‘But there’s something there.’
She thought a moment. ‘Yes, you’re right. There is something there. I don’t think Henry Jekyll is Jack the Ripper. But there is an indefinably peculiar quality about him.’
Beauregard was grimly pleased to have his suspicions confirmed.
‘He’ll bear watching.’
‘Charles, are you employing me as a bloodhound?’
‘I suppose I am. Do you mind?’
‘Woof woof,’ she said, giggling. When she laughed, her upper lip drew back ferociously from sharp teeth. ‘Remember not to trust me. I used to say the war would be over by winter.’
‘Which war?’
‘The Hundred Years’ War.’
‘Good guess.’
‘One year, I was right. By then, I didn’t care any more. I think I was in Spain.’
‘You were French originally. Why don’t you live there?’
‘France was English then. That was what they said the war was about.’
‘So you were on our side?’
‘Most definitely not. But it was a long time ago, and in another country, and that girl is long gone.’
‘Whitechapel is a strange place to find you.’
‘I’m not the only French girl in Whitechapel. Half the filles de joie on the streets call themselves “Fifi La Tour”.’
He laughed again.
‘Your family must have been French too, Monsieur Beauregard, and you reside in Cheyne Walk.’
‘It was good enough for Carlyle.’
‘I met Carlyle once. And many others. The great and the good, the mad and the bad. I used to fear someone would track me down by correlating all the mentions of me in memoirs through the ages. Track me down and destroy me. That used to be the worst that could happen. My friend Carmilla was tracked down and destroyed. She was a soppy girl, fearfully dependent on her warm lovers, but she didn’t deserve to be speared and beheaded, then left to float in a coffin full of her own blood. I suppose I don’t have to worry about that dread dark fate any more.’
‘What have you been doing all these years?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Running? Waiting? Trying to do the right thing? Am I a good person, do you think? Or a bad person?’
She did not expect an answer. Her mix of melancholy and bitter came out as amusing. He supposed being amusing was her way of coping. She must be as weighted with centuries as Jacob Marley was with chains.
‘Cheer up, old girl,’ he said. ‘Henry Jekyll thinks you’re perfect.’
‘Old girl?’
‘It’s just an expression.’
Geneviève hummed sadly. ‘It’s me exactly, isn’t it though? An old girl.’
What was it she made him feel? He was nervous near her, but excited. It was much like being in danger, and he had trained himself to be cool under fire. When he was with Geneviève, it was like sharing a secret. What would Pamela have thought of his vampire? She had been perceptive: even with agony knifing into her, she could not be lied to. To the end, he told her that she would be all right, that she would see home again. Pamela shook away his assurances and demanded he listen. For Pamela, dying was hard: she was angry, not with the fool doctor, but with herself, angry that her body had failed her, was failing their baby. Her fury burned like a fever. Gripping her hand, he could feel it. She died with something unsaid; ever since, he had been picking at the scab, wondering if there was anything to understand, wondering what the urgent thought was, the thought Pamela was not able at the last to force into words.
‘“I love you.”’
‘What?’
Geneviève’s cheeks were dewed with tears. For once, she seemed younger than her face.
‘That’s what she was saying, Charles. “I love you.” That’s all.’
Angered, he gripped the handle of his cane and thumbed the catch. An inch of silver shone. Geneviève gasped.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ she said, leaning against him. ‘I’m not like that, really. I don’t pry. It’s...’ She was weeping freely, tears spotting her velvet collar. ‘It was so clear, Charles,’ she insisted, shaking her head and smiling at the same time. ‘It came spilling from your mind. Usually, impressions are vague. For once, I had a perfect picture. I knew. What you felt... oh Lord, Charles, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know what I was doing, please forgive me... and what she felt. It was a voice, cutting like a knife. What was her name?’
‘Pen...’ he swallowed. ‘Pamela. My wife, Pamela.’
‘Pamela. Yes, Pamela. I could hear her voice.’
Her cold hands latched upon his, forcing his cane shut. Geneviève’s face was close. Red specks swam in the corners of her eyes.
‘You’re a medium?’
‘No, no, no. You’ve carried the moment around with you, nurturing the hurt. It’s in you, there to be read.’
He knew she was right. He should have known what Pamela was saying. He had not let himself hear. Beauregard had taken Pamela to India. He knew the risk. He should have sent her home when they found she was with child. But a crisis arose and she insisted on staying. She insisted, but he let her insist; he did not force her back to England. He was weak to let her stay. He did not deserve to understand her at the last. He did not deserve to be loved.
Geneviève was smiling through tears. ‘There was no blame, Charles. She was angry. But not with you.’
‘I never thought...’
‘Charles...’
‘Well, I never consciously thought...’
She raised a finger and laid it against his face. Taking it away, she held it up before him. A tear stood out. He took a handkerchief, and wiped his eyes.
‘I know what she was angry with, Charles. Death. Of all people, I understand. I think I would have liked, would have loved, your wife.’
Geneviève touched her finger to her tongue, and shuddered slightly. Vampires could drink tears.
What Pamela would have thought of Geneviève hardly mattered. What was important, he realised with a gaping in his stomach, was what Penelope would think...
‘I really didn’t mean for all this to happen,’ she said. ‘You must think me fearfully wet.’
She took his handkerchief, and dabbed her own eyes dry. She looked at the damp-spotted cloth.
‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘Salt water.’
He was puzzled.
‘Usually, I cry blood. It’s not very attractive. All teeth and rat-tails, like a proper nosferatu.’
Now, he took her hand. The pain of memory was passing; somehow, he was stronger.
‘Geneviève, you consistently underestimate yourself. Remember, I know for a fact that you don’t know what you look like.’
‘I can remember a girl with feet like a duck’s, and lips that don’t match. Pretty eyes, though. I’m not sure, but I hope that was my sister. Her name was Cirielle; she married the brother of a Marshal of France and died a grandmother.’
She was sharp again, in control of herself. Only the slight flush on her neck betrayed any emotion, and that was fading like ice in sunlight.
‘By now my family must have spread over the globe, like Christianity. I expect everybody alive is related to me somehow.’
He tried to laugh but she was serious again.
‘I don’t like myself when I gush, Charles. I apologise for having embarrassed you.’
Beauregard shook his head. Something had broken between them, but he was not sure whether it had been a bond or a barrier.
29
MR VAMPIRE II
Charles’s tear still tingled on her tongue. She’d not meant to taste his grief but had been unable to help herself. In her old age, she was getting cranky and hard to fathom. Most elders went mad. Like Vlad Tepes. From Charles, she had a bubble of memory. The grip of a thin hand, the smell of dying blood, the heat and dirt of a far country, the fierce struggle of a woman to live, to bring life to the world. Alien feelings, alien pain. Geneviève could not become pregnant, could not give birth. Did that mean she was not truly alive? Not truly a woman? It was said that vampires were genderless, the sex of their bodies as functional as the eyes on the wings of a peacock. She could take pleasure in love-making, after a fashion; but it did not compare with feeding.