Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  How can I explain this experience? I cannot. For now it is passed and I remember… I remember nothing. Or at least – I remember the pleasure of understanding, but not how or what I had understood. This is not a rare frustration; I have always recognised it in the sexual act: a summit is no sooner reached than it disappears. But now I find that the most intense intellectual experience of my life has faded in the same way; that my thoughts were no better than cheap synaptic thrills. How could this have occurred? Perhaps I am suffering from some hallucination; perhaps my memories are nothing but delusions. I do not think so, though – the experience was too vivid and strong … it was real. No. I must confront the truth. There is a far more likely alternative.

  For it is clear, I think, that if my intellectual and erotic exaltations were indeed blended, then both were dependent upon Lilah’s presence by my side. When did she leave me? I don’t remember. I don’t even remember falling asleep. But I must have done, for I woke up suddenly and found I was alone, lying naked on the floor of an empty room. My clothes were in a bundle next to me. Above my head there was a painting of Lilah; it was illumined by a single candle; the rest of the room was a soft, crimson dark. It had been dark before, of course, when Stoker and I discovered George lying on the floor just as I was now, beneath the image of Lilah and her silent smiled. I rose at once and dressed, then hurried from the room. Outside Sarmistha was waiting, her head bowed, holding my coat. I took it from her; she turned and began to run. I called out after her – asking if she needed attention or help – and she paused, turning to glance at me, her large eyes tear-stained, and then before I could approach her she was running again and had disappeared. My last memory, then, of my time spent in that place, was of a young girl’s misery and her helplessness. The sped of the warehouse seemed suddenly dissolved. And yet how wrong I was.

  I left the hallway and began to walk down the streets. The further I went, the more the details of what had happened began to fade from my mind, the more painful I found it to continue home, the more desperately I needed to turn and go back. The longing was almost a physical pain; like the pain I have read in the case-histories of withdrawal from opiates. Perhaps that is what I have become, an addict, like those wretches in Polidori’s den, or more specifically, I suppose, like George himself – an addict to Lilah’s company. I wanted it more than anything. I still do now. More than anything I have ever known in my life.

  Should I fight it? I remember the poor Indian girl – the glimpse of the cruelty which exists in Lilah’s world, which I had suspected before but never seen until then. It has always been a maxim of mine that our subconscious is a dangerous and threatening place, for we cannot control the desires that it may choose to breed; and what else is it that Lilah has offered to me, if not the desires of my unconscious mind? I am afraid to surrender to these again; afraid to lose my self-control; afraid – yes, I admit it – to see what these desires might lead me to. I will not visit Lilah again. I will stay true to myself. I will remain who I am.

  I will not visit Lilah again.

  11 p.m. – Have apologised to Llewellyn and sent him to bed. Poor fellow, he looks exhausted. No crises while I was away, though, except that Edward Westcote has called on me; it seems that Lucy has collapsed on stage from exhaustion and been confined to her bed. I would call on her now, but it is very late; not the best way to cure exhaustion, waking the patient at 11 o’clock.

  Will call on her tomorrow, then.

  Telegram, Professor Huree Jyoti Navalkar to Dr John Eliot.

  20 August.

  Fear Lucy Westcote in terrible danger. Guard her. Urgent. Repeat – urgent.

  HUREE.

  Dr Eliot’s Diary.

  21 August. – A terrible couple of days, with the prospect of many more still to come. Early yesterday morning a telegram from Huree arrived, warning me of a danger to Lucy. Startled, in view of her husband’s news that she had been confined to bed, so abandoned my morning’s work to Llewellyn and left for Myddleton Street at once. Westcote relieved to see me. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ he kept muttering, ‘just overwork’, but I could tell he was disturbed. Asked to see the patient. ‘Quiet,’ said Westcote. ‘She’s asleep.’ Crept upstairs, where Lucy lay in bed. Needed only a glance; arrived at my diagnosis at once.

  Lucy looking deathly pale. But worse: across her neck tiny scars, identical to those I had seen on George. I asked Westcote when they had begun to appear. The beginning of the month, he replied; almost three weeks before. And when had Lucy first begun to complain of feeling faint? Westcote swallowed and glanced at his wife. ‘Three weeks ago.’

