Supping With Panthers (44 page)

I have two reasons for feeling particularly concerned. The first is that on a couple of occasions Mary Kelly has reported dreaming not of a negress, but of a European woman with long blonde hair. Disturbing, because although her description exactly matches the woman I have seen, I have never told kelly of these experiences and there is therefore no possibility of her having known of them.

The second reason: again, a description of something I recognise. The room, with the picture of the lady and the single candle. I have seen it. I know it. I have lain there myself.

It is a room in a warehouse in Rotherhithe. 25
August. –
Early morning, an urgent summons to Myddleton Street. Westcote kneeling by his wife’s side; Stoker, ashen-faced, standing behind him. Lucy herself as ghastly-looking as before the transfusion; the bones of her face standing out prominently, her complexion chalky and drained of all colour. Conducted immediate emergency transfusion; as before, Westcote left very weak, and Lucy’s pallor only moderately improved. As I conducted the operation I saw how a pane of the window had been shattered, and asked to be told how the attack had occurred.

It had come while Stoker was on guard; he had been on duty by Lucy’s bed for the second half of the night. At around 4 a.m. he had felt a desperate urge to sleep. He had begun to pace around, but still he couldn’t keep himself awake, and before he knew it he was dreaming confused snatches of nightmare: some terrible threat, trying to break in; being frozen in ice, struggling to break free; a human form on Lucy’s chest. I pressed him to describe this form. It had been a woman, eyes gleaming beneath her veil; as she drank from Lucy, she had been embracing her victim and fondling her.

‘Fondling her?’ I asked.

Stoker swallowed and glanced at Westcote. Even beneath his beard, his blush was evident. ‘Fondling her
lewdly,’
he whispered at length.

I nodded. ‘And you are certain – quite
certain
– that it was a woman beneath this veil?’

Stoker nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

Poor fellow, he was bowed by guilt. I assured him that he had no cause to blame himself; he could have no understanding of what we were up against. Stoker nodded; he said that Huree had hinted as much. I asked where Huree was, for I had been surprised not to see him, but it seemed that he had already arrived, and then hurried off almost at once in a state of great excitement and urgency. ‘The medallion,’ said Westcote, ‘the coin that was found in Arthur Ruthven’s hand – the Professor observed it hanging round Lucy’s neck, and asked to borrow it. I hope Lucy will not object. The Professor insisted it was very significant’ Interesting. I wonder what fresh trail Huree might be following now.

Returned to Whitechapel. An orderly’s sanguigen proved compatible with Lucy’s; hurried back with him to Myddleton Street. During the transfusion, Lucy restless and half-awake; once the operation had been concluded, she began to clutch at her throat – not at her wounds, I realised, but at where her medallion had hung. She woke suddenly, demanded to know where it had gone; I explained, but she continued angry and upset. Then she began to ask where her baby was in a low, desperate scream, thrashing about in her bed from side to side. I told her that Arthur had been sent away to a place of greater safety. She demanded to know where; I told her. At the mention of Lady Mowberley’s name, Lucy sighed and smiled contentedly. ‘I am glad,’ she whispered; and then her eyes closed and she returned back to sleep. Much calmer now; her complexion likewise restored to full colour. The second transfusion an evident success.

Prompted by my exchange with Lucy to call on Lady Mowberley. Concerned to warn her of the events of the previous night; Huree had been convinced that Arthur was in no danger and Lady Mowberley, although warned of the possible threat, had rejected our offer of protection. She was at home when I called; although obviously concerned for Lucy’s health, she listened to my account with the utmost calmness and once again refused my suggestion of guards. Did so quite categorically.

I asked her, remembering the visitation in her own room all those months before, whether she had ever seen the same intruder again.

She stared at me, a faint smile on her lips. ‘My husband’s mistress, you mean?’

I bowed my head. ‘Yes, Lady Mowberley – your husband’s mistress.’ I paused. ‘Have you seen her recently, perhaps?’

She frowned and suddenly shuddered, rose from her seat and crossed to the window, clutching at herself as though feeling the cold. She stared out in silence at the street below. ‘Yes,’ she said suddenly, ‘I have seen her.’

‘When?’ I asked.

She turned to face me. ‘Last night,’ she answered. ‘I hadn’t been able to sleep. I was standing here, just as I am now. I saw her pass in the street below.’

