Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  I didn’t reply, but turned to walk back down the stairs. She took my arm and wordlessly, we descended to the room where George sat poring over his maps, studying his plans, drawing up policies for the Indian frontier. Polidori was gone. I glanced at Lilah. She led me from the room to the bridge and the den, and the dirty shop below. That was where we found Polidori.

  I asked him what he knew about Ruthven’s death and he denied murdering him, of course, as Lilah had said he would. ‘Why are you accusing me?’ he kept asking, his eyes narrow with suspicion. ‘Where’s your evidence?’

  Well, I wasn’t telling him about my lines of inquiry, of course. I did mention Lord Ruthven, though, just to measure his response. He flinched visibly and glanced at Lilah, as though some unspoken secret between them had been breached. Lilah, however, remained perfectly impassive, and Polidori – turning away from her again – began to gnaw at the knuckles of his hand. ‘What about him?’ he asked.

  ‘He said that you had lured Arthur to his death.’

  Polidori giggled hysterically at this. ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Why?’

  Polidori grinned. ‘If you don’t know that, you’d better ask him yourself.’

  ‘No – I’m asking you.’

  Polidori glanced at Lilah. ‘It wasn’t me’, he said with sudden violence. ‘I told you before, it wasn’t me. I didn’t kill him.’

  A curious emphasis, as though accusing someone else – a partner perhaps, a confidante. But who? Lord Ruthven? – Polidori almost seemed to be implying so. But from what I can tell of their relationship, they are hardly partners; and besides, where is Lord Ruthven’s motive for killing his cousin? He had none that I can see.

  This case, though, is growing stranger by the day. I am reminded of Suzette’s question – ‘How do you know when a mystery comes to an end?’ Especially when … yes, let me say it – when the motives may not be reducibly human at all. But for now, let me continue with my own methods of investigation and approach – I am afraid of what Huree might lead me to do. Never forget the boy – never forget the hoy. Let Huree come in his own time, then – I won’t wire him yet But perhaps it is already too late for such qualms?

  And Lilah? What sort of game am I playing with her? Or rather – what is she playing with me? Again – reluctant to follow this line of thought too far. Must do so, though. There is clearly much she has yet to reveal.

  Therefore haven’t told George anything. Will keep what I have heard and seen to myself for now.

  Letter, Lady Mowberley to Dr John Eliot.

  2, Grosvenor Street.

  20 June.

  Dear Dr Eliot,

  I am afraid that you will start to dread my letters, for they never seem to contain anything but requests and fears. I am relying once again, though, on your friendship for George – and on the repeated proofs you have offered of your consideration for me. Forgive me, then, for presuming on your kindness once more.

  You will know, I think, that George has resumed his visits to Rotherhithe. He has been there three times in the space of the past fortnight, never for more than one night at a time, it is true, and always, he assures me, in the interests of his work. He has asked me, if I doubt him, to refer to you – apparently you accompanied him on his first visit back, and can vouch for the probity of his behaviour there? Well, be that as it may – I am not writing to you in the role of wronged wife. Let George get up to whatever he wishes. It is not his morals I am concerned for, but his declining health.

  You see, dear Dr Eliot – he is fading away before my very eyes. You would be shocked, I think, if you were to see him now. He is pale and weak, but very hectic too, as though burning with some fever that is eating up his bones. I cannot believe that George has ever been thin before, but now he is a scarecrow, and frankly I am terrified. The worst of it is, you see, that he still won’t admit there is anything wrong with him. His Bill is very near completion now, and he is working day and night at it. Even in those brief hours of sleep he has, he tosses and turns as though plagued by bad dreams. I believe his work is literally haunting him.

  I wonder – would you have the time to examine him and perhaps, if you can, have a word in his ear? If you wish, we could meet beforehand to discuss his case. I know you are a busy man, but if you have the opportunity I could hold you to your promise to escort me on a walk. I know that Lucy would be keen to accompany us as well, for her husband is away at the moment attending to business at his family’s country home, and so she is quite alone. I have seen much of her recently; I believe, thanks to your good agency, that we are now almost intimate. Her husband, however, I am afraid, I still cannot bring myself to forgive; doubtless you will find this strange, but the truth is, Dr Eliot, I have not brought myself even to lay eyes upon him yet. Doubtless he is a very charming young man – Lucy, indeed, appears very much in love – yet I cannot put it from my thoughts that he behaved irresponsibly towards her when they were not even wed. It is always the woman, is it not, who receives the blame in such a situation? For myself, I prefer to blame the man.