  He was desperate to know what I thought I didn’t answer him at first. Instead, I crossed to the window and tried to open it. The catch was locked. I glanced at Westcote. ‘These have only recently been closed,’ I said. ‘Look, I can see the pattern of dust.’

  ‘Yes,’ Westcote agreed, ‘we closed them last week.’

  ‘Why? The heat has been terrible recently.’

  ‘Lucy insisted.’

  ‘Bad dreams?’ I asked.

  He looked startled. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘What was it? An intruder? Some strange threat?’

  Westcote nodded slowly.

  ‘Tell me.’

  He blushed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘It was … yes – just some strange threat.’

  I frowned; he was clearly embarrassed by something. I studied his face, then shrugged and turned back to the window lock. I inspected carefully. Then I beckoned to Westcote. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘The paint is chipped around the edge of the lock. Someone has been forcing it.’

  Westcote stared at me, appalled. ‘You mean… no… It’s impossible …’ His voice traded away. He took out a key and unlocked the window, opened it and stared outside. ‘But there is a sheer drop,’ he said. ‘How could anyone have reached this ledge?’

  I glanced across at Lucy. ‘Edward,’ I asked him, ‘these past three weeks – have you been in the room with her? At night, I mean?’

  He flushed again.

  ‘Please,’ I said impatiently, ‘the situation is too pressing for coyness. Have you been sleeping with her?’

  Westcote shook his head. ‘For much of the time I have been in Wiltshire, preparing my parents’ home for Charlotte’s – that is, my sister’s – arrival back from India.’

  ‘You have definite news?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘Yes. She is on a steamer from Bombay even now.’

  ‘Then I am very happy for you.’

  He smiled faintly, and nodded. ‘As you can imagine, there is a great deal of preparation to be done. Indeed I only returned to London a few days ago, to discover a letter from Mr Stoker waiting here, telling me that Lucy had been taken ill. Lucy herself hadn’t written to me at all. She continues to claim there is nothing much wrong. But she is clearly very ill, is she not?’ He stared at his wife; she stirred and moaned, but did not wake, even when she began to gather the sheets about her as though warding off some threat. Edward Westcote turned back to me. ‘She has been like that since my return. I lay beside her on my first night back, but I could not sleep; her dreams were so bad, and when she woke she told me I had made her nightmares worse…’ He paused, and blushed again, then stared down at the floor.

  ‘Nightmares,’ I said softly. ‘What nightmares?’

  Westcote looked up at me. ‘A woman,’ he muttered. ‘A woman comes to her.’

  ‘Yes? And what does she do?’

  He stared about him uneasily. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he said at last.

  ‘Why not?’

  He blushed again. ‘I just can’t,’ he said.

  ‘Why? Does she dream that the woman feeds on her?’

  ‘No. Perhaps. No, not all the time. No. I’m really not sure.’

  ‘Is there sexual contact? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Doctor!’ Westcote stared at me in agony. ‘Please!’

  I met his stare. Then I took his hand and clasped
it firmly. ‘Edward,’ I whispered. ‘I understand how upsetting tins must be. But please, you must tell me – it is of the utmost importance – has Lucy told you what this woman is like?’

  Westcote turned from me to stand by his wife. He gazed down into Lucy’s face; for almost a minute he stared at her; he reached out to take her hand. ‘She was veiled,’ he said at last. ‘Lucy has never been able to see her face. Why?’ He glanced up at me, as though suddenly struck by the implications of my question. ‘Do you think that this woman might be more than just a dream?’

  I glanced at the window again, and the drop to the street below. I shrugged. ‘I have a friend. He is away at the moment, but when he returns he should be able to answer that question much more authoritatively than I can. But in the meantime’ – I crossed to the bed, and stood by Lucy’s side – ‘I will see what I can do for her medically.’ I took her pulse; it was very faint. ‘She has dearly lost a good deal of blood.’

