London, 1914. A killer is at liberty in the dark alleys of the city. The cadavers of his victims all have one thing in common: there is no blood in their bodies. As the Exsanguinist's reign of terror continues, Detective Silas Quinn finds his suspicions focussing on the members of an exclusive gentleman's club...

Atmospheric and macabre, The Exsanguinist takes the reader on an inexorable voyage into horror.

 AUDIO VERSION 

 Chapter 1 

At the Panther Club

I

“It’s not as easy as you think to kill someone.”

If it was Silas Quinn’s intention to silence his companions with a remark, he achieved his objective spectacularly. And yet, there was something about his gaze that suggested he had not spoken simply for effect. His eyes, as he stared into the fire, had an isolated intensity. He appeared deadly serious.

“Good heavens, Quinn!” cried one of his fellows at last, the nervously jovial Lord Toby Marchbanks. “You speak as if you know what you are talking about!”

Lord Toby’s laughter was forced, and betrayed a touch of fear. In his late thirties, his figure was still impressively youthful, but his good looks were diminished by a certain weakness about the mouth, which fell on one side, in a way which suggested a secret vice. He sat forward on his leather armchair and looked around hopefully for support. It seemed he was uneasy about confronting Quinn alone. Perspiration glistened on his forehead. He gulped down the large glass of brandy and soda that had just been served to him by one of the Panther Club waiters.

In answer to Lord Toby’s nervous observation, Quinn’s voice was peculiarly devoid of humour. “Naturally. I am not in the habit of talking about things of which I have no knowledge.”

“Now, now!” came the first voice in a sceptical chorus. “Steady on!” “Surely not!” “But you mean to say?”

“I mean to say precisely what I said,” cut in Quinn emphatically, silencing their incredulity. “It is not as easy as you think to kill someone.”

“Be careful, my friend. If I did not know you better, I would think you were confessing to murder.”

The warning – with its assumption of a friendship that did not exist – came from the oldest of the group, the Right Honourable Sir Michael Esslyn, Member of Parliament. A thin, pale-skinned man with dark hair and concave cheeks, he watched Silas Quinn closely, with an intensity of expression that mirrored Quinn’s own. The trace of a smile curled on Sir Michael’s lips, like a snake finding repose on the branch of a tree.

Quinn did not smile. “But you do not know me at all,” he observed, with a cold insistence on the factual. “We are not friends, as you suggested.”

“Except to say, we are members of the same club. Surely that counts for something?”

Quinn’s contemptuous shrug suggested he did not agree.

 

II

The Panther Club was one of the oldest of London’s gentlemen’s clubs, founded in 1764 by a group of aristocrats who had been expelled en masse from Boodle’s for releasing a wild panther in that club’s confines. The escapade had resulted in the dismemberment of one of the club’s servants, together with the deaths by heart attack of several of the older members. From its origins, therefore, the Panther Club had a reputation for the extreme imprudence of its members. It is interesting to note that the aristocrats who introduced the panther into Boodle’s never faced any criminal charges: ejection from their club was considered punishment enough.

It was one hundred and fifty years later, in the spring of 1914, that Silas Quinn offered his strange comment to a small group of men gathered in one of the club’s oak-panelled rooms. The intervening years had not diminished the Panther Club’s reputation for wildness, although the transgressions embarked upon these days resulted in fewer hospitalisations (leaving aside those caused by certain maladies which were peculiarly endemic among the club’s members). Some members, such as Sir Michael, succeeded in maintaining a public air of respectability. But many openly courted scandal, to such an extent that they would not have been welcome in any other gentlemen’s club, or in general society for that matter. Such men were always warmly welcomed at the Panther Club.

One of the club’s quainter traditions was to keep a live panther caged in the foyer. It was not unknown for certain of the younger members, when drunk, to challenge one another to enter the cage for a tête à tête with Bertie. (The club’s original panther had been called Bertie, and every one of his successors, male or female, had gone by the same name.)

To 'dine with the panther' (recollecting a phrase of the club’s great hero Oscar Wilde) was considered by some members to be a rite of passage, but it is not true that it was ever part of any formal initiation ceremony on joining the club. The rumour alone, however, was sufficient to deter the faint-hearted from even applying for membership.

