Anno Dracula (37 page)

‘Lucy,’ he said, without expression.

The young man straightened and brushed his lapels with his knuckles, presenting himself to be introduced. John shook his head as if trying to put together two mismatched halves of a broken ornament. Mary Jane wondered if she had done something terribly wrong.

‘Lucy,’ he said again.

‘Dr Seward,’ began the young man, ‘you are being remiss.’

Something inside John snapped and he began pretending everything was ordinary. ‘Do forgive me,’ he said. ‘Morrison, this is Lucy. My... oh, a family friend.’

Mr Morrison’s smirk was complex, as if he understood. Mary Jane thought she had seen him before; it was possible the young man knew her for who she was. She let him take her hand and bobbed her head slightly. A mistake, she knew at once; she was a lady, not a tweeny maid. She should have let Mr Morrison raise her hand to his lips, then nodded grudgingly as if he were the lowest thing on earth and she Princess Alexandra. For such an error, Uncle Henry would have taken the rod to her.

‘I’m afraid you find me frightfully preoccupied,’ John said.

‘One of our stalwarts has gone missing,’ Mr Morrison explained. ‘You wouldn’t have happened across a Montague Druitt on your travels?’

The name meant nothing to her.

‘I feared as much. I doubt that Druitt is much in your line, anyway.’

Mary Jane pretended not to know at all what Mr Morrison meant. John, still taken aback, was fiddling with some doctor’s implement. She began to suspect this social call to be not entirely a well-conceived endeavour.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Mr Morrison said, ‘I’m sure you’ve much to discuss. Miss Lucy, good night. Dr Seward, we’ll talk later.’

Mr Morrison withdrew, leaving her alone with John. When the door was firmly shut, she slipped close to him, her hands on his chest, her face by his collar, her cheek against the soft stuff of his waistcoat.

‘Lucy,’ he said, again. It was a habit of his, just to say the name out loud. He looked at Mary Jane, and saw the twice-dead girl in Kingstead.

His hands touched her about the waist, then climbed her back, finally fixing at her neck. Taking a grip, he pulled her away from him. His thumbs pressed under her chin. If she were warm, this might hurt. Her teeth grew sharp. John Seward’s face was dark, his expression one with which she was familiar. Sometimes, this look would pass over him when they were together. It was his brute self, the savage she found inside every man. Then, something mild sparked in his eyes and he let her go. He was shaking. He turned away and steadied himself against his desk. She smoothed the strands of her hair that had come loose, and rearranged her collar. In his rough grip, her red thirst had been aroused.

‘Lucy, you mustn’t...’

He waved her away but she took a hold on him from behind, easing his collar away from his neck, undoing his stock.

‘... be here. This is...’

She wet his old scars with her tongue, then opened them with a gentle bite.

‘... another part of...’

Intently, she sucked. Her throat burned. She shut her eyes and saw red in the darkness.

‘... my life.’

Taking her mouth from his neck for a moment, she chewed her glove, biting away the tiny shell buttons at her wrist. She freed her right hand and spat out the cloth skin. Her fingers had extended, nails splitting the seams. She reached into his clothes, displacing buttons. She stroked his warm flesh, careful not to cut. John moaned to himself slightly, lost.

‘Lucy.’

The name spurred her, put anger in her appetite. She tugged at his clothes, and bit again, deeper.

‘Lucy.’

No, she thought, gripping, Mary Jane.

Her chin and front were wet with his blood. She heard a choke in the back of his throat and felt him swallowing his own scream. He tried to say Lucy’s name again but she worried him harder, silencing him. For the moment, in this heat, he was her John. When it was over, she would dab her lips and be his dream Lucy again. And he would rearrange his clothes and be Dr Seward. But now they were their true selves; Mary Jane and John, joined by blood and flesh.

G
eneviève Dieudonné,’ Beauregard introduced her, ‘Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the First Bangalore Pioneers, author of
Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas
, and one of the greatest scoundrels unhanged...’

The new-born in the coach was an angry-looking brute, uncomfortable in evening dress, moustache bristling fiercely. When warm, he must have had the ruddy tan of an ‘Injah hand’, but now he looked like a viper, poison sacs bulging under his chin.

