Anno Dracula (38 page)

‘Quatermain wouldn’t have flinched, Colonel,’ Beauregard said. ‘Good night, and give my regards to the Professor.’

Moran turned his face away into the darkness and the cab wheeled away from the pavement, rushing into the fog. Geneviève’s head was
spinning. They were back where they had started. Near the Ten Bells. The pub was no quieter now than when they left. Women loitered by the doors, strutting for passersby.

Geneviève’s mouth hurt and her heart hammered. She made fists and tried to shut her eyes.

Beauregard held his wrist to her mouth. ‘Here, take what you must.’

A rush of gratitude made her ankles weak. She almost swooned but at once dispelled the fog in her mind, concentrating on her need.

‘Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘Don’t be so sure.’

She bit him gently and took as little as possible to slake the red thirst. His blood trickled down her throat, calming her, giving her strength. When it was over, she asked him if it were his first time and he nodded.

‘It’s not unpleasant,’ he commented, neutrally.

‘It can be less formal,’ she said. ‘Eventually.’

‘Good night, Geneviève,’ he said, turning away. He walked into the fog and left her, his blood still on her lips.

She knew as little about Charles Beauregard as she had about Druitt. He had never really told her why he was interested in the Ripper. Or why he continued to serve his vampire queen. For a moment, she was frightened. Everyone around her wore a mask and behind that mask might be...

Anything.

T
he surgeon had found it impossible to pick out all the silver shards from his knee. With each step, he felt again the hot explosion of pain. Some vampires could regenerate lost limbs as lizards grew new tails. Kostaki was not of that breed. Already, he had to live behind a dead face; soon, he might also have to stump along on a piratical peg-leg.

A couple of young bloods, sharp-eyed new-born toughs, lurched away from an ill-made and damp wall to bar the egress from the tiny courtyard. He showed his face and teeth, facing them down. Without a word, they slipped back to their shadows and allowed him to pass.

He was out of uniform, concealed by a large hat and cloak, limping through the night fog. The message had given an address in the Old Jago, a district which was to Whitechapel what Whitechapel was to Mayfair.

‘Moldavian,’ came a quiet voice. ‘Over here.’

In the dark of an alley-mouth, Kostaki saw Mackenzie. ‘Scotsman, well met.’

‘If you say so.’

The Inspector’s coat was holed and patched, and he wore a
week’s whiskers. Kostaki understood he had not been seen for some time. His fellows were concerned for his safety. The general assumption was that he had been removed to Devil’s Dyke following an undiplomatic utterance.

‘A fine pair of beggars we make,’ Mackenzie said, shifting his shoulders inside his loose and dirty coat.

Kostaki grinned. He was pleased this warm man was not in a concentration camp. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Here, in the main,’ said Mackenzie. ‘And Whitechapel. This is where the trail goes to ground.’

‘The trail?’

‘Our masked fox with the dynamite. I’ve been tracking him since that night in the park.’

Kostaki remembered the flash of a pistol and dark eyes inside a concealing hood. The stick of dynamite fizzing in von Klatka’s chest an instant before the blast. Then, a lumpy red rainstorm. ‘You have found the murderer?’

Mackenzie nodded.

‘I see the reputation of Scotland Yard is well earned.’

Mackenzie looked bitter. ‘This is nothing to do with Scotland Yard. Not with Warren or Anderson or Lestrade. They were in the way, so I set out on my own.’

‘A lone hunter?’

‘Exactly. Warren insisted we look for a Christian Crusader, but I knew better. You were there, Kostaki. You must remember. The man in the hood. He was a vampire.’

The dark eyes. Maybe rimmed with red. Kostaki had not forgotten.

‘And that vampire is here in this rookery.’ Mackenzie looked up. In the lodging house opposite the alleyway there was a light. A third-storey
room. Shadows moved on the thin muslin curtain. ‘I’ve been watching him for days and nights. They call him “Danny” or “Sergeant”. A very interesting fellow, our fox. He has surprising associations.’

Mackenzie’s eyes shone. Kostaki recognised the pride of a predator.

‘Are you sure this is him?’

‘Sure as I can be. You will be too. When you see him, when you hear his voice.’

‘How did you track him?’

Mackenzie smiled again and laid a finger beside his nose. ‘I followed the trail. Dynamite and silver are hard to come by. There are only a few sources worth mentioning. I played the Irish card, asking around the mick pubs. It’s certain his bully-boys were recruited from the Fenians. When it comes to mopping up, I’ve most of their names. I had a description of the Sergeant within two days. Then I found a few hard facts, details scattered on the ground like crumbs.’

The light dimmed and Kostaki shrank back deeper into the alley, pulling Mackenzie with him.

‘You’ll see now,’ the Scotsman said. ‘You’ll see him.’

An ill-fitting door was pulled inwards and a vampire emerged from the building. It was the man Kostaki had seen in the park. There was no mistaking the upright bearing. And the eyes. He wore old clothes and a battered peaked cap, but his posture and flaring moustache suggested the British army. The vampire looked around him, staring for a long second into the alley. Then he consulted a pocket watch. Briskly, the Sergeant marched off.

Mackenzie breathed again.

When they could no longer hear the vampire’s bootfalls, Kostaki said. ‘It was him.’

‘I never had any doubt.’

‘Then why did you summon me?’

‘Because I can trust you as no other. We have an understanding, you and I.’

Kostaki knew what Mackenzie meant.

‘We must follow this Sergeant, find his confederates, root out and destroy his whole conspiracy.’