In fact, the current Bertie was well-fed and semi-tame, and so inclined to tolerate these human intrusions provided his guest showed due respect, and offered a morsel of raw steak by way of rent. Indeed, he was so docile a creature that he often simply cast a disdainful glance at the would-be daredevil before settling his head back down on his front legs to resume his siesta.

 

III

 

“So you have...? Murdered?”

Was there a glimmer of respect in the Marquess of Roachford’s tone, or was it perhaps a morbid excitement? Known as Pinky to his friends, and wearing a lilac lounge suit, the Marquess of Roachford was the most dandified of the group. The monocle dropped from his eye and his face flushed a shade of pink that justified his soubriquet.

Quinn considered for a moment before replying, “I have certainly given it a great deal of thought.”

“Ah, I see,” said Sir Michael, a hint of disappointment entering his voice. “You are a theoretician of murder, rather than a practitioner?”

“Why is it you people always rephrase what I have said in words that are not my own? Can you not see that you will inevitably alter my meaning?” The heat of Quinn’s response was disproportionate, and therefore provoked general disapproval. It was rather ungentlemanly on his part to become so agitated.

“My dear fellow, I am only trying to understand you better.”

“Is my meaning not clear enough? What is it about what I have said that you do not understand? It is not as easy as you think to kill someone.”

“But none of us has suggested that it is easy!” pointed out Lord Toby, with his usual nervous laugh.

“And it is not so much what you have said that causes consternation as the manner in which you said it,” said the last member of the group, who until now had remained silent. This was the Hungarian, Count Lázár Erdélyi, who was there as a guest of the Marquess of Roachford. “It is almost as if you are defending the practice of murder on a point of honour.”

“Perhaps I am.”

“Well, I am not an exemplary moralist myself, but I rather think you should not.” Count Erdélyi had been educated at Eton and spoke English impeccably, with no trace of an accent. He presented a strangely symmetrical figure, particularly about the face: his hair and moustaches were centrally parted and held precisely in place with pomade and wax respectively.

“Even to conceive of killing someone, and then to formulate a plan for how one may put the intention into action... that in itself requires...” Quinn broke off, searching for the right word. “Character,” he opted for at last. “But to proceed with it! To turn the intention into an act! That is something beyond character – that is evidence of a superhuman greatness!”

“My dear fellow, you will have to do better than that,” said Sir Michael with an air of lassitude. “The crime of murder is rather more common than you suggest. And even some quite unexceptionable people have proven themselves capable of homicide. Desperate husbands and ambitious wives. Members of the lower orders are particularly prone to it – all it takes is a few glasses of strong liquor for them to overcome whatever minuscule scruples they might have. Why, even the middle classes have indulged in it on occasion.”

“All these people whom you so disdain have proven themselves gods.”

“Oh, now you really are going too far, Quinn!” objected Lord Toby. His mouth twitched into an uncomfortable smirk, as his eyes looked nervously about.

“Have you ever tried to kill someone?” demanded Quinn in response. “I mean you yourself, with your own hands?” Quinn held his hands in front of his face, and examined the splayed fingers with a look of horror.

“Have you?”

A violent spasm convulsed Silas Quinn. He looked into the young lord’s eyes as if into an abyss into which he was in danger of falling. “Yes, of course.”

 

IV

At that moment there was a sound like a gun being fired. Everyone, except for Quinn, jumped in shock. When they realised it was simply a coal exploding in the fireplace, laughter released their tension. Quinn alone remained serious. His face had a dejected look to it.

“I failed,” he said.

“You failed?” said Pinky, turning from the fire which had distracted them all from what Quinn had been saying. “At what?”

“At killing.”

All eyes turned on Quinn. No one spoke. Their attention was focussed entirely upon him again. They waited for him to continue.

