Supping With Panthers

by Tom Holland

  ‘Yes. Encouraged by you, as I seem to remember.’

  Eliot bowed his head in a gesture of regret, but Westcote seemed scarcely to observe this. His face appeared numbed by a rising sense of fear. ‘Go on,’ he whispered at length.

  Eliot swallowed. ‘The vampire is drawn to shared blood.’

  ‘Shared?’

  ‘The blood of a relative,’ interposed the Professor. ‘It gives them, as Jack has put it, an especial pleasure.’

  ‘You mean Arthur?’ Westcote stared at him in horrified disbelief. ‘My son? Charlotte has been attracted by her own nephew’s blood?’

  The Professor shifted and sighed. ‘I am afraid so, yes.’

  Westcote’s face crumpled. ‘Then by now, she will have…’

  ‘Killed him?’ The Professor shook his head. ‘It is, of course, possible. However, from my study of these creatures I think it unlikely. It appears to be the custom to leave children until they are of an age to breed.’

  ‘To breed?’

  ‘The blood-line,’ said the Professor softly. ‘It must be – perpetuated – you see. If anyone is in danger from her…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then I’m afraid that it is you.’

  Westcote nodded slowly. ‘Yes, of course, of course.’ Suddenly his face seemed positively to beam with relief. ‘Then there is hope, you think? My son may still be alive? You think that is possible?’

  ‘I am sure there is still hope.’

  ‘How are we to find him?’

  Eliot sighed. ‘It may be difficult. While we were away on our wild goose-chase to Yorkshire, your sister would have had ad the time she needed to conceal your son. Judging by the skid with which she has orchestrated the rest of her plot, her hideaway will have been carefully prepared.’

  ‘But what can we do? We can’t just wait here, doing nothing at ad.’

  ‘For now,’ replied the Professor, ‘difficult though it will be, we have no other choice. And in the meantime, of course, there is always your wife to protect.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Westcote, ‘yes, of course.’ And again his spirits seemed to revive. ‘She, at least, we know is still alive.’

  ‘Exactly so!’ exclaimed the Professor, clapping together his hands. ‘And let us do ad we can to ensure she stays that way. After ad – we are not defeated yet!’ And as he proclaimed this, I could almost imagine he believed it to be true; as we sat there, we four, drawing up our plans, with ad the Professor’s knowledge of the Undead at our service, and Eliot’s keen brain, and Westcote’s courage, I could truly believe that the game was not yet lost. The Professor spoke encouragingly of a plant by the name of Kirghiz Silver, an infallible cure it seemed against the vampire’s threat; he would travel the next day to Kew, and search for it in the hothouses of the Gardens there. Eliot, meanwhile, would tend to Lucy; Westcote would guard her; and I – I would stand guard over both of them. And so it was.

  That night, Westcote and I stayed on watch in Lucy’s room. The poor girl was still sound asleep – the effect, no doubt, of die sedatives – but although she would stir occasionally and mutter in her dreams, I could still – looking upon her dear, sweet face – remember the Lucy of a month before, and pray that she would soon be restored to us ad. My hopes, so badly damaged by recent events, began to stir and flutter feebly again.

  And then at four o’clock, shortly before we were due to be relieved, I heard the rumbling of a carriage from the street below. It halted directly outside Westcote’s door; several minutes passed, and still it did not continue on its way. Feeling perturbed by now, I crossed to the window and stared down at the street. The carriage was directly below me; a cloaked figure was leaning out from it, smelling the air – or more properly, I guessed, the scent of someone’s blood. He or she – I could not make out the sex of the figure – glanced up at me for the fraction of a second; I had the general impression of a remarkable pallor, and then the figure had withdrawn and the carriage was on its way. Even now, I am still not certain who it was I saw that night. At the time, of course, I assumed it to be Charlotte Westcote; but a conversation I overheard some hours later, while the Professor and Eliot were together on watch, alerted me to the likelihood of it being the mysterious “she”.

  ‘I must visit her,’ Eliot kept saying, ‘you know that It is the only way we will ever have a resolution. I must visit her.’

