Grippen looked uncomfortable and angry, black brow lowering like a goaded bull's; beside him, Ysidro's face was inscrutable as always.
"It might account for the renewed sensitivity to silver," the Spaniard remarked. "Certainly for the wounds caused in his own flesh by the growth of his fangs. And you think this vampire, whoever he was, chose his physician in the same fashion in which I chose you-through jour-nal articles?"
"He must have," Asher said. "Depending on who it is, he may be forcing the doctor to work as you are forcing me-with a threat against the life of someone he cares for. Maybe that isn't even necessary. Some doctors would welcome the chance to do research on an unknown virus and wouldn't care that they were working for a killer. Or maybe," he added pointedly, his gaze suddenly locking with Ysidro's, "like Calvaire's friends, he's under the impression that he'll win, and that his partner won't kill him when it's over."
Ysidro's chilly eyes returned his gaze blandly. "I am sure he is quite safe so long as there is a use for him." He turned away and began sorting through the papers scattered across the bed. "And I take it Mistress Lydia discovered the medical partner in the same fashion? Through the journals?"
"I think so." Asher returned to his own examination, flipping the pages awkwardly with his single good hand. "She may only have had a list of suspects and was visiting them one by one. It would account for her not taking her weapons-the silver knife, the revolver, or the silver nitrate..."
"Silver nitrate?" Ysidro looked up from a list he'd fished from the floor. "Pox," he added mildly. "I see we're all going to have to go through the tiresome business of changing residences again. Do you really own a place on Caswell Court under the name of Bowfinch, Lionel?"
"None o' your business an I do!"
"Filthy neighborhood, anyway. Gin shops everywhere-you can't feed without getting stinking drunk in the process. This one doesn't look familiar..."
"Twas one of Danny's."
"I'm surprised he didn't get fleas. As for the one in Hoxton, I wouldn't be buried there, much less sleep the day. Where would she get silver nitrate?"
Asher nodded toward the little velvet box. Ysidro picked up the hypodermic gingerly, but did not touch the gleaming crystal ampoules. "As a doctor, she'd have access to it-it's used as an antiseptic, I think. I do know most doctors carry it in small quantities."
"This is scarce a small quantity," the vampire remarked, setting the syringe back in its case. "That much must have cost a pretty penny."
"I expect it did," Asher said. "But Lydia's an heiress and she's al-ways had control of her own money-though I suspect her father wouldn't have settled it that way if she'd married someone more re-spectable than a penniless junior don at her uncle's college. I expect she thought to inject the silver nitrate intravenously. It would certainly kill a human, let alone a vampire. It was naive of her," he added quietly. "A vampire's psychic field alone would prevent her from getting that close, and she obviously had no idea of how quickly a vampire can strike."
"Here's more of the curst things." Grippen came over, carrying a pile of journals which had been stacked
on the bureau.
Asher flipped open the dog-eared pages. Viral Mutation. Interaction of Viruses in a Medium. The Pathology of Psychic Phenomena. Eugenics for National Defense. Physical Origins of So-Called Psychic Powers. Iso-lating a Viral Complex in a Serum Medium, He paused, and leafed back through the articles again. They were all by Horace Blaydon.
Softly, he said, "Dennis Blaydon was a friend of Bertie Westmoreland's. He'd have known Lotta. And through him, Calvaire and anyone with whom Calvaire had associated would have known of Blaydon."
Eighteen
It was nearly three in the morning, and the windows of Horace Blaydon's tall brown-brick house on Queen Anne Street were dark.
"Can you hear anything?" Asher whispered, from the shelter of the comer of Harley Street. "Anyone within?"
Ysidro bowed his head, colorless hair falling down over his thin fea-tures in the glow of the street lamp, his heavy-lidded eyes shut. The silence in this part of the West End was profound, sunk deep in the sleep of the well-to-do and self-justified who knew nothing of vampires be-yond the covers of yellow-backed penny dreadfuls and gave little thought to how their government got its information about the Ger-mans. The rain had ceased. In an alley, two cats swore at one another- lovers or rivals in love-and there was the smallest flicker of Ysidro's head as he moved to listen and to identify.
At length he whispered, "It's difficult to tell at this distance. Cer-tainly there's no one in the upper part of the house, though servants sometimes have rooms in the cellars."
"It has to be here," Asher breathed. "His country place has been closed up for years and it's a good thirty miles as the crow flies. He's a research pathologist-he doesn't have a consulting practice to worry about. His wife died some years ago and his son's in the Life Guards. It wouldn't be difficult to keep him away on some pretext. He's not very bright."
"He would have to be intensely stupid," Ysidro murmured, "not to notice, if his father were forced into such an alliance as I forced you."
Asher flattened to the corner of the house and scanned the empty street. "Set your mind at rest."
It was difficult to tell whether the soft sound in the darkness was a comment or a laugh. "You know this Blaydon," Ysidro then said softly.
"Is it likely we could win him to our side-turn him, as is said in the parlance of your Foreign Office?"
"It depends on what his partner's told him." The street before them was still. The lamplight gleamed like fractured metal on the water of the gutters. If Ysidro, turning his head slightly for what even the cob-web nets of his far-flung awareness failed to bring him, could hear nothing, it stood to reason Asher wouldn't, either. But still, Asher's every nerve strained to hear. "I never knew Blaydon well-I went to fetch Lydia at some of his lectures and had been to the Peaks a few times. I think he was piqued that I'd married the Willoughby fortune instead of letting his son do it, but I don't think he held it against me the way Dennis
did. Horace is a stiff-backed and self-righteous old bigot, but he's honest. He was one of the few dons who stood up to Lydia's father when he wanted her taken out of University-though, of course, at the time Horace had a stake in wanting her to stay.
"In his place-the vampire's, I mean-I'd make damn sure he thought the Limehouse rampages were the work of the vampires we were tracking."
"You think he'd believe that?"
"I think if Dennis were in danger-if the vampire were threatening Dennis' life as you're threatening Lydia's to win my compliance-he'd want to. We did it in the Department all the time. The old carrot-and-stick routine: on the one hand Dennis' life is in danger; on the other, Blaydon can do viral research with what blood he can take, and con-gratulate himself on killing vampires at the same time. He may not even know Lydia's a prisoner or he may know there is a prisoner, but not that it's Lydia. It's surprising how ignorant the right hand can be when it would really rather not know what the left hand is doing,"
They left the shelter of the corner and glided back like specters through the wet blackness of deep night in October London. "The mews is just past the next street," Ysidro murmured, barely audible even in the utter silence of the empty street. "Do you plan to speak to this Blaydon, then?"