Genevieve 03 - Beasts in Velvet

by Jack Yeovil

  An unthought tear, a bubble of red, appeared in her eye and trickled down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and licked it clean, relishing the tang.

  After so many years, she ought to be used to transience. Everybody changed. Even her.

  There was a great deal of clumping about inside and Detlef stumbled in, his nightshirt ballooning over his stomach, his hair and moustaches in a mess. He did not bid her good morning.

  'The house was half-empty last night,' he said. 'There was too much fog outside the theatre for our farce to have much appeal.'

  'Attendance has been falling off for weeks, my dear.'

  'You're right, Gene. We are nearing the end of our run.' Genevieve caught his meaning, and sadly agreed. 'Where were you last night?' he asked, wearily.

  'Feeding,' she said, remembering

  Mrs. Bierbichler, Helmut Elsaesser's landlady, had practically adopted him, claiming that a young man so far away from his birthplace would tend to neglect himself and that a woman should step in and sort things out for him. His landlady was childless herself, but several of her friends had young female relatives and chance meetings were forever being contrived. To be fair, Elsaesser quite liked the Widow Flickenschildt's niece, Ingrid, whose blonde braids reached nearly to her knees when uncoiled, and had arranged to see the girl again one night next week. However, it was hard not to resent such smothering care and attention.

  'Eat, eat,' his landlady told him, piling yet another plate of oatcakes onto the table, 'or you'll grow thin and die.'

  Elsaesser's protests were hopeless. Mrs. Bierbichler ladled syrup onto the cakes and slipped the plate in front of him.

  He took his knife and fork to the food. When, full-mouthed, he nodded his approval, she let slip that this was a Flickenschildt family recipe she was trying out.

  Elsaesser was surrounded by women who wanted him to hurry up and get married. He felt as if he were the victim of a huge conspiracy. The cakes were good though.

  'Hot coffee,' Mrs. Bierbichler said, pouring some into a bucket-size container. 'It will settle your stomach and keep you warm. If you eat too fast, you could get indigestion and die.'

  Elsaesser took a swig. The coffee was strong, black and bitter. Mrs. Bierbichler did not believe in sugar or cream in coffee. She said that made you fat, and if you were too fat you could die.

  'You shouldn't go out in a fog. You could catch a chill and die.'

  Swallowing coffee-soaked cakes, Elsaesser replied, 'It's my job, Mrs. B. It's a duty.'

  'Well, it should be some other man's duty. Someone less vulnerable to nasty colds.'

  'It's important.' Elsaesser was serious. 'The Beast must be caught.'

  Mrs. Bierbichler raised her hands to the gods. 'The Beast! Ach, he only cuts down girls who are no good. Why should you run after such women, when there are lovely girls I could name so much closer to home, so much nicer for you. Such good cooks! Such hips for child-bearing! You could catch a disease and die, you know, from girls who are no good.'

  'Nobody deserves the Beast,' he said, slowly, feeling his resolve build.

  Since the first murder, Elsaesser had been following the crimes. His last few weeks at the University had rushed past, as he passed his exams with the expected ease, but he had spent more time thinking about the Beast than of his future. He could have had a position with any watch in the city, but he had insisted on the docks. His professors had been appalled but he had insisted. In his head, he knew all the victims intimately, their names, their lives, the circumstances of their death: Rosa, Miriam, Helga, Monika, Gislind, Tanja, Margarethe. To get Professor Scheydt to approve his posting to the Dock Watch, he had told the man that Rosa May, the first victim, had been his mistress. He had never met the girl, but he needed to give the pragmatic professor a reason for his need to catch the Beast. Scheydt, a cleric of the law, could understand revenge better than he could justice.

  Elsaesser told himself he wanted the Beast brought in to serve the cause of justice, but sometimes he was not sure. Sometimes he wondered why he burned with the need to stop these particular murders. People died by violence throughout the city, throughout the Empire, every day, but Elsaesser only took the Beast personally. The facts of the case would creep into his dreams and he would find himself surrounded by the images and impressions he had of the women's last hours. He knew all the women, all the victims. But also, after these months of intensive study, he knew the Beast.

