Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [117]
‘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. Genevi