  The Professor disagreed. ‘It is too dangerous. She is deadly.’ I strained to catch more, but at this point they lowered their voices, and what else they talked about I couldn’t tell. Of one thing, however, I was certain; the woman they were discussing was not Charlotte Westcote.

  Despite my feelings of unease, however, I slept soundly from then on, for the last two days had been tiring ones, and when I woke again it was almost midday. I rose and, as I was climbing the stairs to Lucy’s bedroom, met the Professor coming down. The moment I saw his face, I knew his tidings were bad; I asked what news there was and he, without a word, turned and led me back up to Lucy’s room. Eliot was bending over his patient; he looked tired and distressed, and when he rose to greet me I at once understood why. For I could see now that Lucy had been bound to her bed: she was writhing uncontrollably and hissing almost like a snake, while her face was a parody of the one I knew so well – cruel, voluptuous and adamantine. I stood over her; and when she saw me her eyes blazed with unholy light, and the face became wreathed with a wanton smile. ‘Free me, Bram,’ she whispered. ‘You have always wanted me, haven’t you? So fresh and soft – so unlike your wife.’ She laughed. ‘My arms are hungry for you, Bram. Free me and we can rest together. Free me, Bram, free me!’

  There was something so diabolically sweet in her tones, like the tingling of glass when struck by a knife, that it was ad I could do to look away from her. ‘My God,’ I asked Eliot, ‘what is happening to her?’

  He compressed his lips. ‘The disease,’ he said, perfectly calmly, ‘appears to be spreading through her veins.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can do?’ I asked.

  Eliot shrugged. ‘I have taken a blood sample. I will try to run tests on it. However…’ – he paused – ‘I must be honest with you… I am not hopeful.’

  The Professor grunted. ‘There may still be cures beyond the reach of science.’ He turned and wandered back across to the door. ‘I shad be leaving now as wed. I have a cab below, to take me to Kew. We will see what effect the Kirghiz Silver has.’ He bowed to us both in the Hindoo fashion; then he trotted down the stairs. Eliot followed him. I was left alone with – Lucy, I was going to write… but let me say rather – the Thing which wore Lucy’s name and form, for of her former sweet nature there was nothing left at ad. The girl I had known was gone; silting there with her that day, I felt like a mourner at her wake.

  And now, with a dread heart, I approach the climax of this tale. I was joined that afternoon by Westcote. He had clearly been forewarned of Lucy’s condition, for he concealed his evident agony and sat with her patiently, despite the combination of blandishments and abuse with which she sought to persuade him to set her free. I realised how grievously I had underestimated him; for the man I sat with that afternoon was a husband worthy of Lucy’s love. The hours passed and Westcote’s fortitude was tested to the limits; yet he never once wavered in his duty to his wife.

  At around six there was a knocking on the door; Westcote left the room and stood listening on the balcony; it was a letter which must have been delivered, for I heard the maid coming up the stairs to where he stood, and when he returned to Lucy’s room he had an envelope tucked into his jacket pocket. He did not mention its contents to me, however, and so I did not choose to press him; I assumed its business was private. He sat down again by Lucy’s side; he held her hand but she wrenched it free. He tried to hold her; she spat in his face. The pain in his expression was terrible to witness. He rose, with her laughter ringing in his ears, and moved to the window, where he repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists.

  ‘I cannot bear
this,’ he said as I crossed to join him.

  ‘The others will be back soon,’ I replied, trying to comfort him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Westcote desperately, staring at his wife, ‘but when? They have been away for hours,’ He gestured at Lucy. ‘Look at her, Stoker. She is growing worse. Eliot should be here. I have half a mind to go and fetch him myself.’

  ‘We should wait,’ I repeated.

  Westcote shook his head. ‘We can’t,’ he said simply. He stared into my eyes. ‘Stoker – please. Go to Eliot. Tell him it is urgent.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you.’

  ‘Damn it,’ said Westcote, ‘it is my wife, not myself, we should be worrying about now. Just look at her!’ He pointed at Lucy again. ‘Damn it, she needs Eliot as soon as she can. Now, Stoker, now!’

