Supping With Panthers (21 page)

Eliot stared at me. ‘Yes,’ he said shortly. ‘Something of that kind.’

‘But on the wainscot – those spots that you found – you said they were definitely spots of blood.’

‘Yes.’ Eliot frowned again and turned away. He was angry, I could tell, that on this one small point, at least, my thinking had proved to be ahead of his own. ‘I did acknowledge,’ he reminded me, with a slight sharpness in his voice, ‘that our case remains incomplete.’ He began to walk towards the bustle and din of the Strand and I followed him, having almost to rim before I joined him again, so lengthy were his strides. He glanced up the Aldwych at Wellington Street. ‘Why, Stoker,’ he exclaimed, ‘here we are, returned to the Lyceum. I have already kept you too long from your work.’

Clearly, I had annoyed him more than I had realised. ‘What will you do now?’ I asked.

‘As you have only just pointed out yourself, there is still much to be investigated.’

‘I cannot be of any more assistance to you?’

‘Not at present’

I thought I was being dismissed and so, bidding him farewell, I turned and began to walk on to the Lyceum. But he called after me.

‘Stoker!’

I looked round.

‘Will Lucy be in the theatre this afternoon?’ he asked.

‘She should be,’ I replied. ‘Why, what do you need from her?’

‘The pendant from her neck.’

I stared at him in surprise. ‘Her pendant? Why?’

‘You did not observe it closely, then?’ He chuckled, and rubbed his hands. ‘Well, it may just prove to be a fancy of mine. We shall see,’ He raised his hat. ‘Good day to you, Mr Stoker.’

‘I am keen to remain of assistance,’ I called out after him.

‘I am sure you are,’ he replied. But he did not look round, and was soon lost in the swirl of the traffic and the fog. I began to push my own way through the crowds. Beyond them, the Lyceum was waiting for me.

I threw myself at once into the theatre’s affairs and was soon fully preoccupied, even to the exclusion of that sea of wonders across which I had been sailing only a few hours before. Mr Irving, as was so often his wont after a triumphant first night, was low and irritable; he suffered from that reduction of spirits which must afflict any great artist after an effusion of his powers, and I did not find him easy company. Instead he haunted me like a ghost and, black-clad as he was, I came to dread his tall lean figure almost as a harbinger of woe – or at the very least, of a stream of orders and complaints! I was soon feeling quite exhausted. I had therefore almost forgotten about Eliot when he surprised me, late in the afternoon, as I was in the process of inspecting the private stalls.

I was glad to see him, especially since there seemed an expression of gratification on his face.

‘You have had some success?’ I inquired.

‘I believe so,’ he replied. ‘I have been at work this afternoon in my laboratory.’

‘Indeed?’

Eliot nodded. ‘I analysed traces from two bottles of medicine that Lady Mowberley has been using. One, which she is taking now, is perfectly harmless. The other, however, which she had finished and thrown away, had been heavily doctored with opiates.’

‘She was being drugged, you mean?’

‘There can be no doubt at all. The fact that she had finished the medicine and was drinking from a new bottle explains, evidently, why she woke to her intruders. We must assume, I think, that they had been present in her house on other nights as well.’

‘But to what purpose?’

‘That, I am afraid, I cannot speculate on.’

‘It relates to matters of state, then, you think?’

‘Stoker, you are a discreet man. I must request you not to press me any further on this matter.’

‘I apologise,’ I replied. ‘My curiosity, I am afraid, is only a measure of how intrigued I have become by this case.’

Eliot smiled. ‘So I may take it, then, that you are keen to assist me again?’

‘If I can be of any use.’

‘You are free tonight?’

‘After the performance.’

‘Excellent. You might order us a cab, and have it wait for us in a side street by the theatre exit’

‘Why,’ I asked him, ‘what do you expect?’

Eliot gestured with his hand as though to wave the question away, and as he did so I caught the glint of something silver in his palm.

‘You have seen Lucy, then?’ I asked. ‘I assume that is her pendant you have with you there.’

Eliot held out his hand and opened his palm. ‘Look at it closely,’ he said.

Studying it, I saw what I had failed to before – that it was a coin, of wonderful craftsmanship and seemingly very old. ‘Where is it from?’ I asked.

Eliot looked up at me. ‘From the clammy hand of Arthur Ruthven’s corpse,’ he replied.

‘You don’t mean to say…’

‘Yes. He was holding it when they fished out his body from the Thames.’