  Let me know a date which would be suitable for our walk. We would have to go in the morning, of course, so that Lucy could be at the Lyceum in time for her performance – but that would not be a problem, I hope? Perhaps we could visit Highgate – it is a favourite stroll of mine, for although it is hardly countryside, it does at least offer some relief from the grimy London air.

  Until very soon, I hope.

  I remain your devoted friend,

  ROSAMUND, LADY MOWBERLEY.

  Letter, Mrs Lucy Westcote to Hon. Edward Westcote.

  Lyceum Theatre.

  27 June.

  My dearest Neddy,

  You see how lovelorn I’ve become. Barely half-an-hour until curtain up, and here I am scribbling to you. Quite the devoted wife. If Mr Irving finds me, he will be very cross, for he doesn’t like his actresses to think of any man but himself – he tries to bleed us dry of our emotions, and would cheerfully make us his slaves if he could. Fortunately, while you are away I have Mr Stoker to defend me – he may not be as utter a hero as you, my sweet, but he is very kind, and just about brave enough to stand up to Mr Irving if he must. But I don’t want to see him in any trouble – so as I write it, I shall just have to keep this letter out of sight, hidden beneath my cloak. There goes Mr Stoker now. He smiles at me. Such a nice man – though I do wish he would get rid of his appalling beard, and not laugh in quite so muscular a way. In fact, Ned, while on the topic of Mr Stoker, he has invited us to a dinner party at his home next month. Oscar Wilde will be going as well – it seems he was a suitor once to Mr Stoker’s wife although I must admit, if the rumours are true, I find that hard to believe. Oh yes, and Jack Eliot is being invited too – you met him, I think? – yes, of course you did. He probably won’t come, though, since it might mean having fun – but it would be nice if he did. The problem is, he tends only to enjoy the company of people if they’re sick.

  No – I’m maligning him. He came out for a walk only this morning, in fact, and while that may not sound tremendously daring, at least it’s a start. Fortunately, the weather was pleasant and the views beautiful and I think Jack scarcely noticed the lack of consumptives or people with no arms. We did have Rosamund with us, though, and since it seems that George is ill again, he was able to talk about diseases with her – perhaps that’s what kept him going. Rosamund was wonderfully charming yet again. Despite my best efforts, I find myself liking her more and more. If only she would agree to meet you, and forgive you your cruelty in marrying me, I think we would end up as perfect friends. Indeed, there is something about her which almost reminds me of you. If you were a girl – which I am very glad you are not, of course! – I think you might look rather like her. Do not be insulted, darling – for Rosamund is, as I have told you before, exceedingly pretty, with your own dark curls and brightness of eye. I would like to see you together, just for the comparison. Perhaps I will soon. I cannot believe that Ro
samund will persist in her obduracy for long.

  Mr Irving has just passed by, looking saturnine in his opera cloak. Not long now until the start of the play, and really I should put you aside, dear Ned, but there is something I have to tell you, you see. You probably guessed as much – you know me too well – for here I am, chattering away, just as I always do when I have something bad to confess. It is bad, I’m afraid, my love; and especially at the moment, when you are preoccupied with your family’s affairs. Because you see, I have broken my word to you. I know I had promised you I would not, but this morning whilst out on our walk we visited your family’s Highgate house. It was not intentional; I had failed to realise we were even close by until we rounded a comer and I saw it – the lane through the trees that leads up to your house. I wanted to go back; but Rosamund said that it was one of her favourite walks and begged to go on, and although Jack supported me once I had explained my qualms, I found myself suddenly filled with curiosity. I just couldn’t resist it: my fear, my promise to you, they were suddenly nothing – I had to go on. And so we walked down the lane as far as the gates, and then – I don’t know why – instead of passing them by, I led the way through. They were unlocked, you see, and I was afraid that perhaps there had been burglars, but I cannot pretend that was my true motive – as I said, I was curious, and that was all. I had to see the house. It suddenly seemed the most important thing in my life.