  I saw, in short, that he would not be appeased until he had had his way. It was with a heavy heart, though, that I left for Whitechapel, urging my driver to go as fast as he could. Eliot, when I found him, was still hard at work, crouched over slides and tubes, but once I had explained the situation to him he rose and came back with me immediately. He told me as we went that he still did not hold out much hope; his research, it seemed, was not proceeding wed. For my own part, my regret at having left Westcote alone with his wife was intensifying ad the time, so that neither of us was feeling greatly at ease.

  Unfortunately, since my drive across to Whitechapel, the traffic had grown considerably worse, and it took us longer than it should have done to return to Westcote’s house. By now, such was the nature of the presentiments affecting us that we were almost desperate. We ran up to the door; and when the maid answered our hammerings I at once began to ask her if ad was well in the house. She seemed puzzled. Of course ad was wed, she replied. Her master and mistress were both still upstairs; why, they had even had a visitor.

  At once, I froze. Who had the visitor been, I inquired. Her master’s sister, the servant replied. Miss Westcote had brought Arthur with her, she added, as we sprinted up the stairs. She had heard Miss Westcote leave perhaps twenty minutes ago.

  I scarcely registered that final comment; yet once I had entered Lucy’s room and seen how her bed was empty, with all the restraints snapped and tossed on to the floor, I understood at last what the maid had said. ‘She has taken Lucy!’ I exclaimed, before the horror of it struck me dumb, and I slumped on to the bed in a numbed state of grief.

  ‘Here,’ said Eliot, from behind the open door.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, scarcely lifting my head.

  Eliot shut the door and I saw there was a chair against the wall. Westcote was slumped in it, for ad the world as though taking an afternoon nap. Carefully, Eliot lifted his chin. I saw to my shock, but scarcely my surprise, that he was quite dead; his skin had been bleached to an unnatural paleness, and the bones beneath the flesh seemed brittle and thin. There were dreadful gashes to his stomach and throat, but again the wounds seemed perfectly dry. Eliot continued to inspect him.

  ‘Drained,’ he said at last. There is scarcely a drop of blood left in him. But it is puzzling …’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, as his voice trailed away. ‘Surely it is his sister’s doing?’

  ‘Oh, evidently,’ Eliot replied, ‘but that is not what is puzzling me. No, what is strange is that he appears to have put up no fight. It is almost as though he sat here and welcomed it…’ He continued to frown; and then suddenly I saw his haggard face light up. He leaned forward and took something from Westcote’s pocket. ‘You mentioned a letter that came for him.’ He held up an envelope. ‘Was it this one?’

  I inspected it shortly, then nodded. ‘It may have been.’

  ‘And it was after receiving this letter that Westcote demanded you go away?’

  Again I nodded.

  Eliot removed the letter from the envelope. ‘Let us see what was in it, then,’ he murmured, almost to himself. He scanned the letter. ‘I recognise the handwriting, at least. Lady Mowberley’s – or Charlotte Westcote’s, I should say. Now then. To the letter itself.’ He began to read. ‘Dear Ned – It is no good, you know. You will never defeat me. Ask Jack Eliot – he will tell you as much, for he knows it in his heart. But I have a bargain to propose. I must have Westcote blood, you see – if not yours, then another Westcote’s will do. I think you understand me. A life for a life, Ned – yours for your son’s. What do you say? I know you have one of your friends with you now. Send him away. When I see him go, I will accept that as a signal that you have agreed to my proposal and I will join you promptly. I am so sorry, Ned. But as you may have realised, I am no longer myself. Such is – or was, at any rate – life. Your loving sister, C.’

  Eliot paused, then folded the letter away. He stared down at Westcote again; he closed his eyes.

  ‘So Westcote agreed then, you think?’ I asked. ‘He sat here and allowed her to drink his life away?’

  ‘Evidently,’ replied Eliot.

  I was struck again by the horror of what we were confronting. I gazed about the room, making certain – after what I had heard Eliot read – that Arthur had indeed been taken, and was not there after ad. But there was no sign of him. ‘She betrayed him,’ I said bitterly. ‘He gave her his life, and still she betrayed him.’

  Eliot too had been studying the room. ‘I am not so certain,’ he replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘There is a mystery here,’ He gestured at the door. ‘Observe the hand prints on the very base.’