  ‘But…’ Westcote stared at his wife in disbelief. ‘She hasn’t gone anywhere. I don’t understand. There hasn’t been any blood on the sheets.’

  I pointed to Lucy’s neck. ‘And these scars?’ I asked. ‘What about them?’

  Westcote frowned, then he shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied.

  ‘Well,’ I said, trying to sound as confident as I could, ‘let us wait and see what my tests have to show.’ I took a sample of Lucy’s blood and then, just to be certain, of Westcote’s as wed. I left him with strict instructions not to move from the side of Lucy’s bed; then I returned to Whitechapel as fast as I could. Closeted myself in the laboratory. Lucy’s blood, thank God, revealed no serious abnormalities: certainly no mutation of the leucocytes. The red cell count was lower than I cared to see, but fortunately an analysis of Westcote’s blood revealed a compatibility of sanguigens. My own sanguigen, however, incompatible. Not unduly worried, though: Westcote a strong-looking man.

  Preparing for the transfusion, I was reminded of George. In view of the evident similarities between the two cases, and bearing in mind George’s affection for his ward, I thought it might be worthwhile to call on him again, to see if he wouldn’t relent and talk with me; a comparison of his condition with Lucy’s, I thought, might prove mutually instructive. When I arrived at the Mowberleys’, however, it was to be told that George had recently gone away to the South of France, for the purpose of recovering his health. Lady Mowberley, who informed me of this departure, assured me that his condition was already much improved: a promising development, since it suggests that a transplant from the scene of the attacks can indeed result in recovery. At present, however, Lucy is far too weak to travel; we must do all we can to restore her strength. Lady Mowberley very concerned to hear of her condition; offered to help in any way she could. In particular, volunteered to look after Lucy’s child should there be any threat of infection in the house; I assured her there was not. On second thoughts, though, perhaps that is not strictly correct I may mention her offer to Edward Westcote tonight

  On my arrival back at Myddleton Street I found Bram Stoker in attendance on Lucy, evidently much distressed by the state of her health. In confidence, he told me that her appearance had deteriorated badly since the week before, when he had sent her home from the Lyceum, like Lady Mowberley, he has volunteered to help in any way he can; he has time at his disposal just now, it seems, since the Lyceum’s season has recently come to an end. Was able to employ him at once, helping with the transfusion of Westcote’s blood. The operation a modified success: Westcote left very weak, but some colour restored to Lucy’s cheeks and her pulse is now more regular. However, it is an indication of the seriousness of her condition that although her husband was bled almost to the point of danger, Lucy’s own strength has only partially been restored. At least she now seems stabilised; there has been no deterioration since the transfusion yesterday, and she has even been able to sit up and talk. She has added nothing, by the way, to what Westcote had already told me: the woman in her dreams, she confirmed, is always veiled, though there is perhaps something, she thinks, which is familiar about her manner. Have asked Lucy to consider this further. Perhaps she will observe more during the next visitation.

  Nothing last night, however. Westcote and myself took it in turns to sit on guard; Stoker is staying tonight. I will grab a few hours’ sleep; and then return to relieve him and take my own place on watch.

  22 August. – Huree still not here. I don’t understand where he can be. If he knows that Lucy is in danger, then surely he also knows that he should be by her side. I don’t have the experience to handle this affair on my own.

  Lucy herself still in a stable condition. An interesting event last night, though, around 3 a.m., shortly after my arrival to replace Stoker on guard. I heard a curious scratching at the window; I rose to see if I could make anything out, but my path was blocked by Lucy who had likewise risen and crossed the room. Her eyes were open, but when I spoke to her she was oblivious to my call; she brushed past me and began to open the window, and I heard the scratching at the pane again. But when I crossed to stop her she suddenly flinched, like a patient wakened from a mesmeric trance, and stared at me in a puzzled way. ‘Jack?’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing here?’ Then she fainted into my arms. I returned her to her bed. She began to dream, moaning again and clutching at her throat; then her dreams deepened and her convulsions died away.

  Nothing else of any interest to record. No further scratchings at the window pane.