  The murderer was becoming more active: the first three killings had taken place over four months, the last four had been within the last five weeks. In the madman's mind, something was coming to the boil. Four out of the seven victims had died during fogs or on nights when the fog seemed to threaten to appear. Some maniacs killed by the moon, but the Beast was stimulated by the fog.

  'No,' said Elsaesser, 'nobody deserves the Beast.'

  He shoved his plate away and got up. His uniform coat was hanging from its stand, the copper badge new-polished. He slipped it on and felt better. Merely by becoming a watchman, he was doing something.

  Mrs. Bierbichler came for him with a long scarf and wrapped it around his neck, muffling his chest and face.

  'You must wrap up warm. If the cold gets into your lungs, you could die.'

  Mrs. Bierbichler knew a lot of ways that you could die.

  The long table in the dining hall rattled as Otho Waernicke thumped it, sending plates and cups jumping into the air.

  'Bow, you heathens,' he shouted.

  There was a massed moaning from the soreheads and hangovers who had crawled down to this late breakfast, unshaven, bleary-eyed and mainly bruised. Last night, the League had been in three serious fights and an assortment of minor scraps.

  The chaplain, startled, continued to offer up thanks to Ulric for the new day, albeit with a more attentive audience.

  Otho thumped the table again and roared for the steward.

  His head hurt. A lot. Some time last night, he had offered to drink a dwarf under the table and asked his opponent to name the poison. This morning, he had woken up under the table with a dwarf snoring in his ear. They had gone on from Alte Geheerentode brandy to gin laced with gunpowder. If he belched, Otho could kill a man at fifty paces.

  There was some squealing and shouting from the vestibule as last night's whores were kicked out into the street with a few extra pfennigs for their trouble. The League's hall was sacred to Ulric and the Emperor, and it was traditional to eject all women between the chaplain's morning thanksgiving and nightfall.

  Otho's chest and legs hurt too. He couldn't remember where the bruises had come from. There was a long scrape up his side that made him think of a docker's hook.

  The thanks given, and the women out of the building, the chaplain turned around the bust of Ulric that stood on the great mantelpiece. Ever since the League had been founded, the eyes of its patron deity had been turned to the wall between nightfall and thanksgiving, so the god would not have to look upon the trespasses of his youthful, high-spirited worshippers.

  With the eyes of Ulric on them, the students of the League became models of gentlemanliness, moderation and propriety.

  At least until nightfall

  Inside the man-shell, the Beast rested. Last night's work had been satisfying and momentarily succoured the creature. But it was becoming hungrier sooner. It had ventured out two nights in a row. Tonight, it might make it three

  III

  When Johann awoke, his chambers in the palace were eerily quiet. Suites were kept open in the west wing for any of the electors whose business might bring them to the city. He occupied his with only a few servants, while down the passageway was quartered the huge retinue required by the Countess Emmanuelle von Liebewitz and her brother. Usually, he was awakened by the flurry of activities required by the countess-elector's levee. Today he slept well past that.

  He dressed himself but called in Martin, his valet secretary, to trim his beard. Afterwards, as he ate a breakfast of fruit and
cheese, he went through the day's communiqués. There was a long letter from Eidsvik, his steward back in Sudenland, reporting on the harvests and requesting his approval for certain charitable gestures. The von Mecklenberg estates had done well enough this year not to need to draw on the tithe of farm goods it was entitled to collect from the outlying farms and Eidsvik suggested contributing the offerings to the poor. Johann decided to go along with it and dictated a brief assent to be sent off along with a document granting the steward power of attorney for a further two months while he concluded his 'business' in Altdorf.

  Then there was a note in precise script from Professor Scheydt at the University, setting out simply Wolfs attendance record for the past few terms and hinting in more complex terms that Johann's brother could only remain enrolled on his course if he were to attend more lectures or pay larger bribes. Johann had no immediate answer. He could not bring himself to think of Wolf in connection with the murders in the docks, but he could also not forget the wolf-faced giant he had faced at the top of the world. Could innocent blood really wash away such a monster forever? Before Harald Kleindeinst found the Beast, Johann would have to find Wolf.