Very calmly, not wanting to alarm her, I crossed to where she stood. ‘Lady Mowberley,’ I asked; ‘do you remember, perhaps, what time this would have been?’

‘Indeed, yes,’ she replied. She turned to look out at the street again. ‘I remember it very precisely. There was a clock beside me, and I glanced at it. It was twenty minutes before four o’clock.’

26 August.
– I had to go. For upwards of an hour after completing my diary entry last night, I sat curled in my armchair, marshalling the fragments of evidence. It was clear to me then, as it is clear to me now, that the locus of our investigation must be Rotherhithe. But still there are details which elude my grasp. It is very frustrating, as though I am being denied the final fragment of a puzzle which otherwise would be perfectly simple to understand. Indeed, if anything, the situation appeared clearer last night. All the evidence then seemed to point towards Lilah; it still does, I suppose, but I am somehow less certain of that now. Must talk with Huree. He has left me an intriguing letter on my desk, if a little florid. For all his evident over-excitement, it seems he is clearer to understanding who Lilah might be. Will visit him shortly. First, though, must record what I can of last night.

I was met at the door by Sarmistha, the Indian servant girl. She was even thinner than before; her dress hanging loose about her and her expression one of the most abject terror. I tried to question her, but she would not speak to me, covering her face instead and hurrying up the stairs. She led me to the conservatory where Lilah and Suzette were playing chess. They both looked up as I strode towards them. Lilah glanced at Suzette, and I saw how she smiled.

I stood before her, in silence, for what seemed like an eternity. Perhaps it was. I wondered what to say. Suzette watched me solemnly; Lilah, by contrast, continued to smile. I swallowed and felt suddenly ridiculous; then angry with them both, ragingly angry. ‘What are you?’ I asked. I shook; then clenched my fists; I could not surrender to my emotions now. ‘Are you vampires?’ I asked, as calmly as I could. ‘Or something worse? Tell me. What is your purpose in London? What is your purpose with me and my friends?’

Lilah glanced up at Sarmistha, then back at Suzette. ‘I think he is very close now, my dear.’ She moved a chess piece. ‘Check,’ she said.

Suzette continued to study me as solemnly as before. ‘Why, Dr Eliot?’ she asked at length. ‘What is it that Lilah is meant to have done?’

I took a step forward. I was fighting to control my anger and fear. ‘Lucy Westcote is dying,’ I said. ‘Some – creature – some monster – is draining her of her blood.’

Not a flicker of surprise crossed Suzette’s face. ‘And so?’ she asked.

‘A woman has been observed drinking from Lucy’s throat’

‘What of it?’

‘You know what.’

Now Suzette did smile. She glanced at Lilah, then down at die board. ‘How sad,’ she whispered, as though to herself. ‘I still don’t think he is close enough.’ She moved a piece and took Lilah’s king. ‘Disappointing.’ She stared up at Lilah. ‘I think I have won the game again.’

Lilah looked down at the board; she laughed, then swept away the pieces with her hand. She rose to her feet, adjusting her dress as she did so with a movement of such grace, of such simple elegance, that all my desire and need for her returned, focused it seemed in that single simple gesture, so that I was enslaved again and knew I could not fight her, that I would follow her anywhere she cared to lead. She took my arm; ‘Come with me,’ she murmured. ‘Come with me for always.’ I felt, what I had never understood before meeting her, how terrible and fathomless a woman’s beauty can be, how dangerous, and how utterly incomparable. I knew, if she would have me, I would indeed never leave. I clung to her arm as though to hold her for all time.

‘I am not the one,’ she whispered, ‘who has been drinking from your friend. I have no need of anyone’s blood. You do believe me, don’t you, Jack?’ She kissed me. I imagined I was dissolving on her lips. ‘You do believe me?’

And of course, I did. I pressed myself closer against her and felt the softness of her breast against my side, smelled the perfume on her skin. We were still walking. Ahead of us stretched a long, dark passageway. There were animals around us, birds above our heads. I remembered it from before, when Suzette had left us, running across the stones, leaving Lilah and myself alone for the first time. And now we were still alone, but it was we who were walking down the passageway. We came to a door. Lilah opened it. Beyond, the crimson-hung bed was waiting for us…

I woke again, naked and alone as before. The room was still dark; the candle still burned beneath the picture on the wall. I dressed, then left the room; Sarmistha was waiting with my coat in her hands. She handed it to me and fled, and though I pursued her she was lost in the dark. I returned and left the warehouse. Outside, I found that a whole day had passed. But I was safe. Unharmed. What danger, though. If Huree is even half-right – what danger!

