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.
‘Quatermain wouldn’t have flinched, Colonel,’ Beauregard said. ‘Good night, and give my regards to the Professor.’
Moran turned his face away into the darkness and the cab wheeled away from the pavement, rushing into the fog. Geneviève’s head was spinning. They were back where they had started. Near the Ten Bells. The pub was no quieter now than when they left. Women loitered by the doors, strutting for passersby.
Geneviève’s mouth hurt and her heart hammered. She made fists and tried to shut her eyes.
Beauregard held his wrist to her mouth. ‘Here, take what you must.’