  Well, Ned, you’ll be glad to know the house is quite secure. The shutters are closed, the front door locked, and although we tried we couldn’t get in. Should you not employ a watchman, though? Or at the very least, a gardener – the grounds are becoming terribly overgrown. I was thinking this as I looked about me, how wild and waste the whole place seemed, and then suddenly it came on me again – the dread … that same strange terror we had both felt before. Of my companions today, Rosamund appeared quite unaffected, but I think Jack – judging by the way he suddenly clenched his fists – may have felt it too; certainly, when I suggested that we continue with our walk he agreed with some haste. Rosamund came back with us but she lingered by the gates, pausing to breathe in the scent of wild flowers. She seemed positively charmed by the overgrown state of the garden and only left it reluctantly. She is a great admirer of Nature, of course, and misses it keenly; for my part, though, I found myself longing for crowded, bustling streets, and did not entirely recapture my nerves until we had hailed a cab and were heading back to town. Again, as on that occasion when I went with you, I could not explain the depth of my feelings. I fear though, Ned, that you are right; some shadow of evil has fallen on the place.

  There – you see how acting can affect the brain – I am starting to write like a melodrama. I must stop scribbling anyhow, for Mr Irving has seen me and is baring his teeth in a threatening way – we start in five minutes. Forgive me, Ned (I certainly expect you to, now that I’ve acted so nobly in confessing all – I do feel guilty, though). I miss you, my love. Write and tell me when I can expect you back. Make it soon!

  The audience has fallen silent. The drums are rolling. Mr Irving is twirling his moustache. No more time. But I love you, Ned. Even on the stage, I’ll be thinking of you.

  All, all love,

  Your ever doting

  L.

  P.S. Arthur very well and beautiful. With Rosamund tonight. She quite dotes on him. She seems almost to breathe in his presence, much as Lord Ruthven does. Strange, is it not, how things can tum out?

  Dr Eliot’s Diary.

  1 July. – A week that started pleasantly, but did not continue so for long. On Tuesday, a walk with Lucy and Lady Mowberley across Highgate Hill. Lucy seemed the very picture of good humour, although there was one curious incident which did occur. In the woods by Highgate Cemetery, we came across the lane which led up to the Westcotes’ house. Lucy was reluctant to proceed at first, then enthusiastic; then, once in the gardens, unsettled again. The house was very impressive but entirely abandoned, and I was not surprised, bearing in mind what Lucy had told me before, that she should have been disturbed by the place. Even I felt an irrational distaste for it; but were it to be repaired and inhabited again, then I am certain these responses would rapidly fade. I can understand Westcote’s association of the house with his bereavement; but to leave it deserted is merely to surrender to his grief. As it is, the place is a dispiriting one. It was noticeable how Lucy’s own spirits rose again, the further we left the house behind.

  Lady Mowberley, by contrast, was much harder to comfort and, indeed, seemed exceedingly nervous and upset. She described George’s condition in terms which, at the time, I assumed to be exaggerated. I told her how important it was that I saw George for myself, and she then confessed her difficulty in persuading him to visit me; his absorption in his work, it seemed, had now grown almost total. He had promised her he would call on me at the end of the week; but Lady Mowberley clearly doubted whether he would keep to his word.

  Fortunately, although he was exceedingly late, George did in the end arrive. I had almost given him up when he was finally shown into my rooms, complaining bitterly at being forced from his Bill; I made him strip, which helped to silence him. I could tell at once that Lady Mowberley was perfectly justified in her fears, for his appearance was indeed shocking. His face and body were thin and very pale; he had symptoms of fever although, bafflingly, a normal temperature as well. Blood tests revealed no abnormalities; certainly no anaemia. I experimented, adding a drop of my own blood to his slide; to my great relief, however, there was no phagocytic response – the appearance and behaviour of white cells instead quite normal. There was evidence of cuts, though, around the neck and wrists. Very faint, but disturbing to find them. There had clearly been considerable loss of blood.

