Supping With Panthers (34 page)

Lilah glanced at me.

‘The child,’ I went on, ‘the one that the priests search for, the reincarnation – in Kalikshutra, it is not a boy,’

Lilah bowed her head. ‘Evidently,’

‘You are their queen?’

‘Their queen …’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps – and something more.’

I stared at her. ‘I see.’

‘Do you though, Dr Eliot?’

I frowned, for the question had been asked with a bitterness I hadn’t heard from her before. I wondered suddenly if I had not been maligning her in my fears, and felt a prickle of guilt and embarrassment.

‘How you can blame me?’ she asked suddenly. ‘You, Doctor Eliot, with your sympathy for the weak and the oppressed? Why shouldn’t I try to deceive your friend, when an entire people is depending on my attempt.’

I didn’t answer. I saw a shadow of anger pass across her face. ‘One day,’ said Lilah softly, staring past me, ‘it would be good for Sir George to understand what it means to be weak, to be the object of someone else’s casual insolence. Perhaps then he would not dispense people’s destinies with such’ – her lip curled –
‘unthinking
regard.’

I felt abashed, for my friend and for myself. ‘He is a kind man,’ I said weakly.

‘And that absolves him?’

I shook my head. ‘You are the one who must decide on that.’

‘No,’ said Lilah. ‘It is you who must decide. Will you tell him what I have told you tonight? Expose me? Now that you know what I am?’

‘“Know what I am …” ’ My voice trailed away as I echoed her words. I paused; I turned back to the window and stared out at the sky; saw, to the east, the first hints of dawn. I remembered Huree’s words: ‘They weaken with the light.’ I remembered my escape with Moorfield up the cliff; I remembered waiting on the temple for the sun. I glanced back at Lilah again. I studied her face. She seemed, if anything, even more lovely – more lovely, and proud, and radiant.

‘You say,’ I told her slowly, ‘that I know what you are. But I don’t. What I have seen here tonight …’ I shook my head. ‘It was something more than opium. Something I can’t explain and which … yes’ – I met her gaze – ‘I admit … unnerves me.’

‘Does it?’ Lilah smiled and turned away. ‘George told me how you went to Kalikshutra, and then were too afraid to stay.’

I ignored her jibe. ‘So it
is
the same,’ I said quietly.

‘Same?’

‘What I saw in the mountains, and the …’ – I searched for a phrase – ‘the conjuring tricks here.’

‘Conjuring tricks?’ asked Lilah, raising an eyebrow at me. She laughed. ‘There is no magic, Doctor. It may be that there are powers you don’t understand, powers your science can’t explain, but that does not make them conjuring tricks.’ She shrugged, and laughed again. ‘You are betraying your jealousy.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I could teach you if you wished.’

I heard the echo of Lord Ruthven in her offer.

‘Afraid again?’ she pressed.

‘Of your powers?’ I shook my head.

‘Of what then? Of your own ignorance?’ She took my hands, she whispered very softly into my ear. ‘Of your failure to understand what nature might be?’ She stepped back, and I saw how her eyes seemed to flicker as though sparked by some charge. They caught me in the way that a lamp traps a moth. I seemed to be falling into her eyes, a great, great depth. Beyond them, I suddenly knew, lay strange dimensions, impossible truths, waiting to be fathomed and exposed to an unsuspecting world, with myself a Galileo, a second Newton perhaps. The temptation was sucking on me, pulling me like a weight. I knew I had to fight it.

With an effort I turned away from Lilah’s stare. I looked out at London, at the orange glow of dawn. I saw the Thames dyed red between the darkness of its banks. I saw it flow. I saw the composition of its waters. The clarity was quite exceptional. The dye, I realised, was that of haemoglobin. I could see leucocytes as well, flowing in the plasma, pumped by a giant, invisible heart. The whole of London was a skinless, living thing. I saw how the streets were flowing red, a limitless network of capillaries, and I knew that if I only waited a little more, this vision would reveal some remarkable truth, some startling breakthrough in haematology, and all I had to do was wait – just a tiny moment more. I stared directly below me where the Thames flowed past, a ceaseless jugular lapping the wharf. I thought of how unnerving a sight it must be for the rivermen, the waters all around them turned to blood. I thought of the bodies they must have seen in the past, bleeding out into the current. Then I thought of Arthur Ruthven. I shut my eyes, I willed the vision to disappear.

When I opened them again, I saw Lilah’s face. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ she said.

I was quite unsurprised, I remember, by her reading of my thoughts. ‘But you lured him here,’ I said.