‘But why? You think it has some significance?’

‘That,’ said Eliot, rising to his feet, ‘is what I hope to find out now. No, no, Stoker, stay where you are. I shall see you tonight. And please – do not forget to order the cab.’ Then, before I could reply, he had slipped through the curtains at the back of the seats and vanished again. I rose to follow him, but as I left the stalls I almost collided with Henry Irving, in a fury over some damaged scenery, and I had to go at once and sort the wretched business out. I contented myself afterwards with ordering the cab; otherwise, of course, I could only wait.

Time, though, slipped by fast. It was soon evening, and the actors were putting on their costumes and paint. I myself donned my tails and stood, as was my custom, at the head of the stairs by the Private Entrance, ready to greet our audience. There was a steady stream of the brightest stars in the firmament of London Society – and as I welcomed them, so I felt the thrill which has never faded: that of being manager of the Lyceum Theatre and the great actor whose domain it is. And yet I felt distracted; all the time, even as I chatted and smiled with my guests, I was wondering what exploits the night would hold for me, what conspiracy of dark secrets we might uncover. Increasingly, it was the cosy world of the theatre which began to seem the stranger and more remote, so that the crowds of bejewelled women and shirt-fronted men appeared mere shadows to me, spectre-like and insubstantial when set against the vividness of my imaginings. I fancied that I saw, all the time, the strange woman whom Lucy had described, with her extraordinary beauty and mystery-filled eyes; I fancied that I saw the Rajah, deadly and cruel. And then suddenly – borne on the stream of people up the stairs – I did see him! The Rajah – I was certain it was him! He wore evening dress and a long flowing cloak, but he was extinguished by the turban which was wound about his head, for its material was of a marvellous richness and studded, just above the brow, with a jewel of a size I had never seen before. As he walked, I observed how people frowned or blanched and made way for him.

Without thinking, I approached him to greet him in my capacity as the evening’s host, yet as I stared into his face I found that my words seemed to fade and die in my mouth. He filled me – I cannot explain how – with the most remarkable sense of revulsion and distaste. His mouth was exceedingly full and moist, but twisted too, so that the comers seemed to rise in a lascivious sneer. His eyes were perfectly dark. His features were hard, like stone, yet there was a softness about them too which seemed to hint at intemperance and lechery. His complexion was one of extraordinary pallor. In short, I never met a man I loathed so immediately; it was all I could do not to raise my fist and offer him a blow. The Rajah seemed to sense my hatred, for he smiled at me, baring his teeth – which were pearly-white and peculiarly sharp – so that the cruelty in his expression only seemed enhanced. Despite myself I took a step backwards; the Rajah smiled again as though with bitter mockery and then, with a swirl of his cloak, he was gone. I followed him, to mark where he sat: it was in the same box he had taken before. Once I had noted this, I returned to my office, much perplexed. I wondered what Eliot would make of it.

As the performance began to draw to its conclusion, I hurried outside to inspect our cab. It was stationed where I had instructed it to wait, in a dark alley where it could not easily be made out I tipped the driver and ordered him to be ready to leave at any time; then I turned again and walked back down the street Just as I was about to re-enter the Lyceum, I felt a hand on my arm and I spun round. It was Eliot.

‘Thank God,’ I exclaimed. ‘The Rajah – he is here!’

‘Excellent.’ Eliot rubbed his hands together. ‘I rather thought he might be. Come, let us go inside. The wind is rather chill for the time of year.’

I led him back to the foyer, from where we would observe anyone leaving the theatre. ‘I have had a most interesting time,’ Eliot commented as we walked inside. ‘Our case is very near completion now.’

‘Indeed?’ I asked. ‘Your business with the coin was satisfactory, then?’

‘It was,’ he replied, ‘exceedingly so.’ He felt in his pocket and, withdrawing the coin, held it to the light. ‘You will observe the lettering, Stoker. It is in Greek.’

He handed the coin to me and I slowly spelled the letters out, for they were very worn. ‘Kirkeion.’ I looked up. ‘A town? I have never heard of it,’ I confessed.

‘Nor should you have done, for its fame has not survived into modem times. The coin, however, is undoubtedly authentic. Its value is literally incalculable.’

‘Who told you this?’

The expert I consulted at Spink, which – as I am sure you will know, Stoker – is the pre-eminent valuing house for coins in London. As such, Arthur Ruthven was a well-known figure there. All the dealers were familiar with him. I spoke to the one who had dealt with him last.’

