“I guess I haven’t had time to realize it with the events of the past several weeks.”
“Well, you should realize it. I can well imagine, a virus that will always prove deadly must be an astounding scientific discovery, but it is also infinitely terrifying. Have you fully considered what you have in your keeping?”
“You are right, but I don’t have the time now.”
“You don’t have the time to do anything, but you certainly can consider what precautions you must take for dealing with this discovery in the future.”
I looked at her inquiringly.
Her mind seemed to be racing. “For example, when you reveal it to your colleagues and to the scientific world, what use will they see in your work?” From the tremor of her expression a sudden realization apparently hit her and she looked at me beckoningly. “You seem to me a good man, but I have known men like Lucien. Might they not see your virus as a weapon? Don’t you see? There are so many conflicts, so many wars. Surely our military will see how advantageous it would be to release such a virus in the homeland of a political enemy.”
“That would be foolhardy. There is no guarantee that the virus would remain within political borders.”
“Exactly!” she said excitedly. “But don’t you see? More foolhardy atrocities than that have been committed in the past.” A hint of experience moved through her eyes. “And many more are to come. If England were attacked by the Prussians, or the Germans, with absolutely no hope of victory, do you think some proper and stiff-upper-lipped British general would think twice about releasing that virus on the world before he would allow the black-booted soldiers to rape his wife and his daughter?”
“I wouldn’t dream of allowing my discovery to be put to such purposes.”
“What if it weren’t your choice? What if Her Majesty demanded it? Would you deny her?”
“I don’t know.”
“And after you’ve revealed the possibility of creating a virus that completely lacks antigenicity, how long will it be until others duplicate your discovery?”
“Really, Lady Dunaway, it’s impossible to say. Why are you so concerned?”
Again her face fell sadly. “Because I know the world, and I think you do too.”
“What would you suggest I do with Camillus influenzae while we are gone?”
Her lips moved hesitantly. “Destroy it. Never breathe a word of it to anyone again.”
It was the first time I had been disappointed in Lady Dunaway. I was moved by her words. I sensed in her a sincere concern, but it went against my every grain even to ponder destroying what I had worked so hard for.
“I could never do that,” I said.
The tension in her brow eased as she gazed at me sadly. “No, you are too much the scientist, the searcher, aren’t you? You would light a candle to explore a darkened room, never considering that the room might be filled with bales of cotton soaked in kerosene.” She looked at the most recently infected rabbit resting peacefully in the glass enclosure. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t preach to you so much. Who is going to take care of injecting the rabbits while you are gone?”
It was a question that had caused me great concern. Camillus influenzae could only exist in vitro, or in a culture dish for a few days, and then only under the most exacting conditions. To perpetuate the virus it was necessary to keep injecting new rabbits. Modesty aside, if there was one thing I knew, it was the potential scientific magnitude of my discovery. Outside of my family there was nothing more important to me than my research. I am sorry to say, but in my innermost thoughts I realized trusting Camillus influenzae to one of my colleagues—in the publish-or-perish world of academia—was like entrusting steak tartare to a jackal. What would I do with the virus?
There was a sound at the door of the laboratory and we both turned to see Ursula coming in.
“Your trunks—” she began, but then quieted when she saw Lady Dunaway for the first time.
“This is my older daughter, Ursula,” I introduced, motioning toward the door. “Lady Dunaway,” I said, nodding at my incongruous friend.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Lady Dunaway said politely.
To my surprise Ursula curtsied. “May I ask what this is all about?”
“Lady Dunaway has also had an encounter with the vampire,” I explained.
Her eyes widened as she once again examined Lady Dunaway. “Where?”
“In Cornwall,” Lady Dunaway broke in.
“Do you know where they are, where they live?”
“No, but-”
“When did you last see them?”
Lady Dunaway coughed, a little ruffled. “Please, dear, calm down and I will tell you.” She proceeded to explain the entire story. When she had finished, something disturbing penetrated Ursula’s breathless fascination.
