Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [123]
‘I cannot understand what Lord Godalming was thinking of,’ Florence continued. ‘He has acted most peculiarly.’
‘How unlike Art.’
A screech sounded through the ceiling, barely human, followed by a whimper. Florence cringed and Beauregard’s heart contracted. Penelope was in pain.
The Jack the Ripper business was dragging on without fruit. The faith expressed in his abilities as an investigative agent by the Diogenes Club and the Limehouse Ring might well be misplaced. He had, after all, accomplished little.
A personal note of apology had arrived from the Professor, informing him that Colonel Moran had been severely reprimanded for his interference. Also there had been a peculiar missive in green ink on thin parchment, informing him that Mr Yam, whom he took to be the Chinese elder, would no longer be inconveniencing Mlle Dieudonné. Apparently, a commission had been undertaken, but the Lord of Strange Deaths no longer felt obliged to carry it out. Beauregard made a connection with a news item buried in the pages of The Times. A singular invasion, a burglary-in-reverse, had occurred at the home of Dr Jekyll. Apparently, an unknown person effected an entry into his laboratory and scattered fifty gold sovereigns over the ashes of the elder vampire that the scientist had been examining.
‘Sometimes I wish I had never heard of vampires,’ Florence said. ‘I told Bram as much.’
Beauregard mumbled some assent. The doorbell rang and he heard Mrs Yeovil scuttling past the room to admit the caller.
‘Another well-wisher, I should think.’
Yesterday, Kate Reed, Penelope’s new-born journalist friend, had come by and loitered in embarrassed impotence for half an hour, mumbling sympathetically, then found an excuse to dash off somewhere. She had hardly set Penelope a good example.
The front door was pulled open, and a familiar voice explained: ‘I don’t have a card, I’m sorry.’
Geneviève. He was on his feet and in the hallway before he could think, Florence trailing after him. She stood on the doorstep.
‘Charles,’ she said. ‘I assumed I would find you here.’
She stepped past Mrs Yeovil and slipped off her green cloak. The housekeeper hung it up.
‘Charles,’ Florence prompted. ‘You are being remiss.’
He apologised and made an introduction. Geneviève, on her best behaviour, touched Florence’s hand and made a passable curtsey. Mrs Churchward was in the hallway now, come down to investigate the new arrival. Beauregard made a further introduction.
‘I understand you are in need of a doctor familiar with infirmities of the un-dead,’ Geneviève explained to Penelope’s mother. ‘I have not a little experience.’
‘Dr Ravna of Harley Street is with us, Miss Dieudonné. I should think his services sufficient.’
‘Ravna?’ Her face betrayed her opinion.
‘Geneviève?’ he asked.
‘There’s no polite way of saying it, Charles. Ravna is a crank and a buffoon. He’s been a vampire six months, and already he’s declared himself the Calmet of the age. You’d be better off with Jekyll or Moreau, and I wouldn’t trust them to lance a boil.’
‘Dr Ravna comes most highly recommended,’ Mrs Churchward insisted. ‘He is welcome in all the best houses.’
Geneviève waved that aside. ‘Society has been known to make mistakes.’
‘I hardly think...’
‘Mrs Churchward, you must let me see your daughter.’
She fixed her eyes on Penelope’s mother. Beauregard felt the persuasive force of her glance. The wound on his wrist tickled. He was sure everyone noticed how often he fidgeted with his cuff.
‘Very well,’ Mrs Churchward said.
‘Think of it as a second opinion,’ Geneviève said.
Leaving Florence and Mrs Yeovil behind, Geneviève and Beauregard followed Mrs Churchward upstairs. When Mrs Churchward opened the sick-room door, a dreadful odour seeped out. It was the smell of things dead and forgotten. The room was heavily-curtained, a single fishtail gaslight