‘No. Polidori did that.’

‘At your behest.’

Lilah shrugged. ‘He wasn’t amenable.’

‘And then? Once you had found that out?’

‘He left. He was only with me an hour. It was apparent at once that he was unsuitable.’

‘But Arthur was missing for a week before his corpse was found.’

Lilah turned away impatiently. ‘I have told you, Doctor Eliot, that it wasn’t me. Why should I have killed him? How would that have helped me? I remember at the time, I was afraid Arthur Ruthven’s murder might serve to put off George. I repeat, Doctor Eliot – I had not the slightest interest in seeing him dead. Indeed, if anything, just the opposite.’

I frowned. I knew that her argument was a convincing one; it had troubled me before. Even so, how could I trust her? Her, or anyone? ‘What about Polidori?’ I asked.

‘Polidori?’

‘Arthur’s body had been drained of its blood.’ I waited, I knew I didn’t need to say any more. ‘Answer me,’ I said, ‘or I swear I shall have no choice but to tell George everything I know.’

Lilah narrowed her eyes; she inclined her head faintly. ‘It wasn’t Polidori either,’ she said.

‘How do you know?’

‘I asked him, of course, when I heard of Arthur Ruthven’s death. He denied the accusation at once – denied it vehemently. He wasn’t lying.’ She smiled at me. ‘I can tell such things.’

‘I am sure, but forgive me – it’s hardly admissible evidence.’

‘You think not?’ Lilah shrugged. ‘Then speak to him yourself

I nodded. ‘I will.’

‘Good.’ Lilah smiled and reached out for my hands. ‘I’m impatient to see you lay this matter to rest. I would like to feel you are trusting me.’ She pressed her cheek against mine and whispered in my ear. ‘Do you understand, Doctor? There is no reason why we shouldn’t be friends,’ She kissed me softly on my lips. ‘No reason at all.’

I didn’t reply, but turned to walk back down the stairs. She took my arm and wordlessly, we descended to the room where George sat poring over his maps, studying his plans, drawing up policies for the Indian frontier. Polidori was gone. I glanced at Lilah. She led me from the room to the bridge and the den, and the dirty shop below. That was where we found Polidori.

I asked him what he knew about Ruthven’s death and he denied murdering him, of course, as Lilah had said he would. ‘Why are you accusing me?’ he kept asking, his eyes narrow with suspicion. ‘Where’s your evidence?’

Well, I wasn’t telling him about my lines of inquiry, of course. I did mention Lord Ruthven, though, just to measure his response. He flinched visibly and glanced at Lilah, as though some unspoken secret between them had been breached. Lilah, however, remained perfectly impassive, and Polidori – turning away from her again – began to gnaw at the knuckles of his hand. ‘What about him?’ he asked.

‘He said that you had lured Arthur to his death.’

Polidori giggled hysterically at this. ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’

‘Why?’

Polidori grinned. ‘If you don’t know that, you’d better ask him yourself.’

‘No – I’m asking you.’

Polidori glanced at Lilah. ‘It wasn’t me’, he said with sudden violence. ‘I told you before, it wasn’t
me. I
didn’t kill him.’

A curious emphasis, as though accusing someone else – a partner perhaps, a confidante. But who? Lord Ruthven? – Polidori almost seemed to be implying so. But from what I can tell of their relationship, they are hardly partners; and besides, where is Lord Ruthven’s motive for killing his cousin? He had none that I can see.

This case, though, is growing stranger by the day. I am reminded of Suzette’s question – ‘How do you know when a mystery comes to an end?’ Especially when … yes, let me say it – when the motives may not be reducibly human at all. But for now, let me continue with my own methods of investigation and approach – I am afraid of what Huree might lead me to do. Never forget the boy –
never forget the hoy.
Let Huree come in his own time, then – I won’t wire him yet But perhaps it is already too late for such qualms?

And Lilah? What sort of game am I playing with her? Or rather – what is she playing with me? Again – reluctant to follow this line of thought too far. Must do so, though. There is clearly much she has yet to reveal.

Therefore haven’t told George anything. Will keep what I have heard and seen to myself for now.

Letter, Lady Mowberley to Dr John Eliot.

2, Grosvenor Street.

20 June.

Dear Dr Eliot,

I am afraid that you will start to dread my letters, for they never seem to contain anything but requests and fears. I am relying once again, though, on your friendship for George – and on the repeated proofs you have offered of your consideration for me. Forgive me, then, for presuming on your kindness once more.

