Anno Dracula (19 page)

Godalming, like every new-born, had stared at a shaving glass for a few hours, wondering. Some disappeared completely, while others saw an apparently empty suit of clothes. Godalming’s image was a black fudge like the photographs Ruthven had mentioned. The matter of mirrors was uniformly considered the most impenetrable of the mysteries of the un-dead.

‘Anyway, Godalming... Silver Knife? This beastly murderer. He preys only on our kind, does he not? Slits throats and stabs hearts?’

‘That is what they say.’

‘A fearless vampire killer, like your old associate Van Helsing?’

Godalming’s face burned; if still capable of blushing, he was doing so.

‘I’m sorry,’ the Prime Minister said with patent sincerity, ‘I did not intend to raise that matter. It must be painful for you.’

‘Things have changed, my lord.’

Ruthven fluttered his hand. ‘You lost your fiancée to this Van Helsing. Having suffered more at his hand than even Prince Dracula, you have been pardoned and forgiven your ignorance.’

Godalming remembered hammering at the stake, and Lucy’s hissing, blood-spitting death. A death that need never have been. Lucy would have been one of the first ladies of the court; like Wilhelmina Harker or the Prince Consort’s Carpathian mistresses. He would have lost her anyway.

‘You’ve cause to curse the Dutchman’s memory. For that reason, I wish you to represent my interests in the matter of Silver Knife.’

‘I don’t see what you mean.’

Ruthven was back at his podium, exactly in his former pose. Hallward’s quick fingers filled in detail on a large sketch.

‘The Palace has taken an interest. Our dear Queen is most upset.
I have a personal note from Vicky. “This murderer is certainly not an Englishman,” she deduces, “and if he is, he is certainly not a gentleman.” Very astute.’

‘Whitechapel is a notorious nest of foreigners, my lord. The Queen may be right.’

Ruthven smiled ironically. ‘Rot, Godalming. We should all like to believe the English incapable of atrocious conduct, but such is not the case. Sir Francis Varney, after all, is an Englishman. The point is that our murderer is very choosy about his midnight surgical experiments.’

‘You think he’s a doctor?’

‘That’s hardly a fresh theory. It’s of no importance. No, the thing is that he is a vampire killer. An homicidal lunatic, almost certainly, but also a vampire killer. Given the delicacy of the situation, he is treading a knife-edge with the public. No matter how they may disapprove and cry “monster”, there is another view, a view which upholds the Silver Knife as an outlaw hero, a Robin Hood of the gutters.’

‘Surely no Englishman could believe so?’

‘Have you forgotten what it was like to be warm, Godalming? How did you feel when you were following Van Helsing about Kingstead Cemetery with hammer and stake?’

Godalming understood.

‘The best thing would be, and I am not commissioning such an act by any means, if our madman were to take his silver knife to some warm tart, and thus display an all-inclusive mania. If there is any sympathy for him, such a step would cause it to evaporate.’

‘Indeed so.’

‘But even this exalted office does not give me power over the minds of mad murderers. A pity.’

‘What would you have me do?’

‘Poke around, Godalming. We are late off the mark. Many interested parties have been tracking our man. Carpathians have been seen attending inquests and loitering in vile places. And a connection of yours, one Charles Beauregard, has been acting on behalf of our more secret services.’

‘Beauregard? He’s a quill-pusher...’

‘He is a member of the Diogenes Club, and the Diogenes Club is well-placed.’

Finding a tiny fold of lip caught between his teeth, Godalming bit down, swallowing the brief tang of his own blood. It was becoming a habit.

‘Beauregard has been haring around mysteriously. I have seen something of his fiancée. She is put out by his neglect.’

Ruthven laughed. ‘Ever the curly-haired roué, Godalming?’

‘Not at all,’ Godalming said, lying.

‘At any rate, watch Beauregard. I’ve no reports of him beyond the most basic; which suggests to me that he is a shiny little tool Admiral Messervy and his crew wish to keep all to themselves.’