“It happened many years ago. I was a student of medicine at the time. I never completed my studies. It was said that I became ill, that I suffered a nervous breakdown. Perhaps that is the truth. I do not remember. Before it happened, I was lodging in a guest house in Camden. And it was there that I met the man I determined to kill. He was also a student, and everything that I was not: handsome, popular, athletic. But superficial: a man of surface, an insincere, empty man. A bubble of a man. Surely it should not have been so hard to pop him? The landlady had a daughter. My enemy had an easy way with the opposite sex and charmed the girl into an affectionate relationship. But I saw what he was really like. I could not allow him to... I loved her, you see. Genuinely, not like he did. My love for her was total, absolute, pure – and deep. There was no one else for me. And so, I decided that the only solution to my problem was to eliminate my rival. But I tell you, it is not as easy as you think to kill someone.” There was something desperate in Quinn’s eyes as he scanned his listeners.

“Did you try awfully hard?” asked Pinky.

“First I had to decide upon the place where I would kill him – the scene of the crime, as it were. I did not want to do it at the lodging house. That would incriminate me too much. I needed to choose a neutral place, one not associated with me, and yet somewhere to which I could lure him. It had to be a lonely spot, nowhere overlooked. And I had to be sure that I would not be interrupted. I decided to write a note in the girl’s name, in which she promised to give herself to him completely if he would meet her by the canal, beneath the bridge near Camden Lock after dark. In her name, I commanded him to destroy the note once he had read it and to say nothing of the assignation to anyone.

My medical studies were not so far advanced that I had learnt how to ease suffering or cure disease. But I had learnt enough to know how to inflict a fatal wound quickly and efficiently. My plan was to cut his throat with a barber’s razor and then push him off the towpath into the canal. The body would inevitably be found, but there would be nothing linking me to it. No one knew of my love for the landlady’s daughter, not even the object of my affections herself. It would be assumed that he was the victim of a violent robbery that had gone too far.”

“And so, how did this melodrama play out?”

“As I think you can guess, I could not do it. As soon as I heard his voice, calling out the girl’s name in the darkness, instead of the hatred I thought I would feel, I... I felt only horror. Horror at what I was about to do. I imagined the blade of the razor touching his throat. In my imagination, the skin of his throat was impossibly resistant, like leather. The blade would not penetrate it. As I could not imagine myself cutting his throat, I could not go through with the murder. I threw the razor into the canal and ran.”

“A lucky escape, for you as much as for him,” said Sir Michael.

“But why could I not go through with it? It was not compassion. I still hated him. I still wanted him dead. That night, I dreamed of killing him. I was able to accomplish in my dreams what I had not managed to do in reality. The supernaturally sharp blade cut through his skin effortlessly. The blood spurted out from his neck. The canal filled with scarlet liquid, rising higher and higher until it inundated the ground around my feet. I looked in horror at the boy I had killed – for he was just a boy – and saw that he was both dead and not dead at the same time. The life had gone from his eyes, but he continued to stand up, and was even able to move: but strangely, like an automaton. Suddenly, the cut in his neck stopped spurting blood. Terror gripped my heart. I knew that the cut was about to speak to me. Its sides opened like the lips of a mouth.”

“Good heavens! What did it say?” asked Sir Michael.

Quinn buried his face in his hands and shook his head. When he removed his hands, his face was flushed. “I awoke from that vile dream and jumped screaming from my bed. I ran through the lodging house, naked and screaming, until I fell unconscious outside the door of my hated rival. When I regained consciousness, I was in a hospital bed. I did not find peace then and I have not found it since. Sometimes I think that the only way I will ever find peace is if I hunt him down and kill him.”

 

V

 

“But why are you telling us all this?” Count Erdélyi yawned to show that he was not really interested in a reply.

“Because I believe each of you is capable of the very thing I am not.”

“Really?” said Sir Michael, simply raising an eyebrow instead of exclaiming in outrage. “You consider us to be a gang of murderers?”

Quinn turned on Sir Michael impassively. “There is a war coming. As a member of the government, Sir Michael, you will be responsible for the deaths of tens of thousands of young men. You will agree to it without hesitation. You will justify it as a political necessity. But it will be murder. Your pen as you sign the order will be dipped in blood.”

Sir Michael turned his head to one side sceptically, but said nothing.

Lord Toby’s mouth twitched affably. “I don’t think I could kill someone any more than you could, old fellow,” he protested.

