England Calls

He had not been accepting telephone calls. Beauregard sat in his house in Cheyne Walk. Unopened letters were neatly laid on his desk. Bairstow, his manservant, discreetly arranged them each morning.

There was a slim envelope from California, his address in faint violet ink. This, he was tempted by. But he feared that to open it would be to be pulled back into