  I had not noticed them before. But now that I looked, I saw that Eliot was perfectly correct and that there were indeed hand-prints, very tiny, marked in blood.

  ‘Only a young child could have left these,’ said Eliot, ‘which corroborates die maid’s evidence: Arthur was indeed here. That should not be surprising, of course – Westcote would hardly have surrendered his life so willingly if Charlotte had not brought Arthur with her. But the evidence surely suggests that these prints were left here once Charlotte had gone. When else would die child have got the blood on his hands? Not during the attack itself – that is highly improbable. No, no, it must have been when he was left here alone with his father’s corpse. Doubtless he clung to his father, seeking comfort; and when none was forthcoming he attempted to scratch his way out through the door. Yes,’ said Eliot, staring at the handprints again, ‘it is ad quite dear.’

  ‘But in that case…’ I said slowly.

  ‘Yes?’ Eliot asked.

  I looked about the room again. ‘Where is the child?’

  Eliot gestured at the windows. For the first time I saw that they were open, and had obviously been forced for a pane of glass had been smashed from the outside on to the floor.

  ‘So you think …’ – I swallowed – ‘what…? – someone came in through there?’

  He nodded shortly.

  ‘But… Charlotte – when she took Lucy – they left through the front door. The servant girl heard them.’

  ‘Then doubtless,’ said Eliot, ‘we are dealing with someone other than her.’

  ‘Another vampire, you mean?’

  He shrugged faintly. It was as good as a nod.

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘That,’ said Eliot, ‘is the mystery.’

  And so it remains. That Eliot had his own suspicions, I was certain at the time; and subsequent events have confirmed as much. For he was eager ad that afternoon to pursue the leads which he believed would still resolve the case; once the Professor had returned from Kew and seen for himself the catastrophe, Eliot began to speak to him in the same terms I had overheard the night before, talking of the ‘she’ who had to be confronted – not Charlotte but another, even deadlier. The Professor, however, refused to countenance the attempt, not until they were better prepared; brave man though he is, he insisted that the woman was too dangerous as yet; he demanded that Eliot delay his attempt. Reluctantly, Eliot appeared to agree; and so we left it on the evening of that terrible day. Before we parted, however, the Professor gave us
ad a bulb of Kirghiz Silver, which he promised would preserve us from the vampire’s thirst. It was certainly a remarkable looking plant, and reassuringly outlandish. I have worn it about me ever since.

  Whether Eliot did, however, we may never know. For despite his promise to delay his investigation, that very same evening he disappeared. Neither the Professor nor myself have caught a glimpse of him since. He left no message in his study, not even a scrap of paper; instead, he has vanished as utterly as Lucy or her child. I wonder whether we shad ever see any of them again. The Professor and myself have continued our search, but we have very few clues and those we did have now seem to be gone. For the Professor revealed to me – what I had not at first guessed – that the woman mentioned by Eliot and himself had lived in Rotherhithe, in that very same warehouse from which we had rescued Sir George. Of course, as soon as it was evident that Eliot had disappeared, we sped there at once; but there was now no trace of the warehouse at ad – it was utterly gone. Even Polidori’s shop had been boarded up, and although we forced our way inside, we found no evidence there which might have helped us with our search.

  What else we can do, I find it hard now to know. We have contacted the police, of course, but a case such as this is beyond their ability to solve; they are in any case preoccupied at the moment with the Whitechapel murders, and the demands of the public that their perpetrator be found. In effect, we remain as we were before: alone. The Professor is content that this should be so; he knows that the reality of the vampire is ad too easily scorned.

  But for ad his expertise, we remain no nearer a solution to the case: Eliot, Lucy, her child, ad are gone, and the vampires too are dispersed God knows where. Somewhere in the foul shadows they must be lurking – not only Charlotte but also the mysterious, unnameable ‘she’ – and I hope there may yet be a breakthrough in our investigation; but I have my doubts. I wish I did not have to finish my narrative in such a despairing frame of mind, but since it has been my determination to invent nothing throughout, I conclude, as I started, by telling the truth. I lay down my pen now in the hope that one day I have cause to pick it up again. Pray God, when that occurs, I may have something happier to write.