Supping With Panthers (38 page)

The story itself was an amusing one, if implausible. I wondered how much of it Suzette had understood. The following evening, frustrated yet again by the progress of my research, and therefore at somewhat of a loose end, I thought I might visit Rotherhithe and attempt to find out. It was soon clear that Suzette had understood it perfectly well. For one so young, she is admirably sharp. We had a lengthy discussion on the art of deductive reasoning. In particular, Suzette was intrigued to know if there are situations where the method would not work. She returned to her old question: what happens if you are in a case, and you don’t know the laws? I attempted to explain to her that in the field of human behaviour, with all its irrationality, there can be no certain laws; that detection depends on observation; that reason itself must always be applied.

‘Applied to what?’ Suzette asked.

‘To the evidence,’ I replied. ‘If it seems mysterious, then a logical explanation must always be found for it’

Suzette furrowed her brow. ‘But what if a logical explanation does not exist?’

‘It must do.’

‘Always?’

I nodded. ‘Always.’

‘So if it didn’t …’ – she glanced back down at her magazine – ‘then Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t be able to solve the case.’

‘No, I suppose not’

She nodded very slowly, then looked up again. As she stared at me, she narrowed her eyes. ‘And nor would you, would you, then?’

At this point Lilah began to scold her lazily. ‘You’re such a provoking girl,’ she said, taking her on her knee. ‘What would Uncle George think? little girls aren’t meant to worry about difficult things.’

But I had to wonder. Once Suzette had been packed off to bed, I asked Lilah about her. It seems she is the only child of a beloved friend. ‘A very old friend,’ Lilah added with a distant smile.

‘Has she always been this precocious?’ I asked.

‘Precocious?’ Lilah nodded. ‘Oh yes.’

‘And her intelligence, her learning – you have been teaching her yourself?’

‘Of course. Suzette is far too much trouble for a teacher, I’m afraid,’ Lilah paused, as though catching some noise from the hallway below. She stretched out her fingers and smoothed back her hair. ‘One thing, though,’ she murmured; ‘George’s suggestion – perhaps he was right. Suzette could do with a nanny; she needs to be tamed.’ She paused again. Now I too could hear footsteps, coming up the stairs, Lilah glanced at the door, then turned back to me. She smiled. ‘I shall have to start looking for a suitable girl.’

George burst into the room – terribly haggard and pale. As he stared at us he seemed to tremble, and I was afraid he was about to collapse. I rose to go to his aid; as I crossed to him, he shouted something almost unintelligible, but clearly to the effect that I had betrayed his trust. I tried to calm him; I reached out to take his pulse, but as I did so, George raised his hand and, clenching it into a fist, suddenly struck me upwards on the chin. The blow caught me unawares. I staggered back and George stumbled after me; he raised his fist again and caught me a second blow, this time on the side of my head. Instinctively, I returned the punch; George was knocked down to the floor and I hurried abashed to his side, for he had seemed so weak that I was afraid I might have injured him. But still he refused my assistance; he struggled to rise, hissing accusations at me, and his eyes still burned with the most implacable hate.

Lilah, who had been watching as though faintly intrigued, now intervened, covering George’s prostrate body and asking me to leave. I protested that George needed help. ‘Maybe,’ replied Lilah, ‘but he won’t accept it from you. Don’t worry, I will treat him. Just go, Jack, go!’ I stood hesitantly; then I turned and left. By the doorway, I glanced round again; Lilah was kissing George and embracing him, as she propped him up. I turned again and walked out through the door.

What a wretched, sordid business! I cannot believe how thoughtless I have been. I should have known that George would take things the wrong way, he is so overworked and ill. And now I have lost the chance to treat him. Earlier this evening I visited his house. I was informed by the butler that Sir George was not receiving guests that night.

Letter, Lady Mowberley to Dr John Eliot.

2, Grosvenor Street.

24 July.

Dear Dr Eliot,

I am afraid that I must request you not to call on my husband again. I do not know what quarrel you have had – George himself refuses to tell me, so I presume it to be serious – but whatever the cause, he is now quite implacable. I must repeat, therefore: do not call on him again.

