Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [75]
‘Like the Jack the Ripper letter?’ asked Geneviève.
Abberline thought. ‘Personally, I reckon that was a smart circulation drummer at the Whitechapel Star playing silly buggers to drive up sales. This is a different hand, and this is the Ripper. It’s too close to be a coincidence.’
‘The graffito was not here yesterday?’ Beauregard asked.
‘The beat man swears not.’
Constable Halse agreed with the inspector.
‘Wipe it off,’ Sir Charles said.
Nobody did anything.
‘There’ll be mob rule, a mass uprising, disorder in the streets. We’re still few and the warm are many.’
The Commissioner took his own handkerchief to the chalk, and rubbed it away. Nobody protested at the destruction of evidence, but Beauregard saw a look pass between the detectives.
‘There, job done,’ Sir Charles said. ‘Sometimes I think I have to do everything myself.’
Beauregard saw a narrow-minded impulsiveness that might have passed for stouthearted valour at Rorke’s Drift or Lucknow, and understood just how Sir Charles could make a decision that ended in Bloody Sunday.
The dignitaries drifted away, back to their cabs and clubs and comfort.
‘Shall I see you and Penny at the Stokers’?’ Godalming asked.
‘When this matter is at a conclusion.’
‘Give my kindest regards to Penny.’
‘I’ll be sure to.’
Godalming followed Sir Charles. And the East End coppers stayed behind to clean up.
‘It should have been photographed,’ Halse said. ‘It was a clue. Dammit, a clue.’
‘Easy, lad,’ said Abberline.
‘Right,’ said Lestrade. ‘I want the cells full by sundown. Haul in every tart, every ponce, every bruiser, every dipper. Threaten ’em with whatever you want. Someone knows something, and sooner or later, someone’ll talk.’
That would please the Limehouse Ring not a bit. Furthermore, Lestrade was wrong. Beauregard had a high enough estimation of the criminal community to believe that if any felon in London had so much as a hint of the identity of the Ripper, it would have passed directly to him. He had received several telegrams, indicating which avenues of enquiry would prove fruitless. The shadow empire had ruled out several investigative threads the police still pursued. It was perhaps disquieting to consider that the group in Limehouse had a higher percentage of first-rate minds than that which had just gathered in Goulston Street.
With Geneviève, he walked back towards Commercial Street. It was late afternoon already, and he had not slept in over a day and a half. Paper-boys were hawking special editions. With a signed letter from the killer and two fresh murders, the hysteria for news was at a peak.
‘What do you think of Warren?’ Geneviève asked.
Beauregard considered it best not to confide his opinion, but she understood it exactly in an instant. She was one of those vampires, and he would have to be careful what he thought in her company.
‘Me, too,’ she said. ‘Precisely the wrong man for the position. Ruthven should know that. Still, better him than a Carpathian maniac.’
Puzzled, he put a suggestion to her. ‘To hear you, one would think you prejudiced against vampires.’
‘Mr Beauregard, I find myself surrounded by the Prince Consort’s get. It’s too late to complain, but Vlad Tepes hardly represents the best of my kind. No one dislikes a Jewish or Italian degenerate more than a Jew or an Italian.’
Beauregard found himself alone with Geneviève as sun set. She took off her cap.
‘There,’ she said, shaking out her honey-coloured hair, ‘that’s better.’
Geneviève seemed to stretch like a cat in the sun. He could sense her increasing strength. Her eyes sparkled a little, and her smile became almost sly.
‘By the way, who is Penny?’
Beauregard wondered what Penelope was doing exactly now. He had not seen her since their argument of a few days ago.
‘Miss Penelope Churchward, my fiancée.’
He could not read Geneviève’s expression but fancied her eyes narrowed a shade. He tried to think of nothing.
‘Fiancée? It won’t last.’
He was shocked by her effrontery.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Beauregard. But believe me, I know this. Nothing lasts.’
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