He could not imagine Beauregard even knowing where Whitechapel was. But he had been in India. Godalming had heard odd hints from Penelope, hints that now formed a wavering picture of a man very different from the dull companion of Florence Stoker’s after-darks.

‘At any rate, we are expecting Sir Charles Warren within the half-hour. I shall breathe fire in his face and impress upon him the importance of bringing this affair to a speedy and happy conclusion. Then I intend to saddle the Commissioner with you.’

Godalming was quietly proud. A clever new-born might advance himself by doing such a service to his Prime Minister.

‘Godalming, this is an opportunity for you to erase forever that question mark by your name. Bring us Silver Knife and it’ll be as if you had never met Abraham Van Helsing. Few have a chance to change their past.’

‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’

‘And remember, our interests are singular. If the murderer is brought to book, then that will be good and just. But the most important aspect of the case is far removed from the fates of a few eviscerated
demi-mondaines
. When this is finished, the murderer must be reviled not revered.’

‘I don’t believe I fully understand.’

‘Let me illustrate. In New Mexico, ten years ago, a new-born ran riot, killing without thought. A warm man, Patrick Garrett, loaded a shotgun with sixteen silver dollars and peppered his heart with razor-shards. The new-born was Henry Antrim or William Bonney, a cretin leech who deserved his fate. Soon after, stories began to circulate. Dime novels elaborated upon his youth and romantic appeal. Billy the Kid, they call him now, Billy Blood. Squalid murder and pathetic crime are forgotten and the American West has a a range-riding vampire demi-god. You can read in the penny press how he rescued fair maidens and was rewarded with their freely-bestowed favours, how he stood up for poor farmers against cattle kings, how he only became a killer to avenge the death of his father-in-darkness. It’s all bunkum, Godalming, all a pretty lie for the newspapers. Billy Bonney was so low he’d bleed his own horse, but now he is a true hero. That will not happen in this case. When Silver Knife is hoisted to the stake, I want a dead madman not an unkillable legend.’

Godalming understood.

‘Warren and the others merely wish to finish Silver Knife for 1888. I want you to make sure he is destroyed for all time.’

S
eptember was nearly done. It was the morning of the 28th. Silver Knife had not murdered since Lulu Schön, on the 17th. Of course, Whitechapel was now so crowded with policemen and reporters that the killer might be overcome with shyness. Unless, as some had theorised, he was a policeman or a reporter.

With the sun up, the streets were sparsely populated. The fog had blown away for the moment, giving him a cold, clear look at the place that had become his second home. Beauregard had to admit he did not much care for it, by day or night. After another fruitless shift with resentful detectives, he was tired to the point of exhaustion. Professional feeling was that the trail was cooling fast. The murderer might have succumbed to his own mania and turned his knife against himself. Or simply hopped on a steamer for America or Australia. Soon, everywhere in the world you could go, there would be vampires.

‘Maybe he’s just
stopped,’
Sergeant Thick had suggested. ‘They do sometimes. He could spend the rest of his life sniggering every time he passes a copper. Maybe he doesn’t get his jollies with the knife, maybe the thing is that he wants to have a secret all to himself.’

That had not sounded right to Beauregard. From the autopsies,
he believed Silver Knife got his jollies cutting up vampire women. Although the victims were not conventionally violated, it was obvious the crimes were sexual in nature. Privately, Dr Phillips, the H Division Police Surgeon, theorised that the murderer might practice the sin of Onan at the site of his crimes. Little connected with this case was not utterly repulsive to decent sensibilities.

‘Mr Beauregard,’ a female voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Charles?’

A young person with a black bonnet and smoked glasses crossed the street to talk to him. Although it was not raining, she had up a black umbrella, shading her face. The wind caught and it tilted, swinging back the shadow.

‘Why, it’s Miss Reed,’ Beauregard exclaimed, surprised. ‘Kate?’

The girl smiled to be remembered.

‘What brings you to these unsavoury parts?’