Moran grunted something that might count as an acknowledgement, and ordered them to get into the coach. Beauregard hesitated, then stepped back to allow her to go first. He was being clever, she realised. If the Colonel meant harm, he would keep an eye on the man he considered a threat. The new-born would not believe her four and a half centuries stronger than he. If it came to it, she could tear him apart.

Geneviève sat opposite Moran and Beauregard took the seat next to her. Moran tapped the roof and the cab moved off. With the motion, the black-hooded bundle next to the Colonel nodded forwards, and had to be straightened up and leaned back.

‘A friend?’ Beauregard asked.

Moran snorted. Inside the bundle was a man, either dead or insensible. ‘What would you say if I told you this was the veritable Jack the Ripper?’

‘I suppose I’d have to take you seriously. I understand you only hunt the most dangerous game.’

Moran grinned, tiger-fangs under his whiskers. ‘Huntin’ hunters. It’s the only sport worth talkin’ about.’

‘They say Quatermain and Roxton are better than you with a rifle, and the Russian who uses the Tartar warbow is the best of all.’

The Colonel brushed away the comparisons. ‘They’re all warm.’

Moran had a stiff arm out, holding back the clumsy bundle. ‘We’re on our own in this huntin’ trip,’ he said. ‘The rest of the Ring aren’t in it.’

Beauregard considered.

‘It’s been nearly a month since the last matter,’ the Colonel said. ‘Saucy Jack’s finished. Probably cut his throat on one of his own knives. But that’s not enough for us, is it? If business is to get back to the usual, Jack has to be seen to be finished.’

They were near the river. The Thames was a sharp, foul undertaste. All the filth of the city wound up in the river, and was disseminated into the seven seas. Garbage from Rotherhithe and Stepney drifted to Shanghai and Madagascar.

Moran got a grip on the black winding sheet and wrenched it away from a pale, bloodied face.

‘Druitt,’ Geneviève said.

‘Montague John Druitt, I believe,’ the Colonel said. ‘A colleague of yours, with very singular nocturnal habits.’

This was not right. Druitt’s left eye opened in a rind of blood. He had been badly beaten.

‘The police considered him early in the investigation,’ Beauregard said – a surprise to Geneviève – ‘but he was ruled out.’

‘He had easy access,’ Moran said. ‘Toynbee Hall is almost dead centre of the pattern made by the murder sites. He fits the popular picture, a crackpot toff with bizarre delusions. Nobody – beggin’ your pardon, ma’am – really believes an educated man works among tarts and beggars out of Christian kindness. And nobody is goin’ to object to Druitt takin’ the blame for the slaughter of a handful of harlots. He’s not exactly royalty, is he? He don’t even have an alibi for any of the killings.’

‘You evidently have close friends at the Yard?’

Moran flashed his feral grin again. ‘So, do I extend my congratulations to you and your ladyfriend?’ the Colonel asked. ‘Have you caught Jack the Ripper?’

Beauregard took a long pause and thought. Geneviève was confused, realising how much had been kept from her. Druitt was trying to talk, but his broken mouth couldn’t frame words. The coach was thick with the smell of slick blood and her own mouth was dry. She had not fed in too long.

‘No,’ Beauregard said. ‘Druitt will not fit. He plays cricket.’

‘So does another blackguard I could name. That don’t prevent him from bein’ a filthy murderer.’

‘In this case, it does. On the mornings after the second and fourth and fifth murders, Druitt was on the field. After the “double event”, he made a half-century and took two wickets. I hardly think he could have managed that if he’d been up all night chasing and killing women.’

Moran was not impressed. ‘You’re beginnin’ to sound like that rotten detective they sent to Devil’s Dyke. All clues and evidence
and deductions. Druitt here is committin’ suicide tonight, fillin’ his pockets with stones and takin’ a swim in the Thames. I dare say the body’ll have been bashed about a bit before he’s found. But before he does the deed, he’ll leave behind a confession. And his handwritin’ is goin’ to look deuced like those bloody crank letters.’

Moran made Druitt’s head nod.

‘It won’t wash, Colonel. What if the real Ripper starts killing again?’

