Blood Autumn Page 13

  "Yes."

  "And the nature of the dreams is terrible."

  "Yes."

  "What is the 'highly personal nature' of these dreams?"

  "I can't remember all, although there's a woman in them, and it's always the same woman, but in the dreams I feel as though I'm being consumed alive."

  "I see." Dr. Napier steepled his fingers. "Is this woman one whom you visit often?"

  "No, it isn't. That is, she is . . . No." He didn't say any more. He might inadvertently reveal her identity. That would not be gentlemanly. Too, he wasn't sure he wanted Dr. Napier to know who it was.

  "Do you think of this woman often in your waking hours?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Do you love this woman?"

  "No."

  Dr. Napier peered at him. "You're very sure of yourself, Mr. Lyttleton."

  "Yes, and I don't love this woman."

  "Yet you think often of her, and she figures in your dreams." Lyttleton nodded. "As an object of adoration, perhaps?"

  "No. I am scarcely worshipping her in my dreams." His mouth quirked into a wry smile.

  "I see." Dr. Napier's eyes gleamed with amusement for a moment; then he grew more serious. "You say that several of your friends have died recently." Lyttleton nodded. "Hmm. And I assume that this woman is somehow inaccessible to you?"

  "I don't know if that's the proper term. It's not precisely that she's inaccessible, but rather that she's a . . . no, rather she's . . ." He faltered to a stop, unable to go on.

  "May I ask you something?"

  "Of course."

  "Is the woman in your dream August Hamilton?"

  Lyttleton stared, unable to believe he had heard correctly. "Why, yes," he admitted after a moment's silence, "but how did you know? I don't understand."

  "Mr. Lyttleton, as strange as this may sound, you aren't the first man to come to me about this particular kind of dream, with this woman in it." Dr. Napier gave him a kindly smile.

  "I'm not the first?" Why should he find that surprising, Lyttleton wondered, when he remembered how his friends — particularly Montchalmers and poor late Terris — had acted around the woman.

  "No. Indeed, in the past month or so, many of my patients have complained to me of these dreams, and not all the men were young, either. There is one difference, though, from what you said."

  "What is that, Dr. Napier?"

  "To a man my patients claimed to be in love with her. You did not. I find that very interesting."

  Lyttleton frowned. "I don't understand how a number of different men come to have similar dreams around the same woman."

  Dr. Napier said with a slight smile of modesty, "I've given this matter much thought over the past weeks, Mr. Lyttleton. All of you move within the same social circles as did the dead men. From this I deduce that you — yourself and the others — are upset by these sudden deaths, deaths of men you know and who were your age. I think the dreams might well be part of your own fear that you will die too.

  "Another factor is added: that of the sensual in the presence of a beautiful and exotic woman. Not long ago she came to London, and since then her husband, known and liked by you and others, has died and she's been elevated to a center of attraction, in part because of her recent widowhood and in part because alluring women such as August Hamilton, from the time of the Greeks to our own, are rarely ignored. As she is a widow, and set apart and thus unobtainable, she enters the fancies of young and old men alike. She's pursued in dreams because she cannot be otherwise." Dr. Napier paused. "What do you think of this explanation, Mr. Lyttleton? Does this hold merit for you?"

  "Yes," Lyttleton allowed slowly. "I think it does. It holds as much merit as anything I have thought of, Doctor. Still, the problem remains. However, I suppose that as long as Mrs. Hamilton is in London, I will have the dreams." Dr. Napier nodded. "Then what am I to do? I can't continue without sleep."

  "Ah, that's a simple prescription. I recommend long brisk walks and rides, a trip to the seaside for its air. Avoid rich food, but drink as much wine or champagne as you desire — although not to excess — before retiring at night.

  These often prove excellent sleeping aids." Dr. Napier's eyes twinkled with amusement. "I don't doubt that in a few days your sleeping problems will be solved."

  "Has this worked for any of your other patients?"

  "None has returned with this complaint."

  Lyttleton nodded. "Then I'll try it." He paused, not knowing how to broach the next topic, the second reason he had chosen to come to Dr. Napier rather than his own doctor.

