A WALK IN WHITECHAPEL
‘I think at the last she was lucid,’ he said. ‘She was trying to tell us something.’
‘What do you suggest?’ Geneviève replied. ‘The murderer’s name is... Sydney Trousers?’
Beauregard laughed. Not many of the un-dead bothered with humour.
‘Unlikely,’ he replied. ‘Mr Boot, perhaps.’
‘Or a boot-maker.’
‘I have impeccable cause to believe John Pizer out of consideration.’
The corpse had been carted off to the mortuary, where the medical and press vultures were hungrily awaiting. Kate Reed was at the Café de Paris, telephoning in her story, under strict instructions not to mention his name. Drawing attention to the Diogenes Club would be bad enough, but he was really concerned with Penelope. He could well imagine her comments if his part in the last minutes of Liz Stride were made public. This was a different part of the woods, a different part of the city, a different part of his life. Penelope did not live here; and would prefer not to know of its existence.
He walked the distance between Berner Street and Mitre Square. The vampire from Toynbee Hall tagged along, less bothered than Kate had been yesterday by the pale sun. In daylight, Geneviève Dieudonné was quite appealing. She dressed like a New Woman, tight jacket and simple dress, sensible flat-heeled boots, beret-like cap and waist-length cape. If Great Britain had an elected parliament in a year’s time, she would want the vote; and, he suspected, she would not be voting for Lord Ruthven.
They arrived at the site of the Eddowes murder. Mitre Square was an enclosed area by the Great Synagogue, accessible through two narrow passages. The entrances were roped off, the bloody patch guarded by a warm policeman. A few on-lookers loitered, intent on filling out a suspects file. An Orthodox Jew, ringlets dangling in front of his ears, beard down to his belly, was trying to get some of these undesirables to stop hanging about the doors of the Synagogue.
Beauregard lifted the rope and let Geneviève pass. He showed his card to the policeman, who saluted. Geneviève looked around the dreary square.
‘The Ripper must be a sprinter,’ she said.
Beauregard checked his half-hunter. ‘We bested his time by five minutes, but we knew where we were going. He may not have taken the shortest route, especially if his intent was to avoid the main roads. He was presumably just looking for a girl.’
‘And a private place.’
‘It’s not terribly private here.’
There were faces behind the windows in the court, looking down.
‘In Whitechapel, people are practised at not seeing things.’
Geneviève was prowling the tiny walled-in court, as if trying to get the feel of the place.
‘This is perfect, public but private. Ideal for the practice of alfresco harlotry.’
‘You’re unlike other vampires,’ he observed.
‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I should hope to be.’
‘Are you what they call an elder?’
She tapped her heart. ‘Sweet sixteeen in here, but I was born in 1416.’
Beauregard was puzzled. ‘Then you’re not...’
‘Not of the Prince Consort’s bloodline? Quite right. My father-in-darkness was Chandagnac, and his mother-in-darkness was Lady Melissa d’Acques, and...’
‘So all this –’ he waved his hand ‘– is nothing to do with you?’
‘Everything is to do with everyone, Mr Beauregard. Vlad Tepes is a sick monster and his get spread his sickness. That poor woman this morning is what you can expect of his bloodline.’
‘You work as a physician?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve picked up many professions over the years. I’ve been a whore, a soldier, a singer, a geographer, a criminal. Whatever has seemed best. Now, doctoring seems best. My father, my true father, was a doctor, and I his apprentice. Elizabeth Garrett Anderson and Sophia Jex-Blake aren’t the first women ever to practise medicine, you know.’
‘Things have changed greatly since the fifteenth century.’
‘So I understand. I read something about it in The Lancet. I wouldn’t consider leeches, except in special cases.’
Beauregard found himself liking this ancient girl. Geneviève was unlike any of the women, warm or un-dead, he knew. Whether by choice or from necessity, women seemed to stand to one side, watching, passing comment, never acting. He thought of Florence Stoker, pretending to understand the clever people she entertained, turning petulant whenever anything was not done for her. And Penelope elevated an attitude of non-involvement to a sanctified cause, insisting that messy details be kept from her poor head. Even Kate Reed, new and new-born, contented herself with jotting down notes on life as an alternative to living it. Geneviève Dieudonné was not a spectator. She reminded him a little of Pamela. Pamela had always wanted, demanded, to be involved.
‘Is this affair political?’
Beauregard thought carefully before answering. He did not know how much he should tell her.
‘I’ve made enquiries about the Diogenes Club,’ she explained. ‘You’re some species of government office, are you not?’
‘I serve the Crown.’
‘Why your interest in this matter?’
Geneviève stood over the splash where Catharine Eddowes had died. The policeman looked the other way. A vampire had been at him to judge from the red marks streaking up from his collar almost to his ear.
‘The Queen herself has expressed concern. If she decrees we try to catch a murderer, then...’
‘The Ripper might be an anarchist of some stripe,’ she mused. ‘Or a die-hard vampire hater.’
‘The latter is certain.’
‘Why is everyone so sure the Ripper is warm?’ Geneviève asked.
‘The victims were all vampires.’
‘So are a lot of people. The victims were also all women, all prostitutes, all near-destitutes. There could be any number of connecting factors. The Ripper always goes for the throat; that’s a nosferatu trick.’
The policeman was getting fidgety. Geneviève disturbed him. Beauregard suspected she had that effect on not a few.
He countered her theory. ‘As far as we can tell from the autopsies, the dead women were not bitten, not bled. Besides, as vampires, their blood would not interest another vampire.’
‘That’s not entirely true, Mr Beauregard. We become what we are by drinking the blood of another vampire. It is uncommon but we do tap each other. Sometimes it is a way of establishing dominance within a group, a petty tyrant demanding a tithe from his followers. Sometimes vampire blood can be a curative for those with debased bloodlines. And sometimes, of course, mutual bleeding can be simply a sexual act, like any other...’
Beauregard blushed at her forthrightness. The policeman was scarlet-faced, rubbing his angry wounds.
‘The bloodline of Vlad Tepes is polluted,’ she continued. ‘One would have to be addle-pated with disease to drink from such a well. But London is full of very sick vampires. The Ripper could as easily be of their number as be some warm grudge-holder.’
‘He could also be after the women’s blood because he himself wants to become un-dead. You’ve the fountain of youth flowing in your veins. If our Ripper is warm but sick, he might be desperate enough to seek such measures.’
‘There are easier ways of becoming a vampire. Of course, a lot of people distrust easy ways. Your suggestion has some merit. But why so many victims? One mother-in-darkness would suffice. And why murder? Any one of the women would have turned him for a shilling.’
They left the square and began drifting back towards Commercial Street. The thoroughfare was at the centre of the case. Annie Chapman and Lulu Schön had been killed in streets off the road. The police station from which the investigation was being conducted was there, and the Café de Paris, and Toynbee Hall. Last night, at some point, the Ripper must have crossed Commercial Street, and perhaps even have strolled, bloody knife under his coat, along its extension south of Whitechapel High Street, the Commercial Road, following his own route to Limehouse and the docks. There was a persistent rumour that the murderer was a seaman.