so I grew increasingly restive, and wondered all the more what his purpose had been in inviting me. At length, glancing at a clock and seeing how late it had grown, I asked him to explain his interest in my article, for my curiosity I told him could no longer be restrained. Lord Ruthven smiled. ‘You are perfectly correct to be curious,’ he said. ‘But first we must wait for Haidée,’

‘Haidée?’ I asked.

He smiled again, but didn’t answer me. Instead, he turned to the maid and ordered her to tell Lady Ruthven that Dr Eliot was in attendance in the dining room. The maid went; we sat in silence. I had assumed that we were waiting for Lord Ruthven’s wife; but when Haidée at length came into the room, I saw that she was remarkably old, tiny and stooped, and very pale. She had clearly once been beautiful, though, and her eyes – which were very wide – were still as luminous and bright as Lord Ruthven’s own. But they did not seem as cold; nor did Haidée, though her affinity to him was obvious, fill me with the same strange feelings of uneasiness and fear. She kissed my hand, then went to her chair, sitting there like a wax-work; yet for all her stillness, I found her presence a comforting one.

Lord Ruthven leaned forward and began to talk to me about my paper. He had mastered the principles well and seemed – which is more than can be said for my colleagues – to be enthused by them. In particular, he was intrigued by my theory of sanguigens, and the opportunities for classification presented by the apparent presence of antigenic substances in red blood cells. He asked me to explain the potential I saw in this discovery for transfusions; I did so, and when I mentioned the need to use compatible blood types he seemed to grow visibly tense. ‘You mean,’ he asked in a low, urgent voice, ‘that the correct sanguigen, extracted from a donor, might combine with that of another man? That is what is required? The correct type of blood?’

I replied that my research was still in its infancy, but Lord Ruthven waved his hand impatiently at this. ‘I quite understand your professional reluctance to speak in terms of certainties,’ he told me, ‘but let us just take for granted that we are discussing probabilities. A probability, after all, is better than nothing at all,’ He leaned forward again, his stare unblinking, his pale hand resting on my own. ‘I need to know this, Dr Eliot,’ he said at last. He swallowed. ‘If we could find the correct “sanguigen”, the correct… “blood group” – and if we combined it with my own blood, then would you expect them to be compatible?’

I nodded. ‘That is what my theory argues.’

‘How many different blood groups have you identified?’

‘Four, so far.’

‘Might there be more? Might there be very rare sanguigens?’

I shrugged. ‘It is possible. As I said, opportunities for research have been limited. My paper has hardly set the scientific world on fire.’

‘But it has interested me.’ Lord Ruthven smiled. ‘And I am a very rich man, Dr Eliot.’

‘So you have said.’

Lord Ruthven glanced at Haidée. For a few seconds, there was no sound but the ticking of the clock. Haidée, who had been staring into a candle flame since first sitting down, slowly raised her eyes. She licked her lips with a quick, darting tongue and her teeth, I noticed, were very sharp.

‘We are both of us,’ she said, then paused, ‘… ill.’ Her voice was silvery and clear, but very distant too, as though coming from a great depth. ‘We would like you to help us find some cure, Dr Eliot.’

‘What is its nature?’ I asked.

‘It is a sickness of the blood.’

‘Yes, but how does it manifest itself? What are its Symptoms?’

Haidée glanced at Lord Ruthven, who was gazing into his wine. ‘I believe,’ he murmured, still not looking up at me, ‘that we suffer from a form of anaemia.’

‘I see,’ I studied him, observing his pallor. ‘And hence your interest in receiving transfusions of blood?’

‘Yes,’ He inclined his head faintly. ‘And hence in turn our interest in finding out to which sanguigen – which blood group – we belong.’ Lord Ruthven looked up at me at last. ‘Find out for us. Restore us to our health. Cure this sickness which infects our blood.’ He paused. ‘I can assure you, Doctor, it would be worth your while to have me in your debt.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ I answered, ‘but really, a bribe is not necessary.’

‘Nonsense. A bribe will always help. It is only vanity which makes you claim otherwise.’ Lord Ruthven removed a paper from the inside of his jacket and glanced at it. ‘How much would it cost to install the basic equipment your hospital needs?’

I considered carefully. ‘Five hundred pounds,’ I replied.

‘You have it,’ he said at once. He scribbled briefly, then pushed the piece of paper across to me. ‘Present this to my bankers tomorrow. They will see that you receive the money.’

‘My Lord, this is remarkably generous.’

‘Then, please’ – his eyes narrowed – ‘respond to it with some generosity of your own.’ Still staring at me, he reached for Haidée’s hand and grasped it tightly. A shadow of pain seemed to pass across his face, but was gone as soon as I had noticed it.

‘I will need samples of your blood,’ I said, scraping back my chair.

Lord Ruthven nodded. ‘Of course. Take it now.’

‘I can’t, I don’t have the equipment, but if I come back tomorrow…’

Lord Ruthven held up a hand to silence me. He reached down, and I heard the click of a case being opened and something removed from it. Then he sat upright in his chair again and laid down two syringes in front of me.