  23 August. – The bounds of logic and probability have already been so strained by the events of the past few months that, ready, I should have ceased to be surprised by anything. Nor am I, in fact. No – I am not surprised – although it reassures me, I think, to believe that I am. After all, the web of connections was an elementary one; I would normally have recognised and traced it myself. But I had not yet wholly accepted Huree’s favourite dictum, that the impossible is always a possibility. Once that is granted, then in a peculiar way the laws of logic can reassert themselves. Perhaps there is hope for my methods, after all.

  For Huree himself, despite the startling nature of his premises, has undoubtedly displayed a flair for deductive investigation. He arrived early this afternoon and went up to see Lucy immediately. He knelt by her bedside, staring at her in silence for a good while, then glanced up at me suddenly. ‘Kirghiz Silver,’ he said. ‘Not available in London, I suppose?’

  ‘Everything is available in London,’ I replied. ‘But probably not from the costermonger.’

  ‘Garlic, then,’ said Huree. ‘It while have to do. Its effect is much weaker, but perhaps it will serve to keep him at bay.’

  ‘Him?’ I asked in a tone of surprise, for I had told Huree of Lucy’s dreams. But he smiled at me and tapped at his nose, then lumbered to his feet.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘I have something most interesting to show to you,’ Together we went downstairs; Huree told Westcote of the need for fresh garlic, and when Westcote looked at me, startled, I inclined my head. Huree and I then proceeded out to Farringdon Road, where we hailed a cab. ‘Bethnal Green,’ said Huree to the driver. ‘The National Portrait Gallery.’

  This was not a destination I had been expecting, but I knew better than to inquire. Huree smiled at me, or rather he smirked; as the cab began to jolt away, he drew out some papers from under his coat and handed me one: it was the message that Polidori had left on the door of his shop. Huree then handed me a second sheet of paper, a letter this time; I saw at once that the handwriting was identical.

  ‘Where did you obtain this from?’ I asked.

  Huree smirked again. ‘Kelmscott Manor,’ he replied.

  ‘Where Rossetti lived?’

  Huree nodded.

  ‘What was it doing there?’

  Huree’s smirk began to stretch beyond the tops of his ears. ‘It was among Rossetti’s papers. I wasn’t surprised; I had expected it would be. Jolly simple, ready. He was Rossetti’s uncle, you see.’
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  ‘Who was? Not Polidori?’

  Huree bobbed his head and turned out to stare at the passing street. ‘Dr John William Polidori,’ he murmured. ‘Died, supposedly, by his own hand – 1821. Physician, student of somnambulism, occasional writer of unreadable tales…’

  ‘yes,’ I said, suddenly remembering. ‘Stoker mentioned him. I never thought…’

  ‘Did Stoker tell you what he wrote, though?’ inquired Huree, his eyebrows darting up and down as he spoke.

  I shook my head.

  ‘His most famous tale, Jack, was called “The Vampyre”. Can you guess the vampire’s name?’ He paused, in his showman’s way. ‘No? Then let me help you with that one too. He was an English aristocrat. An English Lord, to be strictly precise.’

  ‘Surely not Ruthven?’

  Huree beamed.

  I sat back in my seat. ‘Extraordinary,’ I murmured. ‘And Huree, I must congratulate you – your zeal and intelligence have evidently been put to their customary good use. How did you find this story out?’

  ‘Child’s play!’ exclaimed Huree, snapping his fingers with relish. ‘you forget, Jack, that the vampire has long been a quarry of mine. It would have been pretty poor if I had been ignorant of Polidori’s work. You only had to mention his name, and I remembered his reference to a vampire named Lord Ruthven. It came to me at once’ – he snapped his fingers again – ‘like that! But it was only the beginning. Wait and see. My journey round England has been most profitable. I have been finding out who Lord Ruthven ready is.’

  I frowned. ‘What do you mean, who he ready is?’

  Huree smiled, then rapped on the side of the cab. ‘Let us go and look,’ he said as the cab slowed to a halt He paid the cabby, then trotted towards the Gallery entrance-way. Oh yes,’ he giggled. ‘Let us go and jolly well look!’