It is with the utmost regret that I pen such an instruction – I have so few friends in this city. I must shortly travel to Whitby to settle some family business there; and thinking as I have been about my childhood home, I am all the more reluctant to forgo the companionship of a man such as yourself, a man who makes me feel not altogether alone in this great wilderness of London. I hope and trust that you will appreciate this. Indeed I confess it quite readily, Dr Eliot, that I am almost tempted to remain in Whitby once my business has been concluded, and never return. I am quite at my wits’ end with George, so altered he seems. It is his illness, I am certain, which is responsible for this change in his character; either that, or the thought of the speech he must give when he concludes the business of his Bill next week. Perhaps once that is done and out of the way, he will become himself again. We must certainly hope so.

Once again, then, Dr Eliot, yours in profound regret,

ROSAMUND, LADY MOWBERLEY.

Dr Eliot’s Diary.

25 July.
– High melodrama from George, in the form of a letter sent by his wife. Should be grateful, I suppose, that he has not challenged me to a duel. Clearly delusional; he must be very sick. He will not let me near him, though. There seems nothing I can do.

A hard day in the ward, for which I was grateful. Late afternoon, resumed my study of Lord Ruthven’s blood sample. I am still floundering but equally reluctant to give up on the challenge yet. The leucocytes remain alive – that fact alone is a miracle. But no – the word ‘miracle’ will not do – and therein lies my problem. I am beyond the bounds of medical orthodoxy – I seem far beyond the bounds of science itself. In such a dimension, I am quite lost. And yet I am comforted by remembering an argument of Lilah’s, that there are many paths to the mysteries of nature. Repeating that now, I sound like the worst breed of crank – but when I was with Lilah that night in her conservatory, I believed it to be true. No – more than that – I
saw
how it was true. That mood, that spirit of mental exaltation … somehow, I have to recapture it. But still the problem: which path do I take?

28 July.
– Still no breakthrough, and the leucocytes continue to tantalise me. It is perfectly clear now, I think, that the samples I possess cannot be studied in isolation: for the purposes of my research, I must have reference to the organism from which the blood cells came. And yet I have cut myself off from Lord Ruthven; I can expect no further illumination from him.

29 July.
– It is useless. I can go no further. I have neither the resources, nor the experience, nor the wit to carry on.

30 July.
– The weight of my failure is still heavy. I cannot bear to admit to it, yet it is clear, I think, that I must. I have been deluding myself for far too long.

Thank God for Stoker’s dinner party tonight. Would not have relished an evening spent alone.

Bram Stoker’s Journal
(continued).

… I therefore looked forward to seeing Eliot with more than usual impatience, for I was hopeful, with the possible development of his investigation, that he might have been rendered more communicative. Indeed, I was informed that he had called on me one afternoon at the Lyceum, but I was engaged with Mr Irving at the time and hence unable to see him; I therefore resigned myself to waiting until the evening of my dinner party. I do not know what I expected or feared, but as I awaited the arrival of my guests, I increasingly found myself almost nervous, as though in expectation of what Eliot might have to reveal.

Although not the last, he was very late. I was relieved to see him, for I had almost persuaded myself that he would not arrive, but as he stepped into the light my initial relief was transformed into dismay. For the period of a month had wrought a terrible change in his appearance. The flesh seemed barely to cling to his bones; he had a haggard and haunted look in his eyes. ‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed, staring at his gaunt features. ‘What has become of you?’

Eliot frowned. ‘My work,’ he muttered, ‘it has not been going well.’

‘Work?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said impatiently, ‘a project of research, nothing that would possibly interest you. Now please, Stoker – are we to stand out here all evening, or will you introduce me to your guests?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I answered, somewhat abashed. I left him with Lucy and Oscar Wilde, trusting that his taciturnity would not survive die companionship of two such exuberant guests, yet nervous of his evident irritability. And indeed, when I rejoined them some minutes later it was to hear Wilde gushing on the subject of fashion, and Eliot suddenly asking him whether an interest in such a topic was not a waste of intelligence and time.

Wilde laughed at this; but Lucy, fortunately, was there to interpose. ‘You must excuse him, Mr Wilde,’ she said, taking Eliot’s arm. ‘Jack thinks nothing is of value unless it is dead, and lying on a slab.’

‘A most commendable attitude,’ replied Wilde. ‘You are obviously acquainted with Lady Brackenbury. But not everyone is so displeasing to the soul and eye. What of those who are beautiful?’