‘Harlots die, Beauregard. It happens often. We found one Ripper, we can always find another.’

‘Let me guess. Pedachenko, the Russian agent? The police considered him for a moment or two. Sir William Gull, the Queen’s physician? Dr Barnardo? Prince Albert Victor? Walter Sickert? A Portuguese seaman? It’s a simple matter to put a scalpel into someone’s hand and make him up for the part. But that won’t stop the killing...’

‘I didn’t take you for such a fastidious sort, Beauregard. You don’t mind servin’ vampires, or –’ a sharp nod at Geneviève ‘– consortin’ with them. You may be warm but you’re chillin’ by the hour. Your conscience lets you serve the Prince Consort.’

‘I serve the Queen, Moran.’

The Colonel started to laugh, but – after a flash of razor lightning in the dark of the cab – found Beauregard’s sword-cane at his throat.

‘I know a silversmith, too,’ Beauregard said. ‘Just like Jack.’

Druitt tumbled off his seat and Geneviève caught him. His groan told her that he was broken inside.

Moran’s eyes glowed red in the gloom. The silvered length of steel held fast, point dimpling the Colonel’s adam’s apple.

‘I’m going to turn Druitt,’ Geneviève said. ‘He’s too badly hurt to be saved any other way.’

Beauregard nodded to her, his hand steady. With a nip, she bit into her wrist, and waited for the blood to well up. If Druitt could drink enough of her blood as she drained him, the turn would begin.

She never had any get. Her father-in-darkness had served her well, and she would not be a profligate fool like Lily’s murgatroyd or Lord Godalming.

‘Another new-born,’ Moran snorted. ‘We should’ve been more selective when it all started. Too many bloody vampires in this business.’

‘Drink,’ she cooed.

What did she really know about Montague John Druitt? Like her, he was a lay practitioner, not a doctor but with some medical knowledge. She did not even know why a man with some small income and position should want to work in Toynbee Hall. He was not an obsessive philanthropist like Seward. He was not a religious man like Booth. Geneviève had taken him for granted as a useful pair of hands; now, she would have to take responsibility for him, possibly for ever. If he became a monster, like Vlad Tepes or even Colonel Sebastian Moran, then it would be her fault. She would be killing all the people Druitt killed. He had been a suspect: even if innocent, there was something about Druitt that had made him seem a likely Ripper.

‘Drink,’ she said, forcing the word from her mouth. Her wrist was dripping red.

She held her hand to Druitt’s mouth. Her incisors slid from their gumsheaths and she dipped her head. The scent of Druitt’s blood was stinging in her nostrils. He had a convulsion and she realised his need was urgent. If he did not drink her blood now, he would die. She touched her wrist to his mashed lips. He flinched away, trembling.

‘No,’ he gargled, refusing her gift, ‘no...’

A shudder of disgust ran through him and he died.

‘Not everybody wants to live for ever,’ Moran observed. ‘What a waste.’

Geneviève reached across the space between them and backhanded the Colonel across the face, knocking away Beauregard’s cane. Moran’s red eyes shrank and she could tell he was afraid of her. She was still hungry, having allowed the red thirst to rise in her. She could not drink Druitt’s spoiled dead blood. She could not even drink Moran’s second- or third-hand blood. But she could relieve her frustration by ripping meat off his face.

‘Call her off,’ Moran spluttered.

One of her hands was at his throat, the other was drawn back, the fingers gathered into a point, sharp talons bunched like an arrowhead. It would be easy to put a hole in Moran’s face.

‘It’s not worth it,’ Beauregard said. Somehow, his words cut through her crimson rage and she held back. ‘He may be a worm, but he has friends, Geneviève. Friends you wouldn’t want to make enemies of. Friends who have already troubled you.’

Her teeth slipped back into her gums and her sharpened fingernails settled. She was still itchy for blood, but she was in control again.

Beauregard put up his sword and Moran ordered the cabby to stop the coach. The Colonel, his new-born’s confidence in shreds, was shaking as they stepped down. A trickle of blood leaked from one eye. Beauregard sheathed his cane and Moran wrapped a scarf around his pricked neck.