  There was a notice of the cancellation of the victory parade and a circular of the Emperor's orders for the day. The Imperial Militia were to take up their 'fog positions' to perform 'fog duties.' Johann, still relatively new to the capital city, didn't know what that meant, but Martin explained that it was a traditional measure. Even the palace guard would find employment in the fog. Under the circumstances, Johann thought that putting more armed men on the streets was a compromised blessing. Finally there was an invitation to a private party at the Matthias II, to be hosted by the Bretonnian ambassador, de la Rougierre. Johann was about to crumple that card and throw it away, when he remembered that Margarethe Ruttmann had died next to the Matthias II. What was de la Rougierre's connection with the place? And who else was included in the invitation? Martin did not know. He decided to put off a decision. It might perhaps be a sound idea to attend this party. There were people who said that the Beast was a dwarf.

  Today, Johann wanted to seek an audience with the Emperor, to discuss the Beast. He had been doing too much in Karl-Franz's name without having strictly gained the right to use it. Before this went any further, he wanted official approval.

  There was a commotion and Luitpold exploded into the room in a flurry of velvet.

  'Uncle Johann,' he said, 'come quickly×'

  'What is it?'

  'Von Liebewitz is fighting a duel in the gymnasium. To the death.'

  Siemen Ruhaak made Rosanna wait until Hasselstein had finished his breakfast. She stood outside the Lector's chambers, fidgeting. If she was wrong, she would look foolish. But she was not wrong.

  On her way to Hasselstein's office, she had seen Tilo, emerging guiltily from the confessional. She wondered how much he had told his cleric about her and his feelings. Impure thoughts were as much sin as impure deeds. But that didn't make people any more comfortable around someone who could genuinely judge them by their thoughts.

  She still felt the dead girl's wounds.

  Rosanna was not even the first to have an audience with the Lector. Hasselstein's door opened and Adrian Hoven, the cleric-captain of the Templars, stepped out. He was wearing his breastplate and helmet, as if prepared to dash off on some military venture for the greater glory of Sigmar. Hoven took no notice of her and barged past. She recognized a packet of sealed orders in his mind, concealed even from her prying thoughts and understood that he had been charged with some secret, urgent task.

  'Enter,' decreed Hasselstein.

  She stepped into his chambers and found him dressed exactly as he had been last night. He had either slept in his clothes, or not at all. A breakfast tray was abandoned on the floor and he was drinking tea from a monogrammed mug.

  'Lector,' she said, without formalities. 'The Beast has killed again. I saw it in a dream.'

  Hasselstein choked and spilt tea down his shirt.

  As he dressed, she prepared for her sleep. In the fog, the heavy curtains weren't necessary, but she drew them all the same.

  Watching Genevieve, Detlef Sierck was conscious of the difference, apparent and real, between their ages. Another sonnet was forming in his mind. When she was asleep, he would set it down. He had been writing sonnets almost since the beginning, since the play in the fortress, but he had not shared them with her, had not sought to publish them. The plays were for everybody, but the poetry was private. When the time was right, he would have the whole cycle printed and bound up for her. He had a title: To My Unchanging Lady.

  Pulling on his trousers, he was aware that he would need a new wardrobe soon, unless he lost some weight. He was prepared to do anything to become healthy and slim, except take exercise, eat less, go to bed early or give up wine.

  Detlef sat with her as she lay on the bed, waiting for the deep sleep to come, to give her a little of the death she had staved off for so long. They talked, not the high-flown talk of new lovers, but the intimate, ordinary talk of an old married couple. However, lately, people who did not know Genevieve was a vampire had begun to mistake her for his daughter.

  There were always actresses to tempt him and Genevieve did not tap him overmuch for fear of bleeding him dry. So they both had to pursue outside interests, but they were very special to each other. Without Genevieve, he might never have built his genius into a real career. He could easily have spent his life boasting of the theatre he would one day create without actually doing anything.