  I asked him about Lilah. At once, he grew defensive and almost surly. Most unlike George. It was as though, now I too had met her, he was jealous of me. I tried to determine the cause of the cuts. George was unable to offer any explanation other than the one that he had given me before – namely his carelessness with a shaving blade. And the lacerations to his wrist? No reply. I then asked him if the cuts had materialised during his visits to Lilah. He said not. I asked him about his bad dreams: had they been worst during the nights of these visits? Again a flat denial. Indeed, he claimed the opposite: he was most oppressed, he told me, when he had not seen Lilah at all. I can see no pattern or solution here.

  Short-term treatment: transfusion of blood, Llewellyn and myself as donors, the operation completed satisfactorily. Immediate signs of improvement. I advised George to cut back on his work, but I suspect this advice will be ignored. Indeed, he barely listened to me, so impatient he was to leave; I did not try to hold him, but instead escorted him as far as Commercial Street.

  On the way, a horrific incident occurred. Outside a tavern we passed a cluster of drunk, rough-looking men and their prostitutes. One of the women in particular caught my eye. Her face was violently painted, and it took me a second to recognise Mary Jane Kelly. Her eyes were gleaming and her mouth was twisted; even through her cosmetics, I could tell she was very pale. At first I assumed that it was the sight of me which was upsetting her, and I was just preparing to cross the street so as to spare her embarrassment when I suddenly realised that she had not even noticed me, but instead was staring at George. She glanced down at her wrist and I saw her whole face seem to melt into an expression of the utmost loathing and fear. She screamed violently and jabbed a finger at George. ‘My blood, look at it, that’s my blood on his face!’ Her voice was that of a madwoman. She launched herself at George, knocking him down into the street. Remembering the fate of the poor dog she had attacked, I was on to her quickly. I pulled her away from George and, calling out for help, was able to drag her back to the surgery. George, meanwhile, was fortunately unhurt, with only a few minor bruises and scars. Needless to say, he was utterly baffled by the whole affair. ‘Charming neighbourhood you’ve got here,’ he kept muttering, ‘charming neighbourhood.’ He left in a h
ansom as soon as he could.

  Since then, Mary Kelly has remained feverish. Sometimes she will throw herself against a far wall, apparently attempting to escape. Her desperation is the same as on the previous occasion when this mania occurred. During her brief moments of lucidity, I have attempted to ask her why she attacked George. But she can give no coherent explanation, beyond saying that she had imagined his face to be streaked with her blood; felt a terrible rage, imagining he had stolen it from her; then remembered nothing more. The orderlies have told me that she sometimes mutters of asylums, sobbing and wailing, and is clearly terrified of being taken to one. Let us hope it does not come to that.

  Her mention of asylums, however, reminds me of what the police told me some months back, that there was a second prostitute who was drained of her blood and yet survived the attack. I would be interested to visit the asylum where she is held. I have looked up the address.

  Bram Stoker’s Journal (continued).

  … The summer passed, however, and Eliot’s interest in the case seemed to decline. Instead, he appeared increasingly absorbed in issues of medical research, and as a consequence I saw him even less than before. On the few occasions when we did meet, he would update me on the state of Mary Kelly’s health, but otherwise he remained silent on our adventure of a few months before. I asked him once if he believed Lucy still to be in danger. He fixed me with his hawk-like stare. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he answered shortly, and then would say no more. I did not attempt to press him, for I could see he was determined to keep his suspicions to himself.

  I was relieved, though, that Lucy should have such a guardian. I felt this not only as a man with feelings of personal friendship for her, but also in my role as theatre manager, for she was increasingly shining as one of our brightest stars. One day Mr Oscar Wilde expressed to me an interest in her abilities, and since I knew that he was planning to write a comedy very soon, I determined that I would effect an introduction between the two of them. For it appeared to me that I had a duty to raise the profile of such a promising young actress; accordingly, I began to plan a dinner party which might promote her cause. I invited several guests whom I judged might aid Lucy in her career; and then, since he was an associate of us both, I decided also to invite Dr Eliot.