“Does the name Sophie Armstrong mean nothing to you?”

A palpable tension seized the company.

“I say, Quinn,” warned Sir Michael. “There’s no reason to talk about that. Remember the club rules.”

But Quinn gave no indication of being aware of the club rules, continuing: “Quite a scandal, wasn’t it? The abortion, her death at the hands of a medical charlatan. It couldn’t have come at a worse time for you. Just as you were having your first exhibition. In those days you still had artistic ambitions, I believe. An exhibition filled with paintings of the model whose death you had caused. Wasn’t it you who paid for the operation?”

“You cannot call that murder.” Lord Toby answered, “It was unfortunate, but not murder.”

“But there were rumours about women who had died as a result of his ministrations, were there not? Did you not know that he was an alcoholic and a drug-addict? Had you not seen the disgusting premises in which he carried out his operations? You caused her death as certainly as if you had pointed a gun at her head and pulled the trigger.”

“What choice did I have?”

“Please, there is no need to justify yourself to me! Don’t you see, I admire you! I merely want you to admit what you did, what you were capable of. What you are!”

“But I did not want her dead. That was not my intention.”

“You wanted her out of your life. You had ambitions. Her continuing existence with an illegitimate child could only have been an encumbrance to you. Her death was more than convenient, it was necessary – it was the duty that you owed your Art. What kind of a muse would she be with distended skin and hanging breasts? What a pity that you subsequently abandoned your artistic aspirations and turned instead to... other distractions.”

“I discovered that I had no talent. It was better to realise that when I was still young.”

“Oh, was it that? I thought it was the fact that all your potential clients – your society friends, in other words – deserted you. The exhibition was a disaster. That must have been painful for you. But the pain diminishes with time, does it not? Particularly when assisted by an opium habit. It was, after all, in a Limehouse opium den that you met the doctor concerned.”

“I have cured myself of my addiction,” protested Lord Toby, his thin lips closed tightly together.

“I congratulate you. It is not an easy thing to do, to open yourself to pain again. But soon there will be pleasure too, for I hear that you are to marry. Your fiancée is Lady Jane Wingarde, I believe. What a spectacular couple you will make! It is clear that you did the right thing eliminating Sophie Armstrong all those years ago.”

Lord Toby’s expression closed in on itself. Once more, Sir Michael spoke on his behalf: “You should know, Quinn, that we do not allow such talk in the Panther Club. We do not judge one another here.”

Silas Quinn widened his eyes, as if this information came as a great surprise to him.

 

VI

 

“And what of us?” said Count Erdélyi, gesturing to include his friend the Marquess of Roachford. “I am interested to hear why you think we are capable of murder.”

“You will have read of the recent series of murders that are exercising our police here in the capital,” answered Quinn.

“The Exsanguinist!” hissed Pinky. Once again, the monocle fell from his right eye.

“Yes. That is indeed how the newspapers have referred to the man responsible for these crimes.” Quinn turned back to Count Erdélyi. “I believe, Count, that your presence here in London has something to do with that case.”

“Would you care to explain what you mean by that?”

“Your name... Erdélyi. It means Transylvanian.”

“I am aware of that.”

“You are a Transylvanian Hungarian.”

“What of it?”

“There are stories of creatures in Transylvania who drink the blood of others.”

“I am familiar with such stories. Do you believe me to be a vampire?” Count Erdélyi asked mockingly. His shoulders shook with laughter. But strangely there was no humour in his eyes.

“On the contrary, I know you are here in London at the request of Scotland Yard, who are now prepared to consider the possibility that these crimes have been perpetrated by one of those very creatures. They hope to recruit you in the hunt for and destruction of the Exsanguinist. You have performed such work before.”

“I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about. And even if I did know what you are talking about, it is nonsense. These murders are not, in point of fact, consistent with the behaviour of the vampire of Transylvanian tradition. The bloodlessness of this man’s victims requires nothing more supernatural than a bucket. Have you never seen a pig being drained of its blood, Mr Quinn?”

Quinn narrowed his eyes as though he were considering a response, which he declined to give.

