“Neither can I,” said Jonathan Harker.
The Professor nodded, curtly, trying not to show the dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach. “So we are in agreement,” he said, gripping the arms of his chair and pushing himself to his feet. “It is my sincere hope that we are wrong, but I feel it in my heart that we are not. I will convey our conclusion to the Prime Minister. Let us hope that he surprises us with wisdom enough to heed our warning.”
The valet brought the carriage to a halt outside the grand Horse Guards building, dismounted and helped Van Helsing down on to the pavement. Two soldiers of the Household Cavalry, resplendent in their blue tunics and gold ropes, immediately approached and asked them their business. The valet produced the letter from inside his top coat and passed it to the soldiers, who examined it carefully before standing aside.
Inside the arched entrance to the building an elderly butler, clad in immaculate morning dress, informed them that the Prime Minister would receive them in the study of the Commander-in-Chief of the British Army on the first floor. He hovered respectfully as Van Helsing removed his coat and handed it to his valet.
“Wait here, boy,” the old man said. “I doubt I shall be long.”
The valet nodded and took a seat in a high-backed wooden chair by the entrance, folding his master’s coat across his knees.
Van Helsing followed the butler up a wide staircase, his footsteps muffled by a deep red carpet, the oil-painted eyes of the greatest heroes of the British Empire staring silently down at him from the walls.
He was led along a wide corridor on the first floor, turning left and right and left again, until they reached a large oak door, which the butler pushed open. He stepped inside and the Professor followed.
“Professor Abraham Van Helsing,” the butler announced, then backed silently out of the study. The old man watched the servant close the door, then turned and looked at the six men gathered at the far end of the room.
Seated at an enormous mahogany desk was William Gladstone, the Prime Minister, looking expectantly at Van Helsing. Flanking him to the left and right were five of the most powerful men in the Empire; Earl Spencer, First Lord of the Admiralty; Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman, Secretary of State for War; George Robinson, Secretary of State for the Colonies and 1st Marquess of Ripon; Herbert Asquith, Home Secretary; and Archibald Primrose, Foreign Secretary and 5th Earl of Rosebery.
What a rogues’ gallery this is, thought Van Helsing.
He walked across the study. The wall to his left was dominated by a tall row of windows, through which could be seen the green expanse of St James’s Park. To his right an open fire roared in an ornamental marble fireplace. Lying on the floor between him and the desk was an immaculate tiger skin, the head, paws and tail still attached and forming a six-pointed star on the dark floorboards. Beyond the rug was a wooden chair, positioned directly in front of the one in which the Prime Minister was sitting.
Van Helsing stepped around the tiger skin with a look of distaste on his face, and stood next to the chair.
“Won’t you sit, Professor?” asked Gladstone, his voice higher and more feminine than Van Helsing had expected.
“No thank you, Prime Minister,” he replied curtly. “I prefer to stand.”
Even though the pain in my hip feels like there is a branding iron being pressed against it. Let it hold up for as long as this takes, grant me that much.
Gladstone continued. “I saw you admiring the tiger. Isn’t he beautiful?”
“She,” said Van Helsing pointedly, “would be more beautiful were she still alive in the forests of Siberia, in my opinion. Sir.”
Secretary Robinson uttered a short laugh. “Professor, you are mistaken,” he said, his voice booming from a mouth partially concealed behind a vast beard that reached below his bow tie. “Not about the sex of the beast, as female she surely is, but about her provenance. She’s a Bengal, sir. I shot her myself outside of Yangon, two summers ago.”
Van Helsing turned and looked down at the animal skin, taking in the size of the head and the length of the tail, both still intact.
“I think not, sir,” he replied. “Panthera tigris altaica. The Siberian, or Amur, tiger.”
Robinson’s face darkened red. “Are you calling me a liar, sir?” he asked, his voice low.
He bought it, realised Van Helsing, with cruel enjoyment. Probably in Singapore or Rangoon. Bought it and brought it home as a hunting trophy. How wonderful.
“I am not suggesting that,” he replied, relish creeping into his voice. “I am, however, suggesting that it is you who is mistaken. The thickness of the coat, the pale orange of the fur, the lighter concentration of the stripes, all are unmistakable characteristics of the Amur, as is the fact that she must have stood more than eight feet in length. Perhaps you have been hunting on the Siberian plains in recent years, as well as in Bengal, and merely forgotten from which trip you brought her home? Because, if that it not the case, there is only one conclusion I am able to draw.”
He left the accusation unspoken, hanging pregnantly in the air of the drawing room, and after favouring him with a look of pure murder Secretary Robinson admitted that his son had taken camp in Siberia two summers previously, and had brought home a number of fine wild specimens, and it was likely that he had mixed up his Bengal trophy with one of these.
Still you lie, to the faces of your peers. Gilded fools. Preening bookkeepers. Let us be about this business.
The Prime Minister cleared his throat and took a sip of water from the half-full glass on the desk.
“Professor Van Helsing,” he said, his tone warm and rich now, the oily voice of a born politician. “I wish to thank you personally for your endeavours last night, and to pass on to you the gratitude of Jenny Pembry’s mother and father. The girl is now recuperating with them in Whitechapel, and appears to be doing well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“However, the incident, although blessed with a satisfactory ending, raises some unusual questions, does it not?”
Van Helsing allowed that it did, and Gladstone nodded.
“Could you therefore, Professor, explain to us the nature of the creature you encountered last night, and your experience in such matters? We are not beyond the reach of gossip in Whitehall, and I’m sure we have all heard rumours of the business with Carfax Abbey and its Transylvanian occupant, but I would like to hear the truth, from you.”
The old man looked steadily at the Prime Minister, then up at the ministers who were gathered around him.
Like a gaggle of vultures. Looking for a way to turn blood and death to their advantage.
“Very well, sir,” he said, and began to talk.
He spoke for no more than ten minutes, but as he finished it was obvious that his tale had divided the men in the room into two camps. Primrose, Robinson and Campbell-Bannerman were looking at him as though he were utterly mad, their faces contorted with obvious outrage that they had been forced to listen to such foolishness. Asquith, Spencer and Gladstone were ashen-faced, their eyes wide with horror, and Van Helsing knew that these three men believed what he had told them.
“Are there any questions?” he asked, looking squarely at the Prime Minister.
Gladstone opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Secretary Robinson. The Prime Minister gave him a look that suggested he was going to regret having done so at some point in the near future, but allowed the Marquess to speak.
“This is preposterous,” Robinson said, his voice trembling with indignation. “You’re asking me to believe in men who can fly, have superhuman strength, drink blood and live forever, and moreover you’re suggesting that there is