Charles half-smiled. ‘You were not alone in that impression but circumstances intervened. There was trouble in St James’s Park.’
She found Charles holding her hands as if feeling the bones for damage.
‘Forgive me for being overly inquisitive but there is something about your domestic arrangements that puzzles me.’
‘Oh, really,’ he said, cooling.
‘Yes. Am I correct in assuming that Miss Churchward, Penelope, is a connection of Mrs Beauregard, Pamela, your former wife...’
Charles’s face betrayed nothing.
‘I would assume them sisters were it not for the fact, demonstrated by Mr Holman Hunt and Miss Waugh, that if such were so, your engagement would constitute incest under English law.’
‘Penelope is Pamela’s cousin. They were brought up in the same household. As sisters, if you will.’
‘So you intend to marry the pseudo-sister of your late wife?’
He picked his words carefully. ‘That was indeed my intent.’
‘Does this not strike you as a peculiar arrangement?’
Charles let go of her hands and turned away with a suspiciously casual aspect. ‘No stranger than any other, surely...’
‘Charles, I do not wish to embarrass you, but you must remember... the other night in the cab... through no fault of mine, I have some, uh, some understanding of your feelings, for Pamela, for Penelope...’
Sighing, Charles said, ‘Genevieve, I appreciate your concern but I assure you it is quite needless. Whatever the motives for my engagement might have been, they now mean nothing. It is my understanding that, through no action of my own, I am released from my promise to Penelope.’
‘My condolences.’ She put her hand on his shoulder and turned him so she could see his eyes.
‘Condolences are unnecessary.’
‘I was flippant about Penelope the other night. I was light-headed, you understand. Close to hysterical.’
‘You’d nearly been killed,’ Charles said, with feeling. ‘You were not responsible.’
‘Nevertheless, I regret what I said, what I implied...’
‘No,’ Charles said, looking at her straight-on. ‘You were exactly right. I was being unfair to Penelope. I do not feel for her as a man should for his wife. I was merely using her to replace the irreplaceable. She is better off without me. Just recently, I’ve been feeling... I don’t know, feeling as if I’d lost an arm. As if I were not complete without Pamela.’
‘You mean Penelope?’
‘I mean
‘What will you do now?’
‘I’ll have eventually to see Penelope and clear things between us. She’ll find a far better catch than me. As for myself, I have more important affairs to consider.’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as the Whitechapel Murders. Also, I want to see what I can do about saving your life.’
35
A DYNAMITE PARTY
Look at them,’ said von Klatka, nodding at the wagon. ‘Terrified of us, are they not? It is good, no?’
Von Klatka was enjoying himself too much. The Carpathian Guard had been called into the park too late to do much more than gloat. It was the best kind of victory, Kostaki reflected, with spoils but no losses. The police had already rounded up and penned most of the trouble-makers.
A row of worried faces peered through the bar-like slats of the nearest wagon. It held the women. Most wore white vestments with red crosses on the front.
‘Christian Crusaders!’ von Klatka sneered, ‘fools!’
‘We were the Christians once,’ Kostaki said. ‘When we followed Prince Dracula against the Turk.’
‘An old battle, my comrade. There are new enemies to be conquered.’
He approached the wagon. The prisoners whimpered, cringing away from the slats. Von Klatka grinned and snarled. Some woman stifled screams and von Klatka laughed. Was there honour in this?
Kostaki saw a familiar face among the milling policemen.
‘Scotsman,’ he shouted, ‘hail and well met.’
Inspector Mackenzie turned from his conversation with a turnkey and saw Kostaki bearing down on him. ‘Captain Kostaki,’ Mackenzie acknowledged, tapping the brim of his hat. ‘You’ve missed the merriment.’
Von Klatka prodded between the bars of the wagon, a naughty child in the zoo. One of the prisoners fainted and her comrades called for God or John Jago to protect them.
‘Merriment?’
Mackenzie snorted bitterly. ‘You might think it so. Not enough blood spilled for your tastes, I imagine. No one killed.’
‘I am sure the omission will be remedied. There must be ringleaders.’
‘Examples will be made, Captain.’
Kostaki sensed the warm policeman’s discomfort, his swallowed anger. Few alliances truly lasted. It must be difficult for this man to reconcile his duties with his loyalties. ‘I respect you, Inspector.’
The Scotsman was surprised.
‘Have a care,’ Kostaki continued. ‘These are awkward times. All positions are precarious.’
Von Klatka reached into the wagon and tickled a shrinking girl’s ankle. He enjoyed his sport. He turned to Kostaki, grinning for approval.
A vampire emerged from the shadows of the park. Kostaki immediately saluted. General Iorga – a blusterer if ever there was – had been caught in the rioting; now, he strode about, with that arrogant devil Hentzau in tow, as if fresh from winning the Battle of Austerlitz. Iorga grunted to get von Klatka’s attention and was rewarded with another salute. He was one of those officers, as common in the armies of the living as of the un-dead, who need constant reassurance of their importance. What of his time was not spent snivelling to his superiors was taken up with being beastly to his subordinates. For four hundred years, Iorga had vowed eternal fealty to the cause of Dracula, and for as long he had secretly hoped someone would hoist the impaler on one of his own stakes. The General saw himself as King of the Vampires. In this, he was alone: set beside the Prince, General Iorga was a featherweight.
‘There will be a celebration in the barracks tonight,’ Iorga told them. ‘The Guard has triumphed.’
Mackenzie shifted his hat to shade his disgusted face, but did not contradict the General in his poaching of credit for the rout of the rioters.
‘Von Klatka,’ Iorga said. ‘Cut out half a dozen of those warm women and escort them to our barracks.’
‘Yes
The prisoners cried and prayed. Von Klatka made a great show of leering at each of the prisoners, rejecting this one as too old and fat, that one as too thin and stringy. He called Kostaki over for an added opinion but he pretended not to hear.
Iorga and Hentzau strode off, capes flapping behind them. The General aped the Prince’s dress, though he was too plump to carry it off properly.
‘He reminds me of Sir Charles Warren,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Struts around spitting orders with no idea what it’s like out here at the sharp end.’
‘The General is a fool. Most above the rank of Captain are.’
The policeman chuckled. ‘As are most above the rank of Inspector.’
‘We can agree on that.’
Von Klatka made his choices and the turnkey helped him haul the girls – for they tended to be the youngest – out of the wagon. They clung together, shivering. Their vestments were unsuitable for a chilly night.
‘Good fat martyrs they make,’ said von Klatka, pinching the nearest cheek.