“But what about me?” said Pinky, petulant it seemed at being left till last. “I couldn’t hurt a fly.”

Quinn turned slowly to face the Marquess. “All of the Exsanguinist’s twenty-one reported victims have been young men of the labouring classes. Is it not true that you have a predilection for such youths?”

“I have a predilection for beauty! What gentleman doesn’t?”

“In any case, you have a talent for persuading young men to go with you...”

“There is no talent. It is simply a question of offering them sufficient money.”

“Pinky could not possibly be the Exsanguinist!” objected Count Erdélyi.

“You’re right,” agreed Quinn. “I do not in fact believe that the Marquess of Roachford is the Exsanguinist. However, I would like to ask him about a youth called Tommy Venables, a junior employee at the telegram office.”

“How do you know Tommy Venables?” demanded Pinky darkly.

“Let’s just say he was a friend of mine.”

Pinky’s nose twitched as if assailed by an unpleasant odour. “You should choose your friends more carefully. Tommy Venables is a nasty little swine.”

“Yes, and more to the point, a blackmailer.” Quinn met the suspicious, questioning glances of the others. “Oh yes, I warned him about it. I knew it would get him into trouble.” Quinn turned again to Pinky. “He threatened to create a scandal, did he not? How convenient that he is now numbered among the Exsanguinist’s victims!”

“But you said yourself that you do not believe me to be the Exsanguinist.”

“That’s true. What’s also true is that when a prolific killer such as the Exsanguinist is at large, others take advantage of the situation. In some instances, it is almost as if there is a contagion of killing, but more often it is simply a case of opportunism. Let us say there is someone you want to dispose of – a Tommy Venables, for example. Your one particular murder can be hidden in the cloud of general terror and destruction created by one such as the Exsanguinist. Your crime may be mistaken for one of his.”

“Be careful, Quinn. You have overstepped the mark. This is outrageous defamation,” warned Sir Michael on the Marquess’s behalf. Pinky himself remained tight-lipped, his characteristic colour drained from his face.

“But you misunderstand me. I do not say this to condemn the Marquess. And it goes without saying that I would not repeat any of this to anyone other than ourselves. This is all, as it were, between friends.”

“Well, my friends,” began Count Erdélyi, deliberately repeating and emphasising Quinn’s word. “All this talk of bloodshed is making me hungry.” He patted both arms down and rose from his armchair with an air of resolution. “I take it that the food is acceptable here.”

“Are you running away from the discussion?” said Quinn.

“Not at all. You are welcome to continue it in the dining room.”

“No thank you. I am following a strict and rather unusual diet at the moment. I find the sight and smell of ordinary food nauseating. It has been interesting talking to you gentlemen. I trust we will meet again. In fact, I am sure of it.”

With that, Silas Quinn was gone.

 

VII

 

“What a strange man, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Sir Michael pensively.

“I don’t mind!” answered Lord Toby. “I only met the fellow tonight.”

“Then he did not come with you?”

“No. I thought he came with you.”

“So is he a friend of yours, Pinky?” inquired Sir Michael.

“He is hardly my type!”

“And he cannot have been the count’s guest, because the count is here as your guest.”

“I have never met him before,” confirmed Count Erdélyi.

“And yet he seemed to know a lot about you, Lázár!” teased Pinky.

Count Erdélyi appeared unimpressed by the observation. “He seemed to know a lot about us all,” he murmured.

“Why, the impertinent fellow just attached himself to us!” cried Lord Toby.

“Is he a member of the club?” wondered Sir Michael. “I do not remember seeing him before tonight.”

 Ask for chapter 2! 