‘Journalism, Charles. Remember, I scribble.’

‘Of course. Your essay on the consequences of the match-girl strike in
Our Corner
was exemplary. Radical, of course, but exceedingly fair.’

‘That is probably the first and only time the expression “exceedingly fair” will be used in connection with me, but I thank you for the compliment.’

‘You underrate yourself, Miss Reed.’

‘Perhaps,’ she mused, before proceeding to her current business. ‘I’m looking for Uncle Diarmid. Have you seen him?’

Beauregard knew Kate’s uncle was one of the head men at the Central News Agency. The police thought highly of him, rating him one of the few scrupulous pressmen on the crime circuit.

‘Not recently. Is he here? On a story?’

‘
The
story. Silver Knife.’

Kate was fidgety, holding close a mannish document folder which
seemed to have some totemic value. Her umbrella was larger than she could easily manage.

‘There’s something different about you, Miss Reed. Have you perhaps changed the style of your hair?’

‘No, Mr Beauregard.’

‘Odd. I could have sworn...’

‘Maybe you haven’t seen me since I turned.’

It hit him at once that she was
nosferatu
. ‘I beg your pardon.’

She shrugged. ‘That’s all right. A lot of the girls are turning, you know. My – what do they call them? – father-in-darkness has many get. He is Mr Frank Harris, the editor.’

‘I have heard of him. He is a friend of Florence Stoker’s, isn’t he?’

‘He used to be, I think.’

Her patron, famous for championing people then breaking with them, was notoriously profligate with his affections. Kate was a direct young woman; Beauregard could see why she might appeal to Mr Frank Harris, the editor.

She must have some important mission to venture out by day, even heavily shrouded from the sun, so soon after turning.

‘There is a café nearby where the reporters gather. It’s not quite the place for an unaccompanied young lady, but...’

‘Then, Mr Beauregard, you must accompany me, for I have something Uncle Diarmid must see immediately. I hope you do not think me forward or presumptuous. I would not ask if it were not important.’

Kate Reed had always been pale and thin. The turn actually made her complexion seem healthier. Beauregard felt the force of her will, and was not inclined to resist.

‘Very well, Miss Reed. This way...’

‘Call me Kate. Charles.’

‘Of course. Kate.’

‘How is Penny? I have not seen her since...’

‘I’m rather afraid that neither have I. My guess is that she is in something of a pet.’

‘Not the first time.’

Beauregard frowned.

‘Oh, I am sorry, Charles. I didn’t mean to say that. I can be a fearful twit at times.’

She made him smile.

‘Here,’ he said.

The Café de Paris was on Commercial Street, near the police station. A pie-and-eels-and-pitchers-of-tea establishment, formerly catering to market porters and police constables, it was now full of men with curly moustaches and check suits, arguing about bylines and headlines. The reason the place was such a hit with the press was that the proprietor had installed one of the new telephone devices. He allowed reporters, for a penny a time, to place calls to their head offices, even to the extent of dictating stories over the wire.

‘Welcome to futurity,’ he said, holding open the door for Kate.

She saw what he meant. ‘Oh, how wonderful.’

An angry little American in a rumpled white suit and a straw hat from the last decade was holding the mouth- and ear-pieces of the apparatus, and yelling at an unseen editor.

‘I’m telling you,’ he shouted, loud enough to render the miracle of modern science superfluous, ‘I’ve a dozen witnesses who swear the Silver Knife is a were-wolf.’

The man at the other end shouted, giving the exasperated reporter a chance to draw breath. ‘Anthony,’ he said, ‘this is
news
. We work for a
news
paper, we are supposed to print
news
!’

The reporter wrestled with the device, shutting off the call, and passed it on to the next man, a startled new-born, in the queue for the device.

‘Over to you, LeQueux,’ the American said. ‘Better luck with your runaway steam-driven automaton theory.’

LeQueux, whom Beauregard had read in the
Globe
, rattled the telephone, and began whispering to the operator.