Lady Dunaway’s face became a little reserved. I fancied she understood Ursula’s change in mood all too well.
“So you knew Niccolo?” said Ursula.
“Yes. I might guess you knew him also, didn’t you, dear?”
“You guess correctly.”
“Yes,” Lady Dunaway continued. “Such a captivating young man. One cannot blame you for falling under his spell. Everyone does.”
“Where are you going?” Ursula said, glancing one last time at Lady Dunaway before she once again turned toward me.
I told her about the stone hand and the postmark from Paris.
“So you’re going there! Father, you must let me come. Please, you don’t know how much it would mean to me.” A thought shot through her expression. “Who’s going to look after your work?” She looked at the cupola and then back at me.
How could I ask her? After everything that had happened, how could I expect her to take care of the injections? It was difficult, but I had to. Ursula was the only one with both the skill and the integrity to tend to the laboratory. I could trust no one else.
“I’m looking for Camille, not Niccolo,” I said.
“But you must let me go with you. I might be able to help.”
I looked at her imploringly. “You wall be able to help me more if you stay here, Ursula. I’m sorry to ask you this. I wouldn’t if it weren’t so absolutely necessary.”
Ursula tilted her head back and her nostrils flared as if she were about to stamp with fury. Her dark eyes met mine, first filled with anger and then, much to my surprise, she seemed to find something in my gaze that warmed her. She was still raging with disappointment, but she relented. Her shoulders slumped a little. All the blood rushed from her face, making her complexion chalky against her deep red hair.
“When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow, early evening,” I replied sadly.
“Do you know how long you will be gone?”
“A week or two, I suspect.”
“You mustn’t be too upset, dear,” Lady Dunaway soothed. “You will be helping more than you might imagine.”
“I know,” Ursula sighed as she looked at me. Her voice was mechanical.
That evening I telegraphed Paris and made reservations for us at the Hotel Madeleine on the Île Saint-Louis. I finished packing my toiletries and tried to do as much work in the laboratory as possible before I left. The next day I finished the necessary preparations for my departure at Redgewood. It was much to my displeasure that as I was leaving I collided head-on with Cletus.
“Hello, John,” he grunted cynically. He was sitting on a bench beneath one of two stone lions flanking the front entrance of Redgewood. He clutched a periodical in his hands. Majestic plane trees lined the length of the walk and the summer sun shone down warmly “Taking a break?” I retorted.
“Just thinking,” he returned. “I hear you are going to Paris. For a holiday?”
“Yes, to get away from it all.”
“The London police are still without any leads?”
“None.”
“Ursula’s quite disturbed you’re not allowing her to go with you?”
“How
do you know that?” I asked quickly.
“I saw her this morning. She came over to my office here at Redgewood.” He calmly lit a cigarette as he watched my reaction out of the corner of his eye.
“Now, listen, Cletus, I don’t like you having anything to do with my daughter. You know that. What’s your interest in her, anyway? Why, after all that has happened between us, do you still insist on being interested in me and my life?”
“Oh, John,” he snorted, “you don’t have to worry. I’m too old to be any threat to Ursula.”
“Then why?”
He snorted again. “I’m simply counseling her a little. She’s considering going into medicine. In fact, she says that’s why you won’t let her accompany you on this little holiday. She says you’re having her take care of some very important ‘in process’ experiments you’re conducting at home. Are you onto something, John?”
“Nothing,” I stated simply and he gazed at me with his usual suspicion. “What about you?”
After all those years of secrecy I finally realized Cletus was involved in no grand projects. He never published. He only pretended. His enigmatic research remained enigmatic. His reputation for scholarship was based on intimidation. He was a hollow man.
“Oh, nothing... nothing. I mean, at least, nothing in the scientific realm.”
I regarded him blankly, refusing to grab at his bait.
“I have discovered something I think bears a little thought. I know you think I’m batty connecting Mr. Cavalanti with Chiswick’s death, but in light of this kidnapping and all, it’s just set me to thinking.”
