THE POSEUR
Lord Ruthven stood at a podium, one hand fisted sternly on his extravagantly ruffled breast, the other resting upon an imposing stack of books. The Prime Minister's Carlyle, Godalming noticed, still had uncut pages. Ruthven wore a midnight black frock coat, frogged at the collar and on the pockets. A curly-brimmed top hat perched on his head; his face was a thoughtful blank. The portrait would be called The Great Man, or some such imposing title. My Lord Ruthven, the Vampire Statesman.
Several times Godalming had sat for painters; he had been possessed of a series of sudden, urgent needs to scratch or blink or twitch. Ruthven was uniquely able to stand motionless all afternoon, as patient as a lizard waiting on a rock for a morsel to crawl within range of a darting tongue.
'It is a shame we are denied the miracle of photography,' he declared, lips apparently unmoving. Godalming had seen attempted photographs of vampires. They developed in a blurred manner, the subjects appearing, if at all, as fuzzy silhouettes with corpselike features. The laws that affected mirrors somehow thwarted the photographic process.
'But only a painter can capture the inner man,' Ruthven said. 'Human genius shall always be superior to mechanical-chemical trickery.'
The artist at hand was Basil Hallward, the society portraitist. He deftly sketched a series of studies, a preliminary to the full-length picture. Although more fashionable than inspired, Hallward had his moments. Even Whistler doled out a few kind words for his early work.
'Godalming, what do you know about the Silver Knife business?' Ruthven asked, suddenly.
'The murders in Whitechapel? Three so far, I believe.'
'Good, you're up on it. Excellent man.'
'I just glance at the newspapers.'
Hallward released the Prime Minister and Ruthven sprang from his spot, eager to see the sketches, which the painter clutched to his heart.
'Come now, just a peep,' coaxed Ruthven, exerting considerable charm. At times, he was quite the larkish lad.
Hallward showed his pad and Ruthven flicked through, uttering approval.
'Very fine, Hallward,' he commented. 'I do believe you've caught me. Godalming, look here, look at this expression. Is this not me?'
Godalming agreed with Ruthven. The Prime Minister was delighted.
'You're too much the new-born to have forgotten your own face, Godalming,' Ruthven said, fingers at his own cheek. 'When I was as barely-cool as you, I swore it would never happen. Ah, the resolutions of youth. Gone, gone, gone.'
From philosophy, Ruthven switched to natural science. 'Actually, it is untrue that vampires lack a reflection. It is just that the reflection invariably does not reflect, as it were, what is out here in the world.'
Godalming, like every new-born, had stared at a shaving glass for a few hours, wondering. Some disappeared completely, while others saw an apparently empty suit of clothes. Godalming's image was a black fudge like the photographs Ruthven had mentioned. The matter of mirrors was uniformly considered the most impenetrable of the mysteries of the un-dead.
'Anyway, Godalming... Silver Knife? This beastly murderer. He preys only on our kind, does he not? Slits throats and stabs hearts?'
'That is what they say.'
'A fearless vampire killer, like your old associate Van Helsing?'
Godalming's face burned; if still capable of blushing, he was doing so.
'I'm sorry,' the Prime Minister said with patent sincerity, 'I did not intend to raise that matter. It must be painful for you.'
'Things have changed, my lord.'
Ruthven fluttered his hand. 'You lost your fiancee to this Van Helsing. Having suffered more at his hand than even Prince Dracula, you have been pardoned and forgiven your ignorance.'
Godalming remembered hammering at the stake, and Lucy's hissing, blood-spitting death. A death that need never have been. Lucy would have been one of the first ladies of the court; like Wilhelmina Harker or the Prince Consort's Carpathian mistresses. He would have lost her anyway.
'You've cause to curse the Dutchman's memory. For that reason, I wish you to represent my interests in the matter of Silver Knife.'
'I don't see what you mean.'
Ruthven was back at his podium, exactly in his former pose. Hallward's quick fingers filled in detail on a large sketch.
'The Palace has taken an interest. Our dear Queen is most upset. I have a personal note from Vicky. "This murderer is certainly not an Englishman," she deduces, "and if he is, he is certainly not a gentleman." Very astute.'
'Whitechapel is a notorious nest of foreigners, my lord. The Queen may be right.'
Ruthven smiled ironically. 'Rot, Godalming. We should all like to believe the English incapable of atrocious conduct, but such is not the case. Sir Francis Varney, after all, is an Englishman. The point is that our murderer is very choosy about his midnight surgical experiments.'
'You think he's a doctor?'
'That's hardly a fresh theory. It's of no importance. No, the thing is that he is a vampire killer. An homicidal lunatic, almost certainly, but also a vampire killer. Given the delicacy of the situation, he is treading a knife-edge with the public. No matter how they may disapprove and cry "monster", there is another view, a view which upholds the Silver Knife as an outlaw hero, a Robin Hood of the gutters.'
'Surely no Englishman could believe so?'
'Have you forgotten what it was like to be warm, Godalming? How did you feel when you were following Van Helsing about Kingstead Cemetery with hammer and stake?'
Godalming understood.
'The best thing would be, and I am not commissioning such an act by any means, if our madman were to take his silver knife to some warm tart, and thus display an all-inclusive mania. If there is any sympathy for him, such a step would cause it to evaporate.'
'Indeed so.'
'But even this exalted office does not give me power over the minds of mad murderers. A pity.'
'What would you have me do?'
'Poke around, Godalming. We are late off the mark. Many interested parties have been tracking our man. Carpathians have been seen attending inquests and loitering in vile places. And a connection of yours, one Charles Beauregard, has been acting on behalf of our more secret services.'
'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 fiancee. She is put out by his neglect.'
Ruthven laughed. 'Ever the curly-haired roue, 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.'