  "I see we're not yet finished with our consultation."

  "No, sir." Lyttleton cleared his throat. "The matter I wish to discuss is a delicate one. Another one," he said, faintly smiling. "You are correct in saying that I was interested in your conversation at dinner the other night, not only because several of my friends have died but also because I have a certain interest in the topic.

  "Not out of morbidity, though," he added, in case the doctor thought otherwise. Apparently, Dr. Napier did not, for he continued listening intently. "Excuse me if I falter, but this is hard for me. The other night I thought that you were planning to elaborate upon the topic under discussion but that you stopped before saying any more. Might I ask what it was you were about to say?"

  Dr. Napier studied him for a long moment, and Lyttleton began to wonder if he had somehow overstepped some invisible boundary and offended the doctor. Perhaps the physician would tell him it was none of his business.

  "You're correct in your observation, Mr. Lyttleton. I had planned to say more, but I changed my mind as I didn't think it wise. I fear I was not completely truthful with Mr. Peterson, either." Lyttleton sat forward, aware that the other man had grown more serious now and the Scots burr had thickened. "I told him we haven't determined the cause of death in these four men. But we have. Or rather, what was the cause of imminent death." Lyttleton felt a tingling inside as he waited, breath held. "The bodies of the victims — Ashford, Cleveland, Thomkins, Davenant — were all almost completely drained of blood."

  *

  "Drained of blood?" Lyttleton stared at the doctor, unable to comprehend what the man had just told him. "But how can that be? Weren't there wounds?"

  "Slight ones on the throats and groins that looked more like a rash or insect bites. Hardly the sort of wound that would bleed profusely. Too, none of the areas around the victims was drenched with blood."

  In Gerald Ashford or Timothy Cleveland or Phillip Thomkins or Birkey Davenant, Lyttleton thought numbly, barely a single drop of blood was left in their veins.

  "I still don't understand how it's done," Lyttleton said, horrified by the revelation. He had never heard of anything more fiendish in his life.

  "A number of suggestions have been made ranging from attack by an animal to disease. There were also other suggestions, far less probable, made."

  "Do you credit any of these?"

  "I don't know what I do believe. I've seen bodies mangled by maddened animals, but these corpses were not mangled. They looked as though they'd fallen asleep; there were none of the usual signs of violent struggle — unless, of course, the victims had died elsewhere and had been brought to the places where they were discovered — " He stopped.

  "Yes?" Lyttleton prompted.

  "There was something violent, as I recall. Their faces. Their eyes were wide open, and their faces were twisted into expressions of — "

  "Terror," Lyttleton said.

  "Yes." For a moment the doctor looked puzzled; then he nodded. "Ah, yes, you discovered Gerald Ashford."

  Lyttleton nodded, and once more he saw the expression on Tommy Hamilton's face. "That's one of the reasons I'm interested in these murders."

  "One? There are others?"

  "Yes," he said slowly, "I had another friend who died with just such a look of terror on his face, and I thought perhaps the cause of death might be the same." He was reluctant to elaborate at present, and perhap
s Dr. Napier sensed that, for he did not pursue it.

  "I've never seen more hideous expressions in all my career, and I have seen men dead from many things."

  "If an animal killed those men, surely it would have savaged its prey and surely the area would be drenched in blood. If it's disease, I cannot fathom what sort. I've never seen a disease that evaporates blood."

  "What about the wounds?"

  "What if they're something else entirely? Perhaps a rash that breaks out in only two areas? Or begins over the entire body, then retreats, collecting at the throat and groin just before the time of death. Perhaps they're blisters that burst."

  "If the deaths resulted from disease, why haven't more people in London died? And why would the disease have attacked only young men in perfect health?"

  "I don't know."

  "Their expressions ..." Lyttleton said slowly.

  "A physical condition caused by disease or perhaps a seizure might account for that. Might, although I doubt it. Someone also suggested that the deaths were the work of a human."

  "My God! It would have to be a fiend or a madman!" Lyttleton exclaimed.