“About what?” I asked before I could stop myself. Why should I care what Dr. Cletus Hardwicke had to say?
“About Chiswick’s paranoia. I’m still certain that somehow it’s all involved.” He puffed slowly on his cigarette. “In any case, I’ve been asking around, writing letters to colleagues at different universities and such. I’ve discovered a few things.”
“Like what?” I said, becoming slightly more interested.
“Well, a friend of mine at University College in Liverpool says that about seven years ago exactly the same thing happened to a physician engaged in research there. He announced to the trustees of the college that he had made a discovery that would ‘make history,’ no less. Then, instead of carrying through with his announcement, he began having the most terrible rows with his wife.”
“Is that so uncommon?”
“It was in his case. According to my friend they had a model marriage, at least until the physician changed.”
“Changed?”
“Became obsessively paranoid. He locked the poor woman out of the house and suddenly insisted upon keeping his papers in a safe-deposit box. The trustees prodded him for his discovery. He snapped and destroyed all of his research and equipment and went over the deep end.”
“Committed suicide?”
“No, committed to an asylum outside of Liverpool.”
I refused to allow myself to be convinced. “And this happened seven years ago?”
He nodded.
“Cletus... every single day there must be some physician somewhere going crazy. What’s to connect your friend in Liverpool with Chiswick besides your imagination?”
“A feeling in my bones. Besides, that isn’t all.” He opened up the periodical he had been holding and held it so that I could just barely make out the print. “A friend of mine at Oxford says that recently an engineer there named M. W. Radner published an article here in the Aerology Quarterly alleging that he had made a major breakthrough in dirigible design. He says that his proposed dirigible would be faster, more maneuverable, and could carry more weight than any airship hitherto conceived. I don’t pretend to understand the mathematical hodgepodge he spews forth in this article, but engineers who are in a position to judge say that he let out just enough to be impressive. My friend at Oxford says that Radner’s dirigible could change the world.”
I tilted my head so as better to see the article Cletus held in his hand.
“Radner announced that he was going to reveal his plan at an aerology convention just last month. Unfortunately, Radner’s no longer speaking to anyone. He remains locked up in his office at Oxford and has purchased a chimpanzee to taste all of his food before he eats it to make sure it isn’t poisoned. Tch, tch,” Cletus clucked. “I guess a chimpanzee’s metabolism is closer to a human’s than a dog or cat.”
“So perhaps he has professional enemies. Or perhaps he stole the idea from someone else, and now he’s afraid of retribution.”
“Perhaps,” Cletus said, glancing down at the article and pretending to contemplate it “You still haven’t convinced me,” I ended. “All I know is if there’s one person in this world I don’t trust, it’s you, Cletus.”
The little man looked taken aback.
“And I’ll thank you to leave the counseling of my daughter to me from now on.”
“Our teas will have to be social, I guess,” he sneered.
My temper rose, but I restrained myself. “As a gentleman I must ask you to stay away from my daughter.”
For the first time he lost his smirk and regarded me with acerbity. “Or else?”
“Or else I will forsake my honor and expose you to the world for what you are.”
When early evening came the maroon-colored brougham once again pulled up outside our house on Bond Street and Lady Dunaway stepped out. Cook was waiting with me at the front door, but Ursula had bid me a reserved au revoir, and had retired to her room. I was dressed in my black evening waistcoat with my gold watch chain hanging elegantly from pocket to pocket, wearing a bowler hat, and carrying a brass-knobbed walking stick. I had even doused myself liberally with Pinaud’s Lilac Vegetal, a habit I hadn’t indulged since my wife, Camille, had died. My luggage consisted of a large traveling trunk, two carpetbags, and a hatbox.
“Good evening,” Lady Dunaway greeted happily, still dressed in her familiar ulster, cape, and two-peaked cap. She carried a small leather gripsack in her hand, and a silver sovereign-and-half-sovereign case. “So this is what you’re taking?” she said, pointing with her long, gloved finger.
