Anno Dracula

30

THE PENNY DROPS

Deeming it best not to move her, he sent Clayton to Toynbee Hall for Dr Seward. In the meantime, he did what he could to make her comfortable. A pail of clean-ish water had been filled from a standpipe; he took a cloth to her face, wiping off her mask of blood and dirt.

Whatever it had been, it had left, bounding with a peculiar hopping gait. Beauregard wished his sword-cane had skewered the thing. He was revising his opinions on vampires in general, but that monster should not be alive.

He dabbed her face and she held his hand tight. She groaned as broken bones moved. He was reminded of Liz Stride at the last. And of Pamela. Both of those were lost, death coming as a mercy. He determined to fight for Geneviève Dieudonné. If he could not preserve one life, what use was he? She tried to speak, but he soothed her to silence. He picked a crushed butterfly out of her hair and flicked it away. Her head sat unnaturally, neck kinked at an angle, a bone jutting under the skin. A warm woman would be dead.

The crowds who had enjoyed the fight were still there, putting the market back together. A few loafers hung about, hoping to see more blood. Beauregard would have liked to floor one or two of them with kung-fu kicks, just to give the public a show.

Clayton returned with a dumpy woman. It was Mrs Amworth, the vampire nurse. Another man from the Hall, Morrison, was with them, carrying a doctor’s bag.

‘Dr Seward is off somewhere,’ Mrs Amworth explained. ‘You’ll have to make do with me.’

The nurse gently pushed him aside, and knelt by Geneviève. He still held her hand, but she winced as her arm shifted.

‘You’ll have to let go,’ said Mrs Amworth.

He put Geneviève’s hand down, arranging her arm by her side.

‘Good, good, good,’ Mrs Amworth said to herself as she felt Geneviève’s ribs. ‘The bones are setting properly.’

Geneviève half-sat, coughing, and then slumped.

‘Yes, that hurts,’ Mrs Amworth cooed, ‘but only to make you better.’

Morrison opened the bag and set it within Mrs Amworth’s reach. She took out a scalpel.

‘You’re going to cut?’ he asked.

‘Only her dress.’

The nurse slipped the blade under Geneviève’s neckline at the shoulder and slit down the arm, peeling away what was left of the sleeve. There were purplish patches on her upper arm, which Mrs Amworth squeezed with both hands. There was a pop and the shoulder socketed properly. The livid blotches began to fade.

‘Now, the trick,’ Mrs Amworth said. ‘Her neck is broken. We must set it quickly, or her bones will repair themselves wrongly and we’d have to break the spine again to fix her.’

‘Can I help?’

‘You and Morrison take her by the shoulders, and hold on for your lives. You, cabby, sit on her legs.’

Clayton was appalled.

‘Don’t be bashful. She’ll thank you for it. Probably give you a kiss.’

The cabby anchored himself over Geneviève’s knees. Beauregard and Morrison pinioned her shoulders. Only her head was free. Beauregard fancied Geneviève was trying to smile. She bared her fearful teeth.

‘This will hurt, dear,’ Mrs Amworth cautioned.

The vampire nurse took Geneviève’s head, slipping her hands under her ears and getting a solid hold. Experimenting, she moved the head slightly from side to side, pulling the neck. Geneviève’s eyes screwed shut, and she hissed, teeth meshing like the halves of a portcullis.

‘Try screaming, dear.’

The patient took the advice, and gave vent to an elongated screech as Mrs Amworth pulled hard and popped Geneviève’s skull back on to her spinal column. Then, straddling the patient, she took a strangler’s grip on the throat and wrestled the vertebrae into place. Beauregard saw the nurse straining as she accomplished her cure. Her placid face was reddened, fangs burst from her mouth. He was, even after all his experiences, shocked at the transformation.

The four of them stood, leaving Geneviève to wriggle on the floor. Her screech was a series of yelps now. She shook her head, hair whipping about her face. He thought she was swearing in medieval French. She rubbed her neck and sat up.