 

De Profundis I Next morning, a black Unic taxi came to a halt on the Thames Embankment. The building towering over it was granite grey at street level, and red brick in the upper floors. High tourelles at each corner gave it something of the air of a Scottish castle: a flamboyant touch of the architect’s, perhaps suggested by the building’s name, for this was New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the London Metropolitan Police since 1890. The clock tower of the Palace of Westminster rose up next to it. The hands on the clock face indicated that Big Ben was about to strike eleven. Count Lázár Erdélyi – for it was he who jumped down from the taxi just as the great bell began to ring majestically – was on time for his meeting. After presenting his identity papers at reception, and asking for the 'Special Crimes Department', he was escorted to a room high in the building by a uniformed copper. He realised it was under the roof because one wall was angled and he had climbed many flights of stairs to reach it. He was breathless and his heart was beating hard. He was invited to take a seat and await 'The Inspector'. A moment later the door to the room opened and his heart seemed to stop altogether.   II   “You!” “You did not expect to see me again so soon, Count Erdélyi?” “What the devil are you doing here, Quinn?” “Detective Inspector Quinn, actually.” “You? A policeman?” “Yes. Is it so strange?” “But you didn’t say.” “I apologise. I could not be frank last night for reasons that will become apparent.” Quinn was accompanied into the room by two other men; all were wearing plain clothes. “These gentlemen are fellow officers of mine, Detectives Inchball and McAdam. I have briefed them fully about you and your particular expertise.” Quinn’s two sombre-faced colleagues nodded to Count Erdélyi. Something about their expressions suggested that they neither trusted nor approved of him. The count’s mouth hung open. “After all that you said last night! About your fellow lodger... and your murderous intentions towards him!” “All that was true. What I omitted to relate was the sequel to that episode. I had glimpsed the potential for darkness in the heart of every man. What had induced my breakdown was the realisation that I was capable of contemplating such crimes, and that the contemplation of a crime is only a step away from committing it. The mental and physical collapse I suffered was my body’s way of preventing me from carrying out my intention. The body acted as policeman to the soul, which had become corrupt and malign. I had perceived how easy it might be for a man – who had until then believed himself to be someone decent – to become capable of the most atrocious of crimes. I determined to use that perception for good, and joined the Metropolitan Police, where I soon revealed an aptitude for investigative work. That is my story.” “But why did you not say this last night? You were deliberately engaging in mystifications, you know.” “We will come to that,” said Quinn. “But first, I would like you to look at this dossier.” He handed a beige cardboard folder to the count. Count Erdélyi raised one eyebrow as he took the folder, breaking the perfect symmetry of his face. III   Count Erdélyi was shaking as he closed the dossier. He placed it on the table in front of him and pulled his hands away brusquely, as though from something contaminated. His face was drained of blood. Detective Inspector Silas Quinn watched him closely. At last the count spoke, quietly, a slight tremble in his voice: “I did not realise there were so many victims.” “We have kept the full extent of the Exsanguinist’s crimes out of the newspapers.” “Why?” “If people knew how prolific a killer he really is, the panic would be uncontrollable.” “But surely you cannot keep the details secret forever?” “Not forever. But long enough for us to catch up with him. The trick is to make the killer believe that he is one step ahead of the police, whereas...” “But he is one step ahead of you!” interjected the count with unexpected fury. “More than that! He is a whole ten leagues ahead of you!” “Tell me one thing, Count Erdélyi, now that you have seen the photographs. Is this the work of a vampire, I mean of the kind that you are used to dealing with?” A look passed between the two detectives who had accompanied Quinn into the room. One rolled his eyes and the other smirked. Count Erdélyi pursed his lips disapprovingly. “It is not a Transylvanian vampire, if that’s what you mean. The necks of these victims have been cut. A vampire bites, he does not slash. The wounds here are consistent with the action of a sharp blade – a razor, for example, such as the one you once intended to use against your fellow lodger. You know, last night I convinced myself that you were the Exsanguinist.” “And I still might be, for all that you know. Due to the magnitude of the crimes, we believe the perpetrator to be a figure of authority, who is able to come and go without provoking suspicion or being challenged.” “The vampire is capable of the same ubiquity, which he achieves through supernatural means.” Detectives Inchball and McAdam shared another moment of sceptical amusement. Quinn gave a