‘That is where our situation becomes complicated. Men like Sir Charles Warren or your General Iorga detest surprises. They prefer a culprit to be someone they suspected. Often, they’ll refuse to credit evidence simply because it contradicts a half-formed notion they’ve made the mistake of espousing. Sir Charles wants the dynamiter to be one of Jago’s crusaders, not a vampire.’

‘There have been vampire traitors before.’

‘But not, I think, like our Sergeant. I am only beginning to make out the extent of his activities. He is the tool of greater forces. Perhaps greater forces than a simple policeman and a soldier can hope to best.’

They emerged from the alley and stood by the Sergeant’s building. Without discussion, they understood that they would now break in and search the murderer’s rooms.

While Mackenzie looked both ways, Kostaki splintered the door-lock with a firm grip. In the Old Jago, this would not be unusual or suspicious behaviour. A sailor, pockets pulled out and empty, zigzagged past, eyes rolling from gin or opium.

They slipped into the lodging house, and climbed three flights of narrow, precipitous stairs. Eyes looked at them through holes in doors, but no one intervened. They came to the room where the light had been. Kostaki broke another lock – somewhat stouter than he would have expected in this pit – and they were inside.

Mackenzie lit a stub of candle. The room was tidy, almost military in its precision. There was a cot, sheet tighter than a wrestler’s stomach muscles. On a desk, writing materials were laid out square as if for an inspection.

‘I have cause to believe our fox not only the destroyer of Ezzelin von Klatka,’ Mackenzie declared, ‘but also the would-be assassin who put a bullet into John Jago.’

‘That makes little sense.’

‘To a soldier, maybe not. But to a copper, it’s the oldest game in town. You stir up both sides, set them at each other like dogs. Then sit back and watch the fireworks.’

Mackenzie was going through papers on the desk. There was a fresh bottle of red ink and a neat pot of pens beside the blotter.

‘Are we dealing with an anarchist faction?’

‘Quite the opposite, I should think. Sergeants do not make good anarchists. They have no imagination. Sergeants always serve. You can carve an Empire with Sergeants behind you.’

‘He is following orders, then.’

‘Of course. This whole business has the whiff of the
ancien régime
, don’t you think?’

Kostaki had an intuition. ‘You admire this man? Or at least, admire his cause?’

‘These nights, that would be a very unwise opinion to harbour.’

‘Nevertheless...’

Mackenzie smiled. ‘It would be hypocritical of me to mourn for von Klatka, or even to express sympathy for John Jago.’

‘What if it had not been von Klatka, what if it had been...’

‘You? Then, things might have seemed different. But only seemed. The Sergeant would make no distinction between you and your
comrade. That is where I part company from his masters’ thinking.’

Kostaki thought for a moment. ‘I may lose my leg,’ he said.

‘I am sorry for that.’

‘What do you intend to do about the Sergeant? Will you let him continue to serve his unknown cause?’

‘I told you I was a copper before I was warm. When I have a case Warren can’t ignore, I’ll lay it before him.’

‘Thank you, Scotsman.’

‘For what?’

‘For your trust.’

There were a great many pages of loose paper, covered with a cypher or shorthand that resembled hieroglyphic script.

‘Hello,’ Mackenzie said, ‘what have we here?’ He held up a pencilled draft of a letter. It was in plain English. ‘Lestrade will be sick with envy,’ Mackenzie said. ‘And Fred Abberline. Kostaki, look...’

Kostaki glanced at the paper. ‘
Dear Boss
,’ it began, and it was signed ‘
Yours truly, Jack the Ripper
.’

T
he body had washed up on Cuckold’s Point, at the curve of Limehouse Reach. It had taken three men to drag it out of the sucking mud and deposit it on the nearest wharf. Before Geneviève and Morrison arrived, someone took the trouble to lay the corpse out into a semblance of dignity, untangling the limbs and arranging the water- and dirt-clogged clothes. A length of sailcloth was draped over the dead man to protect the sensibilities of dock-workers and waterfront idlers who happened by.

He had already been identified by an inscription in his watch and, surprisingly, a cheque made out to his name. Nevertheless, they were formally to confirm the corpse’s identity. As the constable lifted the sailcloth, several on-lookers made exaggerated sounds of disgust. Morrison flinched and turned away. Druitt’s face had been eaten by the fish, exposing empty eye-sockets and a devil’s-grin of bare teeth, but she knew him by his hairline and chin.

‘It’s him,’ she said.

The constable dropped the cloth and thanked them. Morrison seconded her statement. A wagon was ready to receive the body.

‘I think he had family in Bournemouth,’ Morrison told the
policeman. The constable took a dutiful note.

The Colonel had kept his word. Druitt’s pockets were stuffed with stones; no suicide note had been manufactured, but the inference was inescapable. Another unpunished murderer was at liberty: the police would mount no campaign against him, there would be no special investigators from the Diogenes Club. What was so extraordinary about the Ripper? Within fifty yards of the river, there would be a dozen as cruel, as profligate. The Whitechapel Murderer was presumably a madman; Moran and his kind had not even that excuse. Their murders were simply stock-in-trade.

With Druitt hoisted on to the wagon, the show was over. The idlers drifted off to the next spectacle and the policeman returned to his duties. She was left with Morrison, at the edge of the wharf. They walked towards Rotherhithe Street, a row of rope-merchants, public houses, sailors’ lodgings, shipping offices and bawdy houses. This was the Arabian Nights quarter of London, a bazaar in the thin fog. A hundred different languages mingled. It was a heavily Chinese district and the rustle of silks still touched her with dread.