‘Why? What of them?’

‘You have accused me of wasting my time, of not being serious. But is not the beauty of a young boy serious? Or indeed’ – he glanced at Lucy – ‘a girl?’

‘Serious?’ Eliot frowned. ‘No. What lies beneath the surface, in the mind, or the flow of blood through the veins – that is serious. But not beauty – I have seen the flesh and bone which constitute it.’

‘How charmingly gothic of you,’ murmured Wilde. ‘I should never look so far. I always judge by appearances. But in that, of course, I am merely a herald of the age – only the superficial is important now. It is that which makes the tying of a cravat so exquisitely serious, and beauty itself a form of genius and truth – higher, indeed, than either, as it needs no explanation. In that lies its reassurance – and, perhaps, its danger too.’

‘Well,’ Eliot said after a slight pause, ‘it is lucky, then, that I am not a designer of cravats.’

Wilde laughed. ‘And lucky I am not a surgeon,’ he replied. ‘You see, Doctor, you are perfectly correct. It is just that I prefer to preserve my ignorance. It is such a delicate flower – the one touch of reality, and it loses its bloom. I doubt my views would survive the sight of too much blood.’

Eliot smiled, but made no further answer, and the silence was filled by the dinner bell. ‘We are a little late,’ I apologised, ‘We have been waiting for our final guest. He has just arrived, however, so if you are ready we can sit down to eat.’ I then led the way into the dining room, and we all took our places. As we did so, our final guest joined us with a murmured apology for being late. I greeted Lord Ruthven warmly, then showed him to his place. Eliot, who was opposite him, appeared somewhat surprised, and indeed glanced at me almost reproachfully, I thought. I recalled that he could not have met Lord Ruthven since that first time in Lucy’s dressing room, and doubtless was unaware of his Lordship’s interest in his cousin’s career, and the oft-repeated marks of his concern and support. I could scarcely have failed to invite him to such a gathering; and yet Eliot continued to appear upset, and his reluctance to talk with Lord Ruthven was evident.

Instead he busied himself with Edward Westcote, which surprised me, for Westcote – while a personable fellow and a worthy husband to his wife, no doubt – had always struck me as an insipid conversationalist. Eliot, however, appeared quite animated with him; I made an effort to overhear what they were talking about, and caught Eliot discussing India. Specifically, he was discussing the myths of that area in which he had stayed, and some of its more intriguing superstitions. Lord Ruthven too had begun to listen, I observed, and soon the other guests were as well, pressing Eliot with queries of their own. Eliot himself appeared suddenly reluctant to continue; and when Lord Ruthven asked him to describe some myth of immortality current in the Himalayas, he simply shook his head and sat back in his chair.

Wilde, however, was clearly intrigued by the turn of the conversation. ‘Immortality?’ he inquired. ‘You mean eternal youth? Why, what a charming idea. The ephemeral rendered perpetual. I can think of nothing more delightful.’ He paused. ‘But you do not agree, Dr Eliot?’

Eliot gave him a sharp glance. ‘Perhaps,’ he replied, ‘it would make of beauty what you claim it to be – a serious matter.’

‘But not delightful?’ pressed Lord Ruthven, a faint smile on his lips.

For the first time Eliot met his eyes. ‘That, my Lord,’ he said at length, ‘would depend upon the price one has to pay.’

‘Price!’ exclaimed Wilde. ‘Really, Dr Eliot, it is most vulgar to talk like a stockbroker when you are not one at all.’

‘No,’ said Lord Ruthven, shaking his head, ‘on this issue at least, he is surely correct. It is the definition of a pleasure, is it not, that it must exact a due? Champagne, cigarettes, a lover’s promise – all perfectly delightful, but the pleasure they afford is momentary compared with the suffering we must then endure on their account. Imagine – just imagine! – die due that would be levied on eternal youth.’

‘What do you think it might be?’ Lucy asked, staring at him with rapt concentration. The whole table, I saw, was similarly transfixed, gazing at the beauty of Lord Ruthven’s pale face. Lit by the candle flame, it seemed touched by gold, a thing quite unearthly and not human at all.

‘My Lord,’ said Lucy again, prompting him, ‘you were talking of the due on eternal youth.’