  "Just so," Dr. Napier said, nodding. "I'm afraid we'll never know, though, unless someone else dies."

  Lyttleton thought of the streets he had walked through to the doctor's house. Now that it was evening he would be returning home in the dark, and what, he wondered, danger might he find there? Along the street, in an alley, around a corner. Danger from beast, human, disease, or something else? He recalled that night he thought he had been followed. No, it wasn't the same, he told himself. It couldn't be.

  "I must go," he said, standing. "I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time."

  "Not at all," Dr. Napier replied graciously. "I'm glad I could be of some help to you. Do as I suggested, Mr. Lyttleton, and please let me know if you do not begin sleeping easily once more."

  "Thank you, I shall."

  They shook hands, and Lyttleton left. Napier sat down at his desk again and thoughtfully drummed his fingertips against the polished wood.

  Lyttleton knew more than he was telling. Napier had sensed that several times during the conversation. Once or twice the other man's eyes had refused to meet his — a most telling sign, in the doctor's mind. He wondered what

  Lyttleton was concealing. Very interesting, Napier thought, and he wondered what Helena would say about it. He glanced at the silver pocket watch she had given him five years ago. Nearly time for dinner, and no doubt his dear wife was waiting patiently. He stood up, and imagined her face when he introduced this subject as their dinner conversation.

  Lyttleton hailed a cab after he left Dr. Napier's office. Tonight he would not walk. Tonight he could not. Not after what Napier had told him. He glanced out the window and stared at the dark mouths of alleyways. Did another Ashford lie out there, waiting for discovery? He fervently hoped not, but he would not be surprised to hear of another murder.

  Closing his eyes, he thought about their conversation. The doctor's suggestions for easing his sleeplessness had been quite practical, but Lyttleton suspected none of them would work. At least he would try them. Perhaps one might help.

  Had he said too much about August Hamilton? Perhaps he should have kept quiet. Too late now, he thought. Still, he merely acknowledged that she appeared in his dreams, as she did with other men. Lyttleton frowned. There was something wrong . . . but he didn't know what. Even as he thought, sleep came to him and claimed him long before the cab had turned into Eaton Square.

  "You are so handsome, my love," she whispered in the darkness.

  Arthur Ives stroked her long hair and breathed deeply of its musky scent. "And you are so beautiful, so very beautiful." He bent to kiss her, and her strong teeth playfully nipped his lower lip and drew blood. She gently licked the blood away, and he shivered at the touch of her tongue.

  He stroked her soft body, and she laughed, then rolled over on top of him.

  "Now," she said in the husky voice that sent thrills through him, "I will show you how to make love, Arthur."

  "But, haven't we — "he began, bewildered.

  "Hush," she said, laying a finger against his lips. The cut still seeped a little blood, and she rubbed her finger back and forth across the damp surface of his lips, spreading the blood across his mouth. "Now, I shall instruct you."

  "Very well," he murmured. What could she mean? She was the most magnificent of any of his many bed partners, Ives thought. He had never slept with a woman more knowledgeable, a woman able to bring his body to greater feelings.

  She kissed him, then reached down to caress his thighs, his flat abdomen. Her fingers twisted through his curly hair, and he groaned aloud. He could feel himself stiffening already. They had made love five times already tonight. How could he have anything left? And yet he did. He grinned in the darkness.

  Her hands slid down his length, flicked the tip of the shaft, and she eased back onto him. He thrust deeply into her as she bent to kiss him, and for Ives the world exploded into glints of shimmering white and crimson, as searing pain tore through his neck and his groin. For a moment, he didn't know what was happening, and then, when he opened his eyes, he screamed in terror.

  "Good afternoon, Dr. Napier."

  "Good day, Mr. Lyttleton. What brings you again to my office so soon?"

  Lyttleton laid the newspaper down on the doctor's desk and said quietly, "Another man has died."

  Napier's eyes flicked to the story, then back to the man in front of him. "Yes, I know."

