carry it out. Beauregard made a connection with a news item buried in the pages of
‘Sometimes I wish I had never heard of vampires,’ Florence said. ‘I told Bram as much.’
Beauregard mumbled some assent. The doorbell rang and he heard Mrs Yeovil scuttling past the room to admit the caller.
‘Another well-wisher, I should think.’
Yesterday, Kate Reed, Penelope’s new-born journalist friend, had come by and loitered in embarrassed impotence for half an hour, mumbling sympathetically, then found an excuse to dash off somewhere. She had hardly set Penelope a good example.
The front door was pulled open, and a familiar voice explained: ‘I don’t have a card, I’m sorry.’
Genevieve. He was on his feet and in the hallway before he could think, Florence trailing after him. She stood on the doorstep.
‘Charles,’ she said. ‘I assumed I would find you here.’
She stepped past Mrs Yeovil and slipped off her green cloak. The housekeeper hung it up.
‘Charles,’ Florence prompted. ‘You are being remiss.’
He apologised and made an introduction. Genevieve, on her best behaviour, touched Florence’s hand and made a passable curtsey. Mrs Churchward was in the hallway now, come down to investigate the new arrival. Beauregard made a further introduction.
‘I understand you are in need of a doctor familiar with infirmities of the un-dead,’ Genevieve explained to Penelope’s mother. ‘I have not a little experience.’
‘Dr Ravna of Harley Street is with us, Miss Dieudonne. I should think his services sufficient.’
‘Ravna?’ Her face betrayed her opinion.
‘Genevieve?’ he asked.
‘There’s no polite way of saying it, Charles. Ravna is a crank and a buffoon. He’s been a vampire six months, and already he’s declared himself the Calmet of the age. You’d be better off with Jekyll or Moreau, and I wouldn’t trust them to lance a boil.’
‘Dr Ravna comes most highly recommended,’ Mrs Churchward insisted. ‘He is welcome in all the best houses.’
Genevieve waved that aside. ‘Society has been known to make mistakes.’
‘I hardly think...’
‘Mrs Churchward, you must let me see your daughter.’
She fixed her eyes on Penelope’s mother. Beauregard felt the persuasive force of her glance. The wound on his wrist tickled. He was sure everyone noticed how often he fidgeted with his cuff.
‘Very well,’ Mrs Churchward said.
‘Think of it as a second opinion,’ Genevieve said.
Leaving Florence and Mrs Yeovil behind, Genevieve and Beauregard followed Mrs Churchward upstairs. When Mrs Churchward opened the sick-room door, a dreadful odour seeped out. It was the smell of things dead and forgotten. The room was heavily-curtained, a single fishtail gaslight casting a pale half-circle on the bed.
Dr Ravna, sleeves rolled up, was bending over the patient, taking a set of tongs to a wriggling black thing fastened to her chest. The bedclothes were rolled back, and Penelope’s chemise was open. A half-dozen black streaks were fixed to her breast and belly.
‘Leeches,’ Genevieve exclaimed.
Beauregard swallowed his nausea.
‘You damned fool!’ Genevieve pushed the specialist aside and laid her hand on Penelope’s brow. The patient’s skin was yellowish and shiny. She was red around the eyes and angry marks dotted her exposed body.
‘The impure blood must be drawn out,’ Dr Ravna explained. ‘She has drunk from a poison well.’
Genevieve pulled off her gloves. She plucked a leech from Penelope’s chest and dropped it into a basin. Working methodically and without distaste, she detached all the sluglike things. Bloodspots welled where their mouths had been. Dr Ravna began to protest, but Genevieve stared him silent. When the job was done, she rolled up the bedspread, and tucked it around Penelope’s neck.
‘Fools like you have much to answer for,’ she told Dr Ravna.
‘My credentials are of the finest, young lady.’
‘I’m not young,’ she said.
Penelope was conscious but apparently unable to speak. Her eyes darted and her hand took Genevieve’s. Even ignoring the obvious symptoms of her illness, Penelope was different. Her face had changed subtly, her hairline shifted. She looked like Pamela.
‘I just hope your leeches haven’t destroyed her mind utterly,’ Genevieve told Dr Ravna. ‘She was already sick and you’ve dangerously weakened her.’
‘Is there anything that can be done?’ Mrs Churchward asked.
‘She needs blood,’ Genevieve said. ‘If she’s drunk tainted blood, she needs good blood to counteract it. Draining her veins is worse than useless. Without blood, the brain is starved. Maybe irreparably injured.’
Charles unfastened his cuff.
‘No,’ Genevieve said, waving his unspoken offer away. ‘Your blood won’t do.’
She was firm on the point. Beauregard wondered whether her motives were entirely medical.
‘She needs her own blood, or something close. What Moreau says is true. There are differing types of blood. Vampires have known that for centuries.’
‘Her own blood?’ Mrs Churchward said. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Or something close, the blood of a relative. Mrs Churchward, would you be willing...’
Mrs Churchward could not conceal her disgust.
‘You nursed her once,’ Genevieve explained. ‘Now you must do it again.’
Penelope’s mother was horror-struck. Her hands were held to her face, wrists crossed over her throat.
‘If Lord Godalming were truly a gentleman, this would not be necessary,’ Genevieve told Beauregard.
Penelope hissed, eye-teeth bared. She sucked at the air, tongue out to catch whatever sustenance there was.
‘Your daughter will live,’ Genevieve told Mrs Churchward. ‘But everything that makes her who she is could be washed away and you would be left with a blank, a creature of appetites but no mind.’
‘She looks like Pamela,’ Beauregard said.
Genevieve was concerned. ‘Damn, that’s bad. Penelope is shrinking inside, reshaping herself, losing herself.’
Penelope whimpered and Beauregard blinked away tears. The smell, the stifling heat of the room, the cowed doctor, the patient in pain. All were too familiar.
Mrs Churchward approached the bed. Genevieve beckoned her and took her hand. She brought mother and daughter together, and slipped away from them. Penelope reached up and embraced her mother. Mrs Churchward pulled her collar away from her throat, quivering with distaste. The patient sat up in bed and attached her mouth to her mother’s neck.
A shock froze Mrs Churchward. A red trickle coursed down Penelope’s chin on to her night-dress. Genevieve sat on the bed and stroked Penelope’s hair, cooing encouragement.
‘Careful,’ she said, ‘not too much.’
Dr Ravna retreated, leaving behind his leeches. Beauregard felt like an intruder, but remained. Mrs Churchward’s expression softened and a certain dreaminess crept into her eyes. Beauregard understood how she felt. He gripped his wrist tight, sliding the stiff linen of his cuff over the bitemarks. Genevieve eased Penelope away from her mother’s neck and settled her back on to her pillows. Her lips were scarlet, her face ruddy. She seemed fuller, more like her old self.
‘Charles,’ Genevieve said sharply. ‘Stop dreaming.’
Mrs Churchward was tottering on the verge of a faint. Beauregard caught her and helped her into a chair.
‘I never... thought...’ she said. ‘Poor, poor Penny.’
