She understood her daughter better now, Beauregard knew.

‘Penelope,’ Genevieve said, trying to get the invalid’s attention. Penelope’s eyes wandered and her mouth trembled. She licked away the last of the blood. ‘Miss Churchward, can you hear me?’

Penelope purred an answer.

‘You must rest,’ Genevieve told her.

Penelope nodded, smiled and allowed her eyes to flutter shut.

Genevieve turned to Mrs Churchward and snapped her fingers in front of her face. Penelope’s mother was jolted from her daydream. ‘Two days from now, the same, you understand? With supervision. You must not let your daughter take too much blood from you. And that must be the last time. She must not become dependent on you. Another feeding will bring her up to strength. Then, she must fend for herself.’

‘Will she live?’ Mrs Churchward asked.

‘I can’t promise an eternity, but if she’s careful she should survive the century. Perhaps the millennium.’

46

KAFFIR WAR

Each night, Sir Charles sent out constables with paint pots to obliterate the day’s Crusader Crosses from walls within sight of Scotland Yard. But after dawn the thin red signs would appear again, daubed on anything conveniently white or white-ish in the vicinity of Whitehall Place and Northumberland Avenue. Godalming watched as the Commissioner barked orders at his latest group of amateur redecorators.

Living loiterers in thick coats and scarves watched, hostile natives on the point of attacking the fort. One of Sir Charles’s wiser measures was to prepare the Yard for siege, ensuring rifles were readily available and all doors and windows defensible. Whenever the situation skewed from a police to a military matter, the Commissioner had a spurt of competence that was almost heartening. Good soldier, terrible copper: that would be the verdict on Sir Charles Warren.

The fog was back, thicker than ever. Even vampires found it impenetrable. Seeing in the dark was not the same as seeing through the sulphur-soup. Godalming still watched over Sir Charles for the Prime Minister. The Commissioner was steadily losing his grip. When he next met with Ruthven, Godalming intended to recommend replacement. Matthews had been after Sir Charles’s scalp for months, so the Home Secretary – himself hardly secure in his position – would be mollified.

Somehow Crusaders had managed to paint their cross on the main doors of the Yard. Godalming suspected Jago had warm sympathisers on the force. Whoever was appointed in Sir Charles’s stead would have to purge the ranks before order could be re-established.

The Cross of St George was an obvious symbol for insurrectionists: simultaneously the crucifix vampires are proverbially unable to face, and the standard of an England bridling under the Prince Consort.

‘This is intolerable,’ Sir Charles fumed. ‘I am surrounded by blackguards and blunderers.’

Godalming kept quiet. The punishment for unauthorised wall-painting and slogan-scribbling was now five strokes of the lash, to be administered in public. At this rate it would soon be summary impalement, or at least the chopping off of the offending hand.

‘That dolt Matthews and his penny-pinching,’ Sir Charles continued. ‘We need more men on the streets. Troops.’

Only Godalming paid attention to the Commissioner. His subordinates got on with the business of policing, trying to ignore the ravings of their commanding officer. Dr Anderson, Sir Charles’s Assistant Commissioner, had extended his walking holiday in Switzerland, while Chief Inspector Swanson was doing his best to seem part of the wallpaper, hoping to keep his head down until the shooting was over.

A derelict-looking man approached Sir Charles and began talking to him. Instantly, Godalming was interested. He sauntered near enough to listen. The ragged man had come with a limping companion who stood back a dozen yards. This companion was an elder vampire, face on the point of falling off his skull. Godalming assumed he was of the Carpathian Guard. He was certainly not an Englishman.

‘Mackenzie!’ Sir Charles shouted. ‘What do you mean by this? Where have you been?’

‘On a trail, sir.’

‘You’ve been remiss in your duty. You are relieved of your rank, and subject to severe disciplinary action.’

‘Sir, if you’ll listen...’

‘And look at yourself, you’re a disgrace to the force! A ruddy disgrace!’

‘Sir, consider this...’

Mackenzie, whom Godalming understood to be an Inspector, gave the Commissioner a piece of paper.

‘It’s another of these blasted crank letters,’ Sir Charles exclaimed.

‘Indeed, but unfinished, unsent. I know who the author is.’

Godalming now knew this was important. An unholy light sparked in Sir Charles’s eyes. ‘You know the identity of Jack the Ripper?’

Mackenzie smiled, eyes mad. ‘I didn’t say that. But I know who is composing letters over the signature.’

‘Then find Lestrade. It’s his case. No doubt he’ll thank you for weeding out another interfering lunatic.’

‘This is of paramount importance. It’s to do with the business in the park the other night. It’s to do with everything. John Jago, the dynamiters, the Ripper...’

‘Mackenzie, you’re raving!’

To Godalming, both policemen seemed on the verge of madness. But the piece of paper was a nugget of something. He stepped in and looked at it.

“Yours truly, Jack the Ripper,”’ he read aloud. ‘Is this in the same hand as the others?’

‘I’ll stake ten guineas on it,’ Mackenzie said. ‘And I’m a Scotsman.’

They were in a crowd now. Uniformed men clustered around, and not a few of the loiterers. Mackenzie’s elder comrade also joined the group. A new-born constable stood to attention behind Mackenzie, ready for action.

‘Sir Charles,’ Mackenzie said, ‘it’s a vampire. Treason is involved. Dynamite treason. I’ve reason to believe we’ve been duped all along. Highly-placed interests are intervening.’

‘A vampire! Nonsense. Rattle the cages of the crusade and you’ll get your man. And he’ll be a warm johnny.’

Mackenzie raised his hands in frustration. It was as if he had battered his forehead against the Commissioner’s obstinacy.

‘Sir, does the name of the Diogenes Club mean anything to you?’

Sir Charles’s face went grey. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man.’

Godalming was intrigued. The Diogenes Club was Charles Beauregard’s outfit and Beauregard had arisen throughout this whole affair. It was possible the Scotsman had picked up a genuine trail and run his quarry to ground.

‘Sir Charles,’ he said. ‘I think we should have Inspector Mackenzie’s report in camera. It is possible that we are near to solving several mysteries.’

He looked from the Commissioner’s face to the Inspector’s. Both were set, unwilling to bend to the other. Beside Mackenzie was the Carpathian, red eyes fixed on Sir Charles. Behind them was the massively-moustached, dark-eyed constable.

At once, with a dizzying vampire insight, Godalming knew the constable was as fake as a seven-pound note.

Fire belched and noise rang out. People scattered, yelling. Bags of paint exploded against Portland stone dressings. Windows were smashed by well-aimed projectiles. Shots were discharged and a woman screamed. Everyone in their little group tried to throw themselves to the ground. The Carpathian collided with Godalming, and he staggered under the weight, trying to remain on his feet. The false policeman had his arm drawn back. Something flashed. Godalming collapsed and was forced to the grimy cobbles. The Carpathian rolled off him. Sir Charles swore mightily and waved a revolver.

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