ironic smile. “It was I who insisted upon your participation in this case, you know. Against considerable opposition, I might add. Certain of my colleagues are inclined to reject all mention of the supernatural out of hand.” “I don’t blame them. I would do the same in their shoes,” confided Count Erdélyi. “You do know that instances of true vampirism are exceedingly rare – and getting rarer. They are a sick and dying race. Besides that, there are those like me who do everything in our power to eradicate them. We are very close to eliminating the entire vampire population of Transylvania.” “My understanding was that the vampire is in fact dead already, and exists in a state of living death. Therefore...” “Any talk of the vampire’s state of existence can only ever be approximate,” interrupted the count. “We simply do not know how their organisms operate and endure – sometimes for centuries. However, it is not in the interest of the true vampire to commit such public crimes as these.” The count tapped his clawed fingers down on the dossier. “A vampire’s continuance depends on its ability to persuade us that it does not exist – that it is nothing more than a legend.” He flashed a warning look that silenced the two sniggering detectives.   VI   The count’s clawed hand relaxed and he laid his palm tenderly on the cover of the dossier. “But do not fear. This is not a vampire in the true sense,” he affirmed. “There is no supernatural aspect to this case.” “How can you be so certain?” asked Quinn. “Because these boys are dead. That is to say, they have stayed dead. They did not join the ranks of the one who attacked them.” Quinn nodded thoughtfully. “There is an interesting detail, shared by all of the victims except one. Did you notice it?” “You mean the pages?” “No, we will come to that. I was thinking of something that is more immediately apparent to the eye.” Count Erdélyi frowned quizzically. He opened the dossier again and looked through the photographs of the murdered youths. “They are all very beautiful,” he said at last. “I had in mind the absence of blood on their clothes. That is singular – do you not agree? They had their throats cut. We would expect considerable blood-soaking, unless...” “Unless they were not wearing these clothes when they were murdered.” “Precisely. Their bodies were perfectly clean too. If they were naked when they were killed, then their bodies must have been washed, and then dressed, before being abandoned. That suggests a ritual aspect to the crimes, does it not?” “Perhaps. I can think of another reason why their killer might have undressed them.” “Yes, of course. Whatever the reason, this was the case for all the bodies except that of Tommy Venables, whose clothes were covered in his own blood. That is why we are convinced he was not killed by the same perpetrator as the rest.” “You cannot seriously suspect Pinky? Not even of that one murder.” “My dear count, I know myself what any man is capable of. I cannot exclude the Marquess of Roachford simply because he is a friend of yours. However, I must admit that the singular murder of Tommy Venables concerns me less than the multiple crimes of the Exsanguinist. My instinct is that, for all his public show of decadence, the Marquess of Roachford is not fundamentally an evil man. Feeble, immoral – depraved even. But not evil. If he did murder Tommy Venables, he did so out of desperation. You might say he was forced into it. I feel that he may, if prevailed upon by a good friend, be persuaded to confess. It would be better for him if he did, you know.” “I see.” There was a pause, before Quinn ventured tentatively: “Count Erdélyi?” “Yes?” “I have a confession to make. My reason for wanting your association with this case is not solely because of your experience as a vampire-killer. It is equally because you are a friend of the Marquess of Roachford, and because, I believe, you share certain of his tastes.” Count Erdélyi made no reply, except to frown severely at the two detectives with Quinn. “To return to the pages that you alluded to earlier,” continued Quinn. “In the pockets of each victim – except Tommy Venables – there was a page from the American edition of Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis or, to give it the title that Wilde himself preferred, the Epistola: In Carcere et Vinculis. You will know that this was the long letter of recrimination he wrote to his former lover, Lord Alfred Douglas, while he was imprisoned in Reading Jail as a homosexual.” “There is no need to remind me. And yes, that detail did indeed strike me as interesting.” “I thought it would.” “I assure you, Quinn, you are wrong about me. I am an admirer of beauty, that is true, but in the abstract, and from a distance. I have never...” “Please. We are not here to enquire into that. We are here to catch a monster and you can help us. If you are truly a lover of beauty, then surely you are obliged to fight against beauty’s destroyer?” “Tell me what you would have me do,” said Count Erdélyi with quiet resolution.   