Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [59]
‘Beauregard? He’s a quill-pusher...’
‘He is a member of the Diogenes Club, and the Diogenes Club is well-placed.’
Finding a tiny fold of lip caught between his teeth, Godalming bit down, swallowing the brief tang of his own blood. It was becoming a habit.
‘Beauregard has been haring around mysteriously. I have seen something of his fiancée. She is put out by his neglect.’
Ruthven laughed. ‘Ever the curly-haired roué, Godalming?’
‘Not at all,’ Godalming said, lying.
‘At any rate, watch Beauregard. I’ve no reports of him beyond the most basic; which suggests to me that he is a shiny little tool Admiral Messervy and his crew wish to keep all to themselves.’
He could not imagine Beauregard even knowing where Whitechapel was. But he had been in India. Godalming had heard odd hints from Penelope, hints that now formed a wavering picture of a man very different from the dull companion of Florence Stoker’s after-darks.
‘At any rate, we are expecting Sir Charles Warren within the half-hour. I shall breathe fire in his face and impress upon him the importance of bringing this affair to a speedy and happy conclusion. Then I intend to saddle the Commissioner with you.’
Godalming was quietly proud. A clever new-born might advance himself by doing such a service to his Prime Minister.
‘Godalming, this is an opportunity for you to erase forever that question mark by your name. Bring us Silver Knife and it’ll be as if you had never met Abraham Van Helsing. Few have a chance to change their past.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
‘And remember, our interests are singular. If the murderer is brought to book, then that will be good and just. But the most important aspect of the case is far removed from the fates of a few eviscerated demi-mondaines. When this is finished, the murderer must be reviled not revered.’
‘I don’t believe I fully understand.’
‘Let me illustrate. In New Mexico, ten years ago, a new-born ran riot, killing without thought. A warm man, Patrick Garrett, loaded a shotgun with sixteen silver dollars and peppered his heart with razor-shards. The new-born was Henry Antrim or William Bonney, a cretin leech who deserved his fate. Soon after, stories began to circulate. Dime novels elaborated upon his youth and romantic appeal. Billy the Kid, they call him now, Billy Blood. Squalid murder and pathetic crime are forgotten and the American West has a a range-riding vampire demi-god. You can read in the penny press how he rescued fair maidens and was rewarded with their freely-bestowed favours, how he stood up for poor farmers against cattle kings, how he only became a killer to avenge the death of his father-in-darkness. It’s all bunkum, Godalming, all a pretty lie for the newspapers. Billy Bonney was so low he’d bleed his own horse, but now he is a true hero. That will not happen in this case. When Silver Knife is hoisted to the stake, I want a dead madman not an unkillable legend.’
Godalming understood.
‘Warren and the others merely wish to finish Silver Knife for 1888. I want you to make sure he is destroyed for all time.’
20
NEW GRUB STREET
September was nearly done. It was the morning of the 28th. Silver Knife had not murdered since Lulu Schön, on the 17th. Of course, Whitechapel was now so crowded with policemen and reporters that the killer might be overcome with shyness. Unless, as some had theorised, he was a policeman or a reporter.
With the sun up, the streets were sparsely populated. The fog had blown away for the moment, giving him a cold, clear look at the place that had become his second home. Beauregard had to admit he did not much care for it, by day or night. After another fruitless shift with resentful detectives, he was tired to the point of exhaustion. Professional feeling was that the trail was cooling fast. The murderer might have succumbed to his own mania and turned his knife against himself. Or simply hopped on a steamer for America or Australia. Soon, everywhere in