  'The farce is played out,' he was saying, 'our audiences don't want to laugh any more. It's the Beast. He has brought horror to the city and the people can't shake it off even for the length of a play.'

  Genevieve nodded, comfortable in her near-doze, and murmured agreement. She was at her most child-like when she slept.

  'I shall close A Farce of the Fog at the end of the month and present something else.'

  'Horror,' Genevieve said, almost under her breath.

  'Yes, that's a good idea. If they can't laugh, perhaps they can still scream. We have done Drachenfels to death, but there is still the story of the Wittgenstein family and its monster. Or of the horrid fate of the von Diehl brothers. Either of those would make a play that would curdle the spine and shiver the blood'

  Genevieve mumbled.

  'You know what I mean, Gene.'

  Detlef thought some more. 'Of course, those are stories of monsters and daemons. Perhaps the Beast requires something a little closer to home, a little more intimate in its horror.'

  Genevieve's eyes were closed, but she could still hear him.

  The Beast suggests the story of a man who is outwardly a mild, devout, conscientious individual, but inwardly a fiend thirsting for blood no offence, Gene. Some citizens say our murderer is a beast-man or a daemon, but my informants in the watch tell me they are definitely looking for a human culprit. There's that old Kislevite play by V. I. Tiodorov, The Strange Case of Dr Zhiekhill and Mr. Chaida. It is the story of a humble, respectable cleric of Shallya who samples the forbidden potion and becomes a raging, animalistic libertine. It's dross, of course, but I can prepare a loose translation, with some improvements. Some major improvements.'

  The vampire was asleep but Detlef was seized by his idea.

  'Of course, the transformation scenes will require all my stagecraft. I want a scene to make people forget the Beast, to make them confront their real horrors, the horrors that come from inside. It will be a masterpiece of the macabre. The critics will quake and foul their britches, women will faint all over the house and strong men will be reduced to abject terror. It will be wonderful. Gene, my darling, this will frighten even you'

  IV

  Graf Volker von Tuchtenhagen looked less arrogant this morning.

  'Surely, there is some other way we can settle this?'

  He had obviously been dragged from his drunken bed by his second and could barely remember the grave offence he had gi
ven the family of von Liebewitz.

  Leos slashed the air with his rapier. It felt like an extension of his body. Bassanio Bassarde had once jested that it was the only sexual organ the viscount possessed. The noted Marienburg wit was dead now, his windpipe laid open by an elegant manoeuvre.

  'We are all gentlemen here,' von Tuchtenhagen blathered as his seconds stripped his jacket. 'No offence was meant.'

  Leos said nothing. He had risen early, untired after his late night in the fog, and taken his usual run around the palace grounds. Men who neglected their bodies were fools.

  'Whatever it was that I said, I retract.'

  Leos stood, arms loose, ready. That calm that always came upon him before combat was like a cloak. He never felt more alive.

  'Ambassador,' he said to Dien Ch'ing, the Celestial who had consented to serve as referee, 'convey to my honoured opponent my apologies'

  Von Tuchtenhagen sighed with relief, stepping forwards.

  'this is no longer a personal matter. It gives me great regret to kill him'

  Von Tuchtenhagen froze, his flabby face a mask of fear. Tears were trickling from the corners of his eyes. He was unprepared. The sleep was still in his eyes, the stubble on his face. Leos rubbed his own smooth, beardless chin with the back of his hand.

  'but this is a matter of the honour of a lady.'

  Last night, at the von Tasseninck ball, Leos had overheard von Tuchtenhagen discussing the Countess Emmanuelle with a cleric of Ranald. The graf had suggested that Leos's sister resembled a rabbit, not in appearance but in conduct.

  'And of my family.'

  The Celestial nodded gravely. He did not need to relay the message.

  'Leos, I have money' said his opponent. 'This need not happen'

  A cold fury burned in the viscount's breast. The suggestion was unworthy even of von Tuchtenhagen. The family were new to the register, elevated by Matthias IV a short century ago and still striving to obscure the memory of the merchants and tradespeople they had been. Von Liebewitzes had fought alongside Sigmar at the birth of the Empire.