‘Now, dear, you must feed,’ Mrs Amworth said. She looked around, at him.

Beauregard loosened his cravat, and undid his collar. Then, he froze. He felt the pulse in his neck against his knuckles. A shirt-stud came loose and wriggled between his shirt and waistcoat. Geneviève was sitting up, a wall against her back. Her face calmed down, losing the demon rictus, but her teeth were still enlarged, jutting like sharp pebbles. He imagined her mouth on his neck.

‘Charles?’ someone said.

He turned around. Penelope stood by a stack of cabbage crates. In a fur-collared travelling coat and gauze-clouded hat, she was as out of place as a Red Indian in the House of Commons.

‘What are you doing?’

His instant reaction was to redo his cravat, but he fumbled and his collar flew absurdly loose.

‘Who are these people?’

‘She must feed,’ Mrs Amworth insisted. ‘Or she might collapse. She’s all used up, poor thing.’

Morrison had rolled up his sleeve and presented his wrist, which bore several tiny scabs, to Geneviève’s mouth. She held her hair out of the way and suckled.

Penelope looked away, nose wrinkling up in disgust. ‘Charles, this is filthy!’

She nudged a head of cabbage aside with a pointed boot-toe. The loafers clustered behind Penelope exchanged inaudible jokes. The occasional explosion of rude laughter washed by without touching her.

‘Penelope,’ he said, ‘this is Mademoiselle Dieudonné...’

Geneviève’s eyes rolled up to look at Penelope. A dribble of blood emerged from the corner of her mouth, ran down Morrison’s wrist, and dripped to the cobbles.

‘Geneviève, this is Miss Churchward, my fiancée...’

Penelope did everything possible not to say ‘ugh’ out loud. Geneviève finished, and returned Morrison’s arm to him. He wrapped a handkerchief around his wrist, and refastened his cuff. Red-mouthed, she stood up. Her torn sleeve flapped away from her bare shoulder. She held half her bodice to her chest, and curtseyed, wincing somewhat.

There were policemen in the crowd now, and the loafers dispersed. Everyone in the market found something to do, picking through stalls, hefting crates, bartering prices.

Mrs Amworth put an arm around Geneviève to steady her, but Geneviève gently eased her away. She smiled at her own ability to stay upright. Beauregard thought she was light-headed, her feeding following so close upon her injuries.

‘Lord Godalming said you might be found in the vicinity of the Café de Paris in Whitechapel,’ Penelope said. ‘I had hoped his information misleading.’

To attempt an explanation would be to admit a defeat, Beauregard knew.

‘I have a cab,’ she said. ‘Will you return with me to Chelsea?’

‘I still have business here, Penelope.’

She smiled with half her face, but her eyes were blue steel specks.

‘I shall not enquire as to your “business”, Charles. It is not my place.’

Geneviève wiped her mouth on a scrap of her dress. Sensibly, she faded into the background with Mrs Amworth and Morrison. Clayton stood about bewildered, a cabby without a cab. He would have to wait for the knacker to come for his horse.

‘Should you wish to call on me,’ Penelope continued, laying out an ultimatum, ‘I shall be at home tomorrow afternoon.’

She turned and left. A porter whistled and she turned, cutting him into dead silence with a stare. The cowed man slunk into the shadows behind a row of beef sides. Penelope walked off, taking tiny steps, her veil drawn low over her face.

When she was gone, Geneviève said ‘so that’s Penelope.’

Beauregard nodded.

‘She has a nice hat,’ Geneviève commented. Several people, including Mrs Amworth and Clayton, laughed, not pleasantly.

‘No, really,’ Geneviève insisted, gesturing in front of her face. ‘The veil is a pretty touch.’

Inside himself, he was exhausted. He tried to smile but his face felt a thousand years old.

‘Her coat is good, too. All those little shiny buttons.’