You will know, I think, that George has resumed his visits to Rotherhithe. He has been there three times in the space of the past fortnight, never for more than one night at a time, it is true, and always, he assures me, in the interests of his work. He has asked me, if I doubt him, to refer to you – apparently you accompanied him on his first visit back, and can vouch for the probity of his behaviour there? Well, be that as it may – I am not writing to you in the role of wronged wife. Let George get up to whatever he wishes. It is not his morals I am concerned for, but his declining health.

You see, dear Dr Eliot – he is fading away before my very eyes. You would be shocked, I think, if you were to see him now. He is pale and weak, but very hectic too, as though burning with some fever that is eating up his bones. I cannot believe that George has ever been thin before, but now he is a scarecrow, and frankly I am terrified. The worst of it is, you see, that he still won’t admit there is anything wrong with him. His Bill is very near completion now, and he is working day and night at it. Even in those brief hours of sleep he has, he tosses and turns as though plagued by bad dreams. I believe his work is literally haunting him.

I wonder – would you have the time to examine him and perhaps, if you can, have a word in his ear? If you wish, we could meet beforehand to discuss his case. I know you are a busy man, but if you have the opportunity I could hold you to your promise to escort me on a walk. I know that Lucy would be keen to accompany us as well, for her husband is away at the moment attending to business at his family’s country home, and so she is quite alone. I have seen much of her recently; I believe, thanks to your good agency, that we are now almost intimate. Her husband, however, I am afraid, I still cannot bring myself to forgive; doubtless you will find this strange, but the truth is, Dr Eliot, I have not brought myself even to lay eyes upon him yet. Doubtless he is a very charming young man – Lucy, indeed, appears very much in love – yet I cannot put it from my thoughts that he behaved irresponsibly towards her when they were not even wed. It is always the woman, is it not, who receives the blame in such a situation? For myself, I prefer to blame the man.

Let me know a date which would be suitable for our walk. We would have to go in the morning, of course, so that Lucy could be at the Lyceum in time for her performance – but that would not be a problem, I hope? Perhaps we could visit Highgate – it is a favourite stroll of mine, for although it is hardly countryside, it does at least offer some relief from the grimy London air.

Until very soon, I hope.

I remain your devoted friend,

ROSAMUND, LADY MOWBERLEY.

Letter, Mrs Lucy Westcote to Hon. Edward Westcote.

Lyceum Theatre.

27 June.

My dearest Neddy,

You see how lovelorn I’ve become. Barely half-an-hour until curtain up, and here I am scribbling to you. Quite the devoted wife. If Mr Irving finds me, he will be very cross, for he doesn’t like his actresses to think of any man but himself – he tries to bleed us dry of our emotions, and would cheerfully make us his slaves if he could. Fortunately, while you are away I have Mr Stoker to defend me – he may not be as utter a hero as you, my sweet, but he is very kind, and just about brave enough to stand up to Mr Irving if he must. But I don’t want to see him in any trouble – so as I write it, I shall just have to keep this letter out of sight, hidden beneath my cloak. There goes Mr Stoker now. He smiles at me. Such a nice man – though I do wish he would get rid of his appalling beard, and not laugh in quite so
muscular
a way. In fact, Ned, while on the topic of Mr Stoker, he has invited us to a dinner party at his home next month. Oscar Wilde will be going as well – it seems he was a suitor once to Mr Stoker’s wife although I must admit, if the rumours are true, I find that hard to believe. Oh yes, and Jack Eliot is being invited too – you met him, I think? – yes, of course you did. He probably won’t come, though, since it might mean having fun – but it would be nice if he did. The problem is, he tends only to enjoy the company of people if they’re sick.

No – I’m maligning him. He came out for a walk only this morning, in fact, and while that may not sound
tremendously
daring, at least it’s a start. Fortunately, the weather was pleasant and the views beautiful and I think Jack scarcely noticed the lack of consumptives or people with no arms. We did have Rosamund with us, though, and since it seems that George is ill again, he was able to talk about diseases with her – perhaps that’s what kept him going. Rosamund was wonderfully charming yet again. Despite my best efforts, I find myself liking her more and more. If only she would agree to meet you, and forgive you your cruelty in marrying me, I think we would end up as perfect friends. Indeed, there is something about her which almost reminds me of you. If you were a girl – which I am very glad you are not, of course! – I think you might look rather like her. Do not be insulted, darling – for Rosamund is, as I have told you before, exceedingly pretty, with your own dark curls and brightness of eye. I would like to see you together, just for the comparison. Perhaps I will soon. I cannot believe that Rosamund will persist in her obduracy for long.