Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [94]
It appeared the Christian Crusade had held an unannounced rally, intending to present a petition to Parliament. They demanded that the taking of another’s blood without consent be considered a capital crime. Sundry vampires mixed in with the crusaders, and violence was exchanged. An unknown person had taken a shot at John Jago, who was now recuperating in a prison hospital. Several well-connected new-borns alleged that they had been assaulted by warm mobs, and a murgatroyd named Lioncourt was put out because a broken flagpole had been shoved through his best suit.
General Iorga, a commander of the Carpathian Guard, had been caught in the fighting. Now he stood with Sir Charles and Godalming, surveying the aftermath. Iorga was an elder, swanning about in his cuirass and long black cloak as if he owned the earth on which he walked. He was attended by Rupert of Hentzau, a young-seeming Ruritanian blood who thought a good deal of his gold-braided uniform and seemed as skilled at toadying as he was reputed to be with his rapier.
Sir Charles smiled grimly to himself as he handed out compliments to the men he thought of as his troops.
‘We have won a significant victory here,’ he told Godalming and Iorga. ‘With no loss of life, we have routed the enemy.’
It had all blown up and dissipated so suddenly there had been no opportunity for the incident to develop. Iorga had ridden around doing damage but Hentzau and his comrades had not arrived on the scene in time to turn a scuffle into a massacre.
‘The ringleaders must be found and impaled,’ Iorga said. ‘And their families.’
‘That isn’t how we do things in England,’ Sir Charles said, without thinking.
The Carpathian’s eyes blazed with hypnotic fury. According to General Iorga, this was no longer England, this was some Balkan pocket kingdom.
‘Jago will be charged with unlawful assembly and sedition,’ Sir Charles said. ‘And his thugs will find themselves breaking rocks on Dartmoor for some years.’
‘Jago should get Devil’s Dyke,’ Godalming put in.
‘Of course.’
Devil’s Dyke was partially Sir Charles’s invention, an adaptation of a system devised for making use of native prisoners-of-war, for concentrating civilian populations to prevent them from giving succour to their soldiery. Godalming understood the conditions in the camps made what was usually understood by penal servitude seem a breeze on the Brighton promenade.
‘What about the fellow who started it?’ asked Mackenzie.
‘Jago? I’ve just said.’
‘No, sir. I mean the bloody fool with the pistol.’
‘Give him a medal,’ Hentzau said, ‘then cut off his ears as punishment for bad marksmanship.’
‘He must be found, of course,’ Sir Charles said. ‘We can’t have Christian martyrs hanging around our necks.’
‘Our honour has been challenged,’ said Iorga. ‘We must exact reprisals.’
Even Sir Charles was less a hothead than the General. Godalming was surprised by the elder’s dimwittedness. Long life did not mean a continual growth of intelligence. He understood why Ruthven spoke of the Prince Consort’s entourage in such contemptuous terms. Iorga was tubby around the middle and his face was painted. Once, for a moment only, Godalming had seen the rage-filled face of the Prince himself. Ever since, he had held the Carpathians in undue reverence, imposing the ferocity and stature of their leader on to the image of each of them. That was ridiculous. No matter how brutes like Iorga or blades like Hentzau might try to imitate Dracula, they were never more than feeble copies of the great original, essentially as trifling as the floppiest murgatroyd in Soho.
He pardoned himself and left the Commissioner and the General to continue mopping-up. Both intended to stand around giving Mackenzie contradictory orders. As he passed Buckingham Palace, he tipped his hat to the Carpathians at the gates. The flag flew, indicating that Her Majesty and His Royal Highness were in residence. Godalming wondered if the Prince Consort ever thought of Lucy Westenra.