‘And what did this dealer report?’

‘He recollected the interview very well. Arthur, it seems, had appeared agitated in the extreme. He kept pressing the dealer for any rumours he might have heard, hints of rare coins in circulation. The dealer could think of nothing, but when Arthur remained insistent he recalled that a couple of strange coins had been brought in – silver, very ancient, from a completely unknown town.’

‘Goodness!’ I looked down at the coin in my hand. ‘The same as this?’

‘In every point. The dealer was most excited when I showed him the coin you are holding now. He brought out the two original coins, which had remained unsold since the day when Arthur inspected them – the price being, as I think I just mentioned, astronomical. When I saw them, it was clear at once that the dealer was perfectly correct – they were indeed from the very same source.’

‘And what was that source, do you think?’

The immediate source, you mean?’ Eliot smiled faintly. ‘Can you not guess?’ Again he felt in his pocket, and this time drew out a notebook. ‘A card had been attached to the case in which the two silver coins were kept. Any further inquiries were to be addressed to the name on that card. The dealer kindly wrote it down for me.’ Eliot flipped open the notebook. ‘Here it is.’

‘“John Polidori”’, I read out. ‘“Three Coldlair Lane.” But my goodness, Eliot, this is extraordinary.’

‘On the contrary,’ replied Eliot, ‘it is not extraordinary at all. It merely confirms me in my initial suspicion that both Arthur and George were deliberately lured to Rotherhithe.’

‘Then we must head there at once!’ I exclaimed. ‘Eliot, what are we waiting for?’

He clapped me on my arm. ‘I am glad you are with me, Stoker,’ he replied, ‘but first, we must show just a little patience. This Polidori, whoever he may be, is not the only fish we have to catch. You say the Rajah is here, in the Lyceum? Very good, then let us wait for him.’ And indeed, at this very moment a burst of applause began to thunder from the auditorium. ‘The play is finished?’ he asked.

I glanced at my watch. ‘So it would seem,’ I replied.

‘Then quick,’ he said urgently, ‘we have not a moment to lose.’ We hurried back out into the street, and ran through the traffic to the dark alleyway where our cab was waiting hidden. ‘Forwards,’ whispered Eliot to the driver, ‘so that we can watch the crowds as they leave the Private Entrance. But be sure to remain in the shadows,’The driver did as he had been instructed, and we saw the first wave of theatregoers as they flooded out into the street.

‘Will you be missed tonight?’ Eliot asked me.

‘Doubtless,’ I replied.

‘Mr Irving was content to release you, though?’

‘He was not content,’ I answered with a smile, ‘but Mr Irving must sometimes be withstood. Otherwise, he would drain my whole life away.’

Eliot smiled at this and turned to make some reply, but at that moment he froze, then seized my arm. ‘There,’ he whispered, pointing and I stared where he gestured. I saw the Rajah descending the steps, and again I observed how the crowds made way for him, so that he seemed like Moses parting the sea. Eliot leaned forward. ‘He seems to have George’s build,’ he murmured, ‘but his face …’ His voice trailed away, and I detected a trace of that revulsion which I had experienced myself.

‘You felt it,’ I asked him, ‘a strange disgust?’

Eliot glanced at me. I had never seen his brow so dark. But he made no reply, and instead leaned forward to whisper into the cabman’s ear, ‘Follow him.’ The hansom creaked forward. I saw that the Rajah too had climbed into a cab. This startled me, for I had thought that he was bound to possess a carriage of his own, such had been the wealth on display in his flat. Eliot, however, seemed quite unsurprised and merely asked our driver to keep the hansom always in sight. ‘And if you stay hidden all the time,’ he added, ‘then there’s a guinea for you on top of the fare.’ Our driver touched his cap. We watched the hansom as it clattered past. For almost a minute, we stayed where we were. Then the driver flicked his whip and we too began to rattle down the street.

Once away from the bedlam of crowds and carriages, we made good speed. As we approached the turning to London Bridge, Eliot began to lean forward in his seat, his face alert and his body tense. But the hansom ahead of us did not turn, and instead continued to rattle onwards along the river’s north bank. Eliot slumped back despondently into his seat. ‘It seems my calculations are a little awry,’ he said. ‘We are undone, my good Stoker. I had been certain that our Rajah would be heading for Rotherhithe and the mysterious Polidori. But now, see! – we have passed the final bridge across the Thames, and still we have not turned south. I am a bungler, a hopeless bungler.’