I shook my head. ‘But the blood will clot…’

‘No.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘But I have no sodium citrate, I will need…’

‘We will not wait, Doctor. listen’ – he leaned forward – ‘it is a feature of our sickness that our blood will always remain fluid.’

‘Haemophilia?’

Lord Ruthven smiled mockingly. ‘Our scars heal. Our scars
always
heal. But when blood is taken directly from the vein, removed as you will remove it through a needle’s point, it never dots. If you don’t believe me, Dr Eliot, you have only to put it to die test.’

I stared at him doubtfully, but he had already removed his jacket and was rolling up his sleeve. He pinched a blue vein and, staring at it, I saw him close his eyes as though in ecstasy.

‘I will need a container, a flask to transport it in,’ I said.

Lord Ruthven smiled, and gestured with a turn of his head at the maidservant. I glanced at her and saw she was holding two champagne bottles. I opened my mouth to protest, but Lord Ruthven raised a hand. ‘These will be perfectly adequate,’ he insisted, ‘so please, not a word.’

I shrugged. His taste for melodrama was dearly something I would have to ignore. I took one of the bottles, laid it by Lord Ruthven’s arm and then picked up the syringe. The flow of blood from his vein was very fast and as I withdrew the syringe I saw on his face an expression of deep pleasure. He watched unblinkingly as I decanted the blood into the bottle, then corked it. He picked up the bottle and stared through the thick green glass at the blood. ‘How charmingly Gothic,’ he murmured. He raised it to me. Tour very good health.’

I repeated the process with Haidée. Her vein was much tougher than Lord Ruthven’s had been. At my first attempt, the point of the needle failed to enter it. I apologised to her, but she seemed to feel no pain and instead merely smiled – sadly, I thought. At the second attempt I succeeded in drawing her blood; it seemed almost impossibly thick. When I decanted it into the second bottle, I saw how dark it looked, and glutinous.

I have kept the two samples separate and divided them in turn. One test-tube of each patient’s blood I have stored in the cold room; the other I have before me on my desk as I speak. I wish to test Lord Ruthven’s assertion that his blood will not dot. I shall leave it at room temperature until the morning. But for now, it is very late and I must withdraw to bed.

16 May.
– Lord Ruthven was quite correct. It seems impossible, but all the samples of blood – both those in the cold room and those preserved at room temperature – have remained fluid. Am keen to analyse them. Will do so once my morning ward-round is complete.

1
p.m.
– Separation of red blood cells and plasma far advanced. A curiously rapid process: it has taken, I would estimate, thirteen or fourteen hours rather than the customary twenty-four. Significant?

2
p.m.
– Extraordinary results. The red blood cells, in both the residue at the bottom of the test-tubes and in the plasma on die surface, are dead; Lord Ruthven’s self-diagnosis of anaemia is clearly correct, for the red cell count is remarkably low – around 20-15 Per cent haemoglobin, I would estimate. In view of my patients’ otherwise apparent good health last night, this reading was startling enough; but the greatest surprise came with my analysis of the white blood cells which, viewed under die microscope, have proved still to be alive. Not only alive but in great concentration as well, and subject to remarkable protoplasmic activity. It is inconceivable that red blood cells should be dead while the leucocytes remain alive – and yet this seems to be precisely what has occurred.

Have stored different samples of the leucocytes at different temperatures. Interested to know which will be the first to die. When I have the results, will return to Lord Ruthven.

Late.
– Have been reading through my notes on Kalikshutra. Remarkable points of correspondence with the case in hand. I don’t know what to think.

I wonder why Huree hasn’t written to me.

18 May.
– Two days gone. Leucocytes remain alive in all four samples. No sign of any degeneration.

19
May.
– Samples as before. In Kalikshutra, the leucocytes were dead two days after extraction from the veins. At the time, I had thought that impossible; but it is clear now that I had not realised what impossibility might be.

Addendum.
– Have wired Calcutta. Huree, it seems, is attending a conference in Berlin. There are aspects of this case he might find interesting. I shall see how the course of my research goes.

20 May. – Increasingly distracted in the surgery by thoughts of the blood samples upstairs in my room. Still no degeneration of white cells. Uncertain as to how I should proceed.

An encouraging talk with Mary Kelly, though. I hesitate to repeat the claim, but she seems well on the way to a full recovery. She has been telling me the story of her life – a sad one, as I had known it would be. A terrible waste, for she seems intelligent enough, and educated too. She talks of returning to her lodgings. I wish I could help her to something more than a single room in some squalid tenement At least now, with Lord Ruthven’s help, I can afford to give her the treatment she still needs.

Late. – A note from George, obviously written while drunk. He wants to visit Lilah again, and asks if I will accompany him. Have replied at once, telling him on no
account
to go to Rotherhithe.

21
May.
– To George’s office at Whitehall. To my surprise, am shown in. George rather sheepish and hung-over: he had written the note, he tells me, because he still wants to confront Lilah over the Kalikshutra business, but agrees it is best to let sleeping dogs lie. He gives me his word again. I mollify him by admiring his desk.