It was almost dawn when they got to Whitechapel. She’d not known enough at first to stay out of the sun, and her skin had burned to painful crackling. She had ripped dogs open for their juice. It had taken her months to catch up with the other new-borns.
She gave directions to the warm driver, realising with a nice hot surge that the man was petrified of his vampire passengers. She rented a room just off Dorset Street, from McCarthy the chandler for four and six a week. Some of the guinea would have to pay the arrears and keep McCarthy off her back. But the rest would be for her. Perhaps she could find a picture-framer?
Once they were out of the coach, it trundled off quickly, leaving them on the pavement. Nell gestured after the departing driver and howled like a comical animal. She even had fur growing around her eyes and up behind her pointed ears.
‘Marie Jeanette,’ croaked a voice from the shadows. Someone was standing under the Miller’s Court archway. A gentleman, by his clothes.
She smiled, recognising the voice. Dr Seward stepped out of the dark.
‘I’ve been waiting most of the night for you,’ he said. ‘I’d like...’
‘She knows what yer’d like,’ Nell said, ‘an’ yer orter be shamed of yerself.’
‘Shush, furface,’ she said. ‘That’s no way to be talkin’ to a gentleman.’
Nell stuck her snout in the air, rearranged her shawl, and trotted off, sniffing like a music hall queen. Mary Jane apologised for her.
‘Do you want to come in, Dr Seward?’ she asked. ‘It’s nearly sunup. I have to have my beauty sleep.’
‘I’d like that very much,’ he said. He was fidgeting with his neck. She had seen her customers do that before. Once bitten, they always came back for more.
‘Well, follow me.’
She led him to her room and let him in. Early sun fell through the dusty window on to the unwrinkled bedspread. She drew the curtains against the light.
32
GRAPES OF WRATH
The cabal was further depleted. Mr Waverly was gone, though no one remarked on his passing. Mycroft again held the chair. Sir Mandeville Messervy sat quiet throughout the interview, face fallen. Whatever path Beauregard pursued in Whitechapel, he could never know of the secret campaigns his masters waged in other quarters. In Limehouse, the Professor had referred to the business of crime as a shadow community; Beauregard knew this was a world of shadow empires. He was privileged to see the veil lifted, if only at odd moments.
He recounted his activities since the inquest on Lulu Schön, omitting nothing of importance. He did not, however, feel obliged to report the matters that passed between him and Geneviève in Clayton’s cab shortly before the attack by the vampire elder. He was still unsure in himself what precisely he had shared in that moment of intimacy. He concentrated on the facts of the case, elaborating on the details available in the press, adding his own observations and comments. He spoke of Dr Jekyll and Dr Moreau, of Inspector Lestrade and Inspector Abberline, of Toynbee Hall and the Ten Bells, of Commercial Street Police Station and the Café de Paris, of silver and silver knives, of Geneviève Dieudonné and Kate Reed. Throughout, Mycroft nodded intently, fleshy lips pursed, fingers steepled under his soft chins. When Beauregard’s account was concluded, Mycroft thanked him and said he was satisfied with the progress of the affair.
‘Since these letters, the murderer is generally known by the “Jack the Ripper” soubriquet?’ the Chairman asked.
‘Indeed. You never hear of “Silver Knife” any more. Whosoever devised the name must have some species of genius. The consensus is that he must be a journalist. The fellows have the knack for the memorable phrase. The good ones, at least.’
‘Excellent.’
Beauregard was puzzled. So far as he could see, he had been of no use at all. The Ripper had murdered again. Twice, with impunity. His own presence had deterred the madman not one whit, and any involvement he might be contracting in Whitechapel hardly bore upon the investigation.
‘You must catch this man,’ Messervy said, his first words since Beauregard entered the Star Chamber.
‘We have every confidence in Beauregard,’ Mycroft said to the Admiral.
Messervy grunted and slumped into his armchair. He wrestled with a pill-box and popped something into his mouth. Beauregard suspected the former Chairman had suffered an indisposition.
‘And now,’ Beauregard said, consulting his half-hunter, ‘if you will excuse me. I must return to Chelsea on a personal matter...’
In her mother’s house in Caversham Street, Penelope would be waiting in her cold fury. Waiting for an explanation. Beauregard would rather have faced the Chinese elder again, or Jack the Ripper himself. But he had a duty to his fiancée, as solemnly undertaken as his duty to the Crown. He had no idea what conclusion their conversation would reach.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, as if surprised personal matters should enter into it. Not for the first time, Beauregard wondered what manner of men were set over him in the Diogenes Club.
‘Very well. Good day, Beauregard.’
Sergeant Dravot was not at his post outside the Star Chamber. A warm rough with the weather-beaten face and knuckles of an old-fashioned pugilist stood in his place. Beauregard went down to the foyer and left the Diogenes Club. He emerged into Pall Mall to find the afternoon chilly and overcast. Fog was again gathering.
He should be able to get a cab to Chelsea. Looking about, he noticed the streets were thick with people. He recognised a thumping sound as a marching drum. Then he heard the brass. A band was coming down Regent Street. He was not aware of any formally announced parade. Lord Mayor’s Day was nearly a month off. With irritation, he realised the band would make hailing a hansom difficult. Traffic would be disrupted. Penelope would most definitely not understand.
The band rounded the corner and marched down Pall Mall, towards Marlborough Street. Beauregard assumed they were zigzagging through the streets, picking up followers, aiming to congregate in St James’s Park. The uniformed bandmaster marching at the head of the parade held up a giant flag of St George, the standard of the Christian Crusade. The thin red cross on a white background billowed as the band advanced.
After the band came a choir, mainly of middle-aged women. They all wore long white dresses with red crosses on their fronts. They were singing some version of the song that had been ‘John Brown’s Body’ and evolved into ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’.
‘In the beauty of the lillies, Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on...’
The crowds now pressed around on all sides. Most of the onlookers, and all of the marchers, were warm, but there were a few jeering murgatroyds on the pavement, brought out by the gloom of the late afternoon, flapping their batwing cloaks and hissing through red lips. They were outnumbered and ignored. Beauregard thought their mocking attitude unwise. Potential immortality was not actual invincibility.
After the choir came an open carriage drawn by six horses. Standing on a platform, surrounded by worshipful acolytes, was John Jago. Behind him came an orderly rabble with banners bearing holy pronouncements, ‘Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Vampire to Live’ and ‘Holy Blood, Holy Crusade’. Amid these marchers struggled a couple of hefty crusaders who carried between them a twenty-foot pole, upon which was impaled a papier-mâché figure, a vampire Guy Fawkes. The pole pierced its breast, and there was red paint splashed around the wound. It had red eyes, exaggerated fang-teeth, and was dressed in tatty black.