“Yes.”
“This is my luggage,” she said, holding up the single leather gripsack. “I’ll get Ferguson to load your trunks.”
Cook sobbed endearingly.
After everything was loaded we took our seats in the carriage. “We must bid my lovely brougham good-bye,” Lady Dunaway murmured wistfully as we waited for the driver to climb onto his perch. “I’ve already sold it, and Ferguson will take it to its new owners as soon as he’s dropped us off.”
I smiled consolingly as the carriage started up.
As I waved to Cook I looked up at the dark bricks of the house; at the wooden portico of the door and the window above it, surrounded by a low parapet of wrought iron. The last remnant of late-afternoon sun shone brightly upon the façade, but still it seemed unusually brooding and somber. I noticed there was more ivy than I had recalled spanning its walls, weaving around window frames, and biting into the very cornice of the brick. As the old Victorian terrace house receded into the distance, there, behind a frame of tendrils and green leaves, and half-hidden by the panes of the oriel window, I saw Ursula watching.
XIV
It was twilight by the time we reached Dover, and I wondered if the Neapolitan hearse was still sitting, silent and empty, in the storage lot. Or whether young Inspector Inglethorpe had had it confiscated, to be sold, a macabre surprise, at some police auction. It had been such a warm day that there was steam rising from the water, and in the waning light there was something Stygian about the scene, like a Doré engraving of Virgil leading Dante on his raft. We crossed the Channel in the good ship Strait of Dover Our accommodations were sumptuous, our cabin being of red plush with tasseled fringes on all the windows and sliding glass doors, and equipped with a shiny brass samovar. We first set foot on French soil at Dunkerque. I spoke French very well for an Englishman,
having grown up with a number of French au pair girls in the house. I had visited France once before, with my father. I found myself oddly inspirited by this second visit, as if it were really my first. The train ride from Dunkerque took the longest, and it was in the early morning that we arrived at the Gare du Nord in Paris.
The city was breathtaking. The sun had not yet risen over the horizon, and yet, already the sky was aglow, a deep and refulgent orange. It seemed more like the vermilion of sunset than morning, the rich, oily hue of Seville oranges. On the horizon and cloaked in this golden mist were the spires of ancient churches, and the delicate ink lines of trees. In front of this was a panorama of blue-tiled roofs, crumbling stucco, and leaden cupolas. Everything was covered with the patina of corroded copper, and the grimy wash of a thousand rain gutters. Behind us gleamed the dirty white basilica of Sacré Coeur, and ahead, in the very middle of the fairy kingdom, loomed the most impressive sight of all, a silhouette that had not been there the last time I had visited Paris—an awesome fairy spire.
“So that is the work of that clever engineer we’ve been hearing so much about,” whispered Lady Dunaway, “that Monsieur Eiffel.”
I scarcely heard her, for I was much too busy contemplating what was before us. Hidden behind that somnolent postcard were all the bistros and mirror salons, sad ladies sipping absinthe, dandies and manifesto writers, intellectuals and clochards that comprised the mystique of the city. Something inside me told me I was looking at history, in some sense, in some form. This was the Paris of Baudelaire and Renoir, of the Symbolists, the mystics, and the Decadent artists. I wondered if somewhere out there, in some unknown flat, slumbered my little Camille.
Ignoring my silence, Lady Dunaway hailed a cab, and we were soon clattering down the Rue du Faubourg. When we reached the quai the sunlight shimmered like molten bronze upon the Seine, and we could see the smoky hulk of Notre-Dame with Saint-Chapelle beside it. Several tugs churned sluggishly by the two sleeping islands, and already fishermen and tramps lined the bank. So these two islands were the oldest part of Paris, already settled when the Romans invaded Gaul. “Numero quarante-sept Quai d’Anjou,” I told the driver as we turned onto the spidery steel bridge that led to the Île Saint-Louis.
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