‘Maybe he’s a simple madman,’ he said. ‘Possessed of no more purpose than an orang-utan with a straight razor.’
‘Dr Seward claims madmen are not so simple. Their actions might appear random and senseless, but there is always some pattern. Come at it from a dozen different ways and you eventually begin to understand, to see the world as the madman does.’
‘And then we can catch him?’
‘Dr Seward would say “cure him”.’
They passed a poster listing the names of the latest criminals to be publicly impaled. Tyburn was a forest of dying thieves, exquisites and seditionists.
Beauregard considered. ‘I’m afraid there’ll only be one cure for this madman.’
At the corner of Wentworth Street, they saw a gathering of policemen and officials in Goulston Street. Lestrade and Abberline were among them, clustered around a thin man with a sad moustache and a silk hat. It was Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, dragged down to a despised quarter of his parish. The group were standing by the doorway of a block of recently-built Model Dwellings.
Beauregard sauntered over, the vampire girl with him. Something important, he assumed, was under discussion. Lestrade moved aside to let them into the group. Beauregard was surprised to find Lord Godalming with the civilian dignitaries. The new-born wore a large hat to shade his face, and was puffing on a cigar.
‘Who is this man?’ Sir Charles asked grumpily, indicating Beauregard and ignoring Geneviève as beneath his notice. ‘You, fellow, go away. This is official business. Chop-chop, scurry off!’
Having made his reputation in the Kaffir War, Sir Charles was used to treating everyone without official rank as if they were a native.
Godalming explained, ‘Mr Beauregard represents the Diogenes Club.’
The Commissioner, watery-eyed in the early morning sun, swallowed his irritation. Beauregard understood why the police resented his presence, but was not above taking a little pleasure in Sir Charles’s discomfort.
‘Very well,’ Sir Charles said. ‘I am sure your discretion is to be trusted.’
Lestrade made a disgusted face behind the Commissioner. Sir Charles was losing the support of his own men.
‘Halse,’ Lestrade said, ‘show us what you found.’
A square of packing-case rested against the fascia by the doorway. Halse, a Detective Constable, lifted the make-shift guard. A bloated rat, body as big as a rugby ball, shot out and darted between the Commissioner’s polished shoes, squeaking like rusty nails on a slate. The constable disclosed a chalk scrawl, grey-white against black bricks.
THE VAMPYRES
ARE NOT THE MEN THAT WILL BE
BLAMED FOR NOTHING
‘So, obviously the vampires are to be blamed for something,’ deduced the Commissioner, astutely.
Halse held up a ragged piece of once-white cloth, spotted with blood. ‘This was in the doorway, sir. It’s part of an apron.’
‘The Eddowes woman is wearing the rest of it,’ Abberline said.
‘You are certain?’ Sir Charles asked.
‘It’s not been checked. But I’ve just come from Golden Lane Mortuary, and I saw the other piece. Same stains, same type of tear. They’ll fit like puzzle pieces.’
Sir Charles rumbled wordlessly.
‘Could the Ripper be one of us?’ asked Godalming, echoing Geneviève’s earlier musings.
‘One of you,’ Beauregard muttered.
‘The Ripper is obviously trying to throw us off,’ put in Abberline. ‘That’s an educated man trying to make us think he’s an illiterate. Only one misspelling, and a double negative not even the thickest costermonger would actually use.’
‘Like the Jack the Ripper letter?’ asked Geneviève.
Abberline thought. ‘Personally, I reckon that was a smart circulation drummer at the Whitechapel Star playing silly buggers to drive up sales. This is a different hand, and this is the Ripper. It’s too close to be a coincidence.’
‘The graffito was not here yesterday?’ Beauregard asked.
‘The beat man swears not.’
Constable Halse agreed with the inspector.
‘Wipe it off,’ Sir Charles said.
Nobody did anything.
‘There’ll be mob rule, a mass uprising, disorder in the streets. We’re still few and the warm are many.’
The Commissioner took his own handkerchief to the chalk, and rubbed it away. Nobody protested at the destruction of evidence, but Beauregard saw a look pass between the detectives.
‘There, job done,’ Sir Charles said. ‘Sometimes I think I have to do everything myself.’
Beauregard saw a narrow-minded impulsiveness that might have passed for stouthearted valour at Rorke’s Drift or Lucknow, and understood just how Sir Charles could make a decision that ended in Bloody Sunday.
The dignitaries drifted away, back to their cabs and clubs and comfort.
‘Shall I see you and Penny at the Stokers’?’ Godalming asked.
‘When this matter is at a conclusion.’
‘Give my kindest regards to Penny.’
‘I’ll be sure to.’
Godalming followed Sir Charles. And the East End coppers stayed behind to clean up.
‘It should have been photographed,’ Halse said. ‘It was a clue. Dammit, a clue.’
‘Easy, lad,’ said Abberline.
‘Right,’ said Lestrade. ‘I want the cells full by sundown. Haul in every tart, every ponce, every bruiser, every dipper. Threaten ’em with whatever you want. Someone knows something, and sooner or later, someone’ll talk.’
That would please the Limehouse Ring not a bit. Furthermore, Lestrade was wrong. Beauregard had a high enough estimation of the criminal community to believe that if any felon in London had so much as a hint of the identity of the Ripper, it would have passed directly to him. He had received several telegrams, indicating which avenues of enquiry would prove fruitless. The shadow empire had ruled out several investigative threads the police still pursued. It was perhaps disquieting to consider that the group in Limehouse had a higher percentage of first-rate minds than that which had just gathered in Goulston Street.
With Geneviève, he walked back towards Commercial Street. It was late afternoon already, and he had not slept in over a day and a half. Paper-boys were hawking special editions. With a signed letter from the killer and two fresh murders, the hysteria for news was at a peak.
‘What do you think of Warren?’ Geneviève asked.
Beauregard considered it best not to confide his opinion, but she understood it exactly in an instant. She was one of those vampires, and he would have to be careful what he thought in her company.
‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘Precisely the wrong man for the position. Ruthven should know that. Still, better him than a Carpathian maniac.’
Puzzled, he put a suggestion to her. ‘To hear you, one would think you prejudiced against vampires.’
‘Mr Beauregard, I find myself surrounded by the Prince Consort’s get. It’s too late to complain, but Vlad Tepes hardly represents the best of my kind. No one dislikes a Jewish or Italian degenerate more than a Jew or an Italian.’
Beauregard found himself alone with Geneviève as sun set. She took off her cap.
‘There,’ she said, shaking out her honey-coloured hair, ‘that’s better.’
Geneviève seemed to stretch like a cat in the sun. He could sense her increasing strength. Her eyes sparkled a little, and her smile became almost sly.