V   “You may be asking yourself why I was at the Panther Club last night,” began Quinn. “And why I chose to pass the evening in the company of your circle of friends.” “I am beginning to suspect you had your reasons.” “The American edition of De Profundis, published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons, contains material excised from the original English edition, published by Methuen. There is, for example, this sentence: It was like feasting with panthers; the danger was half the excitement.” “In reality, dining with Bertie is usually quite unexciting, I am told.” “The Exsanguinist’s victims are in general exactly the type of young working class males favoured by Wilde – the panthers in his analogy. That, I believe, is the significance of the pages placed in their pockets.” “And it was this that led you to the Panther Club?” “Other clues have led me in other directions. But naturally, the discovery of the pages inspired me to read Wilde’s text closely, at which time I became aware of the discrepancies between the two editions. It seemed significant to me that the Putnam’s edition had been chosen over the Methuen. In the American edition, the Epistola: In Carcere et Vinculis comprises one hundred and twenty-two pages, or sixty-one double-sided leaves. So far, there have been, in fact, forty-nine victims, not counting Tommy Venables. If we are to imagine that he will continue until he has produced a victim for each page, then we may expect another twelve murders.” “But why would anyone do this?” “On the one hand, it almost seems as if they are taking vengeance for what happened to Oscar Wilde.” “But if that is the case,” objected Count Erdélyi, “why choose victims from the section of humanity particularly loved by Wilde?” “Loved? Perhaps. But how much also he must have suffered at their hands! The letter to Lord Alfred, though he is not of the same social class as the 'panthers', is full of the bitterest reproach. Or perhaps another quotation from Oscar Wilde may be pertinent here. It is from The Picture of Dorian Gray.” Quinn took out a pocket notebook and found a page in it. “There were moments when he looked on evil simply as a mode through which he could realise his conception of the beautiful,” he read. “You are a very literary gentleman, for a police detective.” “This case has obliged me to take an interest in literary matters, however contrary to my natural inclinations that may be. From what I understand, Oscar Wilde hoped to turn his life into a work of art. It appears that the Exsanguinist hopes to do the same with death. In some ways, we may view the Exsanguinist as a kind of anti-Wilde. An aesthete in his own way, but a dark and terribly destructive one.” “But what about the blood? Or should I say, the lack of it? Have you comprehended the significance of that?” “If we are facing an aesthete rather than a vampire, then the absence of blood must be symbolic. That is to say, he has not killed them because he wants their blood. He has drained their blood because he wants to say something by it.” “And what, in your opinion, does he want to say?” “The pages from De Profundis are being left out of sequence. I cannot yet interpret the significance of the chosen sequence, if indeed there is any significance to it. It may simply be designed to confuse. However, on the page left in the pocket of the thirty-first victim – who would be at the mid-point of the murder series if he kills one youth for each leaf of Wilde’s published letter – a phrase has been underlined.” Again Quinn consulted his notebook, though the count had the impression this was not necessary and he knew the sentence he was about to read by heart. “She goes to the shedding of blood. This sentence also is not in the Methuen edition.” “She? Who is this she?” “From the context, it is clear that Wilde has in mind a personification of destruction and ruin. There is a sense of this being our destiny – that we cannot escape disaster. If the killings do indeed have a ritualistic aspect, then perhaps the Exsanguinist’s shedding of blood is designed to convoke further destruction. Or, to put it another way, to cause an even greater catastrophe.” “Are you suggesting that there is some form of magic at work here?” “It only need be in the killer’s mind. It is enough to say that he considers himself to be engaged in some form of magical operation – a convocation, we might call it. Life imitates Art, they say. And so, through the exercise of his Black Art, he is showing Life the way.” “You have not answered the biggest question of all – why?” “Pure bloodlust. Do you remember what Wilde says about Ezzelino da Romano, in The Picture of Dorian Gray?” “No, but I have a feeling that you have it written in that little book of yours.” Quinn did indeed consult his notebook. “Ezzelin, whose melancholy could be cured only by the spectacle of death, and who had a passion for red blood, as other men have for red wine...” Count Erdélyi was silent for several moments as he absorbed all of this. “What has this to do with me?” he asked at last. “I believe the Exsanguinist is a member of the Panther Club. And having investigated the full list of members, I am convinced he is one of the gentlemen known to you.”

  

	Buy this novel   Print   Digital
	About the author  R. M. Morris

 

 

 

Cliquez pour découvrir tous les titres de la collection