Anno Dracula

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.

Mackenzie drew in air for a breath, then held it. He was on his knees, mouth open, eyes rolled up. The Jack the Ripper letter, caught by a gust, whirled off a few yards, then stuck flat as a poster to a wet wall, written-side in. Mackenzie gasped and blood came from his mouth. The Carpathian was trying to help him stand. He took his hand away from the Scotsman’s back and it was bloody.

Someone kicked Godalming in the head. Police whistles shrilled. Sir Charles, thinking himself in the thick of an African battle, was in charge again, dispensing orders, having constables snap to attention, gesturing with his pistol.

Reinforcements poured out of the Yard, summoned by the disturbance. Many brandished guns: Sir Charles liked his men to go armed, no matter what regulations specified. The Commissioner directed them to put down the mob. With truncheons out, a platoon of policemen battered the few remaining loiterers, driving them towards the Embankment. Godalming saw the new-born who had stabbed Mackenzie with this group, applying his stick to the head of a clergyman. The constables drove the rabble into the fog. The assassin would not return.

Mackenzie was face-down on the cobbles, unmoving. The dark patch on the back of his coat showed he had been neatly skewered through the heart. The Carpathian stood over him, blood-dipped knife in his hand and no expression on his dead face.

‘Arrest this murderer,’ Sir Charles ordered.

The three new-born constables around them hesitated. Godalming wondered if they could subdue the elder. The Carpathian contemptuously cast away the knife and held out his hands. One of the coppers obliged, fastening purely formal handcuffs around the elder’s wrists. He could have broken them with a flex but let himself be taken.

‘We shall have an explanation of you,’ Sir Charles said, holding up a finger as if daring the vampire to bite it off.

The constables hauled the Carpathian away.

‘That’s better,’ the Commissioner said, surveying the calm. The streets had been cleared. Paint dripped on the walls. The cobbles were littered with still-rolling missiles and the odd constable’s helmet, but peace had been enforced. ‘That’s much more like it. Order and discipline, Godalming. That’s the stuff we need. Mustn’t slacken.’

Sir Charles returned to the building, striding purposefully, followed by several of his men. The natives had been momentarily repulsed but Godalming heard the jungle drums summoning more cannibals. He remained in the fog for a moment, head racing. Of all who had been there, only he – and the assassin – really knew what had happened. He was coming into his full powers, acquiring the insights and sensitivities if not of an elder then of a vampire who could no longer be described as a new-born. He could survey calm and see the chaos beneath. Lord Ruthven had told him to look for an advantage, then to pursue it ruthlessly. This knowledge could be turned to his supreme advantage.