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.Geneviève looked out at the blazes heaped around the stone lions, flames leaping up a third of the height of Nelson’s Column.Originally a memorial to the victims of Bloody Sunday, the fires now had fresh meaning.Word of a new mutiny had come from India.Sir Francis Varney had been dragged by sepoys from the Red Fort in Delhi and bound over the muzzle of one of his own guns to be blown away.A jumble of old scrap-iron and silver salts shot through his chest, Varney was cast into a fire and burned down to ash and bones.Many warm British troops and officials had thrown in with the native rebels.According to the broad-sheets, who plainly had highly-positioned sources, India was in open revolt, and there were further stirrings in Africa and points east.Placards were waved and slogans shouted.JACK STILL RIPS, a graffito read.The letters still came, red-inked scrawls signed ‘Jack the Ripper’.They had been received by the press, by the police, by prominent individuals.Now they called for the warm to rally against their vampire masters or for British new-borns to resist foreign elders.Whenever a vampire was killed, ‘Jack the Ripper’ took credit.Charles said nothing, but Geneviève suspected many of the letters were issued from the Diogenes Club.A dangerous game was played out in the halls of secret government.Even if a madman became a hero, a purpose was served.To those for whom Jack the Ripper was a martyr, there was Jack Seward taking his silver knife to the vampire oppressors.To those for whom Jack the Ripper was a monster, there was Lord Godalming, the arrogant un-dead disposing of common women he regarded as trash.The story had a different meaning for each retelling, the Ripper a different face.For Geneviève, that face would always be Danny Dravot, fingers bloody with ink, standing by while Mary Jane Kelly was ripped apart.Public order in the city was at the point of breaking down.Not just in Whitechapel and Limehouse, but in Whitehall and Mayfair.The heavier the hand of the authorities became, the more people resisted.The latest fashion was for warm Londoners of all classes to black their faces like minstrels and call themselves ‘natives’.Five army officers awaited court martial and summary impalement for refusing to order their men to fire upon a peaceful demonstration of mock blackamoors.After some negotiations, and not a little shouted abuse from a black-faced matron, Netley was allowed to take the carriage through Admiralty Arch.The coachman must wish he was able to paint out the crest on his conveyance.A vampire but not of the bloodline of Vlad Tepes, Geneviève was left, as ever, on the side-lines.It had been refreshing at first, after centuries of dissembling, not to have to pretend to be warm; but eventually the Prince Consort had made things as uncomfortable for most of the un-dead as for the living he called cattle.For every noble murgatroyd in his town house with his harem of willing blood-slaves, there were twenty of Mary Jane Kelly, Lily Mylett, or Cathy Eddowes, as miserable as they had ever been, vampire attributes, addictions and handicaps rather than powers and potentials.with Geneviève, he called upon the Churchwards.Penelope was out of bed now.They found her in a Bath chair in the heavily-curtained parlour, a tartan rug over her legs.A new-purchased coffin, lined in a white satin, stood on trestles in place of the occasional table.Penelope was getting stronger.Her eyes were clear.She had little to say.On the mantel, Beauregard noticed a photograph of Godalming, posed stiffly by a potted plant with a studio background, ringed with black crepe.‘He was, in a manner of speaking, my father,’ Penelope explained.Geneviève understood in a way Beauregard could never hope to.‘Was he really such a monster?’ Penelope asked.Beauregard told the truth.‘Yes, I’m afraid he was.’Penelope almost smiled.‘Good.I’m glad.I shall be a monster too.’They sat together, untouched cups on the low table, darkness gathering.* * *.the carriage sped smoothly down Bird Cage Walk towards Buckingham Palace.Insurrectionists hung in chains from cruciform cages lining the road, some still alive.Within the last three nights, open battle had raged between the warm and the un-dead in St James’s Park.‘Look,’ Charles said, sadly, ‘there’s Van Helsing’s head.’Geneviève craned and saw the pathetic lump on the end of its pike.Some said Abraham Van Helsing was still alive, in the Prince Consort’s thrall, raised high so that his eyes might see the reign of Dracula over London.That was a lie; what was left was a fly-blown skull.The main gates loomed before them, new-fangled barbed wire wrapped around the upright bars.Carpathians, midnight black uniforms slashed with crimson, hauled the huge ironwork frames aside as if they were silk curtains, and the coach slid through.Geneviève imagined Netley sweating like a frightened pig at an Indian Officers’ Ball [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]