Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  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.’

  ‘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 Mowb
erley 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 pap
er 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.