Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [8]
‘Jack,’ she said, ‘Inspector Lestrade wishes me to attend an inquest tomorrow.’
‘There’s been another murder,’ the director said, making a statement not asking a question.
‘A new-born,’ said Lestrade. ‘In Chicksand Street.’
‘Lulu Schön,’ Geneviève put in.
‘Did we know her?’
‘Probably, but under some other name.’
‘Arthur can go through the files,’ the director said, looking at Lestrade but indicating Morrison. ‘You’ll want the details.’
‘Was she another street girl?’ Morrison asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Geneviève. The young man looked down.
‘I think we’ve had her here,’ he said. ‘One of Booth’s cast-offs.’
Morrison’s face screwed up as he mentioned the General’s name. The Salvation Army deemed the un-dead beyond redemption, worse than other drunkards. Although warm, Morrison did not share the prejudice.
The director’s fingers drummed his desk. He looked, as usual, as if the weight of the world had just unexpectedly settled on his shoulders.
‘Can you spare me?’
‘Druitt can take your rounds if he’s back from his cricketing jaunt. And Arthur can fill in once we’ve got the lecture schedules arranged. We weren’t, ah, expecting you for a night or two yet anyway.’
‘Thank you.’
‘That’s quite all right. Keep me informed. This is a dreadful business.’
Geneviève agreed. ‘I’ll see what I can do to pacify the natives. Lestrade is expecting an uprising.’
The policeman looked shifty and embarrassed. For a moment, Geneviève felt small, teasing the new-born. She was being unfair.
‘There may be something I can actually do. Talk to some of the new-born girls. Get them to take care, see if anyone knows anything.’
‘Very well, Geneviève. Good luck. Lestrade, good evening.’
‘Dr Seward,’ said the detective, putting on his hat, ‘good night.’
3
THE AFTER-DARK
Florence Stoker daintily tinkled her little bell, not to summon the maid but to call her parlour to attention. The ornament was aluminium, not silver. The clatter of tea-taking and conversation died. The company turned to play audience to their hostess.
‘An announcement is imminent,’ Florence declared, so delighted that the lilt of Clontarf, usually rigorously suppressed, insinuated itself into her tone.
Beauregard was suddenly a prisoner in himself. With Penelope on his arm he could hardly refuse the fence, but the situation was instantly different. For some months, he had teetered on the brink of a chasm. Now, screaming inside, he plunged towards the doubtless jagged rocks.
‘Penelope, Miss Churchward,’ Beauregard began, pausing then to clear his throat, ‘has done me the honour...’
Everyone in the parlour understood at once, but he still had to get the words out. He wished for another gulp of the pale tea Florence served in exquisite bowls, in the Chinese fashion.
Penelope, impatient, finished for him. ‘We’re to be married. In the Spring, next year.’
She slipped her slim hand about his own, gripping tight. When a child, her favourite expression had been ‘but I want it now.’ His face must be flushed scarlet. This was absurd. He hardly qualified as a swooning youth. He had been married before... Before Penelope, Pamela. The other Miss Churchward, the elder. That must cause remark.
‘Charles,’ said Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming, ‘congratulations.’
The vampire, smiling sharply, pumped his free hand. Beauregard assumed Godalming knew how bone-crushing was his un-dead grip.
His fiancée was detached from him and surrounded by ladies. Kate Reed, by virtue of her spectacles and unruly hair the perfect Penelope’s favourite confidante, helped her sit and fanned her with admiration. She chided her friend for keeping the secret from her. Penelope, honey over salt, told Kate not to be such a drip. Kate, one of those new women, wrote articles about bicycling for Tit-Bits, being currently much excited by something called a ‘pneumatic tyre’.
Penelope was fussed over as if she had announced an illness, or an expected baby. Pamela, never far from mind when Penelope was present, had died in childbirth, her huge eyes screwed tight with pain.