  Lyttleton sat. "I knew him, too. Arthur Ives and I went to school together. He was an athlete, one of the fittest men I have ever known, excelling in all sports he tried. And now he is dead." Napier remained silent. "I don't understand. Arthur was never ill, was always strong." He paused. "His blood . . . ?"

  "Gone."

  "Where does it go? Why is it drained? Why are they killed this way? So many why's." He leaned back and rubbed a hand across his face. "Could this be the work of some unscrupulous doctor?"

  "For what purpose?"

  "I don't know. None of it makes sense."

  "No, it doesn't," the doctor agreed. "I pray that the deaths will end, that the cause will be found and stopped. But for now, unhappily, we have another death." He tapped the newspaper. "And the ignorant grow fearful. The reports of sightings of odd creatures have begun, just as I thought they would. Huge cats and dogs prowling the streets. Immense birds wheeling through the skies of London. Someone even claimed to have spotted a wild ape in the East End. Incredible nonsense."

  "But no reports of human predators?"

  "None so far."

  "There's something else I wish to discuss, Dr. Napier. Are there victims from other classes, or are only wealthy men dying from this?"

  "Hmm." Napier leaned forward and tapped his fingers on the desktop. "An interesting question, Mr. Lyttleton, and one I cannot answer. Frankly, I doubt anyone has investigated it, but I can promise you that I'll look into the matter for you. I have contacts throughout the city hospitals."

  "I should go," Lyttleton said. "I intended to stay only a few minutes." He stood.

  "One moment, Mr. Lyttleton. How have you been sleeping?"

  "Rather well of late. The dreams come and go, but they seem less terrifying. Perhaps I am growing accustomed to them, or perhaps they are milder now. I'm just grateful to be able to sleep the night through."

  "Good, good. I'm glad to hear you're getting some rest." The two men shook hands. "I'll look into this matter for you."

  Relief surged through him as he stepped outside. Dr. Napier would find out for him. Even if the deaths were caused by a man and even if the killer preyed only on the wealthy, what did that prove? He didn't know. Perhaps he would understand then. He felt as if he had stepped around a corner this evening. Somehow he was closer to —

  To what? To whatever lay beyond.

  It was close to sundown, and he should be getting home. He didn't want to be out on the stree
ts after dark. He began whistling under his breath and quickened his pace. The sultry air closed around him, thickening and tightening as night dropped through the streets. He looked around for a hansom cab, didn't see one. He couldn't wait; he would have to walk.

  Once or twice he thought he heard soft footsteps behind him, but he didn't see anyone. He was relieved to reach Eaton Square and quickly went up the steps to the door. Once inside he breathed more easily.

  Lyttleton lingered over his dinner, and later he read for a while, then retired to bed with a wine decanter and glass.

  He drank one glassful, glanced out the window at the darkness, shuddered, and poured himself another one. Finally, when he could drink no more, he turned off the gaslight and settled down to sleep and prayed that he would have no dreams.

  *

  She draped her arms around his neck, but this time she spoke, calling him by name. And the sound of her voice was agony. The soft huskiness burned into his veins, his brain, and he twisted away as he sought escape, but he could find none. And then she was upon him, and the pain before was as nothing. He shrieked as his life drained from him, and in that moment he climaxed, and she leaned back, baring her white throat as she laughed at his torment.

  Lyttleton woke, screaming and panting heavily. He sat up abruptly, and momentarily the room swirled around him as dizziness assaulted him. The bed sheets clung wetly to him, and he peeled them away in disgust, then stood, his legs trembling beneath him. He had to hang onto the bedpost for support. He looked about the room, fearing the blackness he saw, and finally, when his legs steadied, he turned on the lamp by the bed. Napier's advice had worked — for a while. The glasses of wine he'd consumed in bed hadn't kept the dream away. Nothing would now, he suspected, and he shuddered at the thought.

  He belted his dressing gown around him, then went to a table across the room. He sat, and head in hands, he stared at the floor. Had Wyndy Terris dreamed of her? he wondered. Of all the men of Lyttleton's acquaintances who had died recently, Terris had been the only one to die by his own hand.