And yet… her words are in my ears, in the whorls of my brain. ‘It was not I who has been drinking from your friend. I have no need of anyone’s blood. You do believe me, don’t you, Jack?’ Yes. And I still do. Why? Can there be any reason other than my infatuation? Any reason at all? I need to think. I need to clear my head.

I will visit Huree now. He evidently has much to reveal to me. Will take his letter and peruse it in the cab. Cannot dismiss it out of hand.

Letter, Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar to Dr John Eliot.

26 August.

Jack–

Where the bloody hell are you? Not with that bloody woman, I hope. Because if you are, you’re a damned bloody fool. Oh please, dear God, you have not gone there, and if you have, you will come back safe and continue unharmed. If you read this, come to me at once. By night – my room in Bloomsbury. By day – the Reading Room of the British Library, Seat N4. I have been reading much. There is a good deal I have to reveal to you.

Because, Jack – I know who she is! I know who – or rather what – we are fighting against. It reduces me, I confess, to a state of near despair. I have become a nervous timid creature who shakes all the time. What hope do we have? We creatures of day – of mortal flesh and blood! But I am losing my thread. Please – I must remain philosophical. We die; we are born again; we flow towards God. Let us be brave, then, and great-souled. But I am sorry – I am losing my thread again. Let me start at the beginning – the coin I found hanging from Lucy’s neck.

You never told me it was from Kirkeion. I suppose it did not seem important to you – an unknown Greek town, vanished for ever from the history books – why should it have done? But to me, Jack, Kirkeion is not unknown at all – dear me, no. It is not in the history books you should have been looking, but in the legends of the Greeks, in the hermetic records of the ancient mystic rites. Search amongst the forbidden texts, smuggled from the library of Alexandria – there you will find mention of Kirkeion.

It was a town of the dead, Jack, where men lived as the slaves of the Goddess, lost for ever to the flow of mortal life, in agony because they knew this themselves, yet on the rack of remembered pleasure too, for they had seen the face of the Goddess as they fed and so, for all the horror of their fate, could not regret the things they had become. What these things were, you may guess when I tell you the Goddess’s name. She was spoken of in the epics, in the
Odyssey,
and yet Homer did not know the whole truth, for he was drawing on rumours for his portrait of the sorceress, Circe the terrible, transformer of men. You will remember your Classics, I am sure, and the island that Odysseus visited, idled with strange animals, his own men amongst them, reduced to rutting swine. Please, Jack – do not think me mad. Do not go all damned sceptical on me again. You think it fantastic that a place such as Kirkeion should have truly existed? Well, don’t! Damn it, Jack, don’t! Apply your damned laws of observation if you wish. Do as you have always done – extrapolate from the evidence you have studied yourself. There are animals in Rotherhithe, are there not, and humans twisted into strange, distorted shapes? There is Lucy’s coin, with the name
‘KIRKEION’
stamped around its edge. And above all, Jack –
above all
– there is Lilah… Circe… call her what you will.

For she has had many names. She was known in China and Africa; in the voodoo rites of the jungle glade; on the blood-smoked pyramids of Mexico; in her honour, the queens of Canaan and Phoenicia would prostitute themselves; for her, the walls of Troy were toppled into ash. As Amestris, she watched the only breasts on earth more beautiful than her own cut from her rival’s living flesh; as Yielâ, she was known to Jericho and Ur, the first cities in the world, and yet already she was older than them, as old as man himself. Her cheeks are the colour of the blossom of pomegranates; her lips as red as blood; her eyes as deep and timeless as space, Lilah, you call her. Do you not hear the echo, as you pronounce the syllables, of the most terrible and ancient name of all?
rrrb
it is written in the Hebrew – Lilith. In Jewish myth, she was the first wife of Adam before Eve was made, expelled from Eden for her terrible crimes, and preying on humanity in revenge ever since. Why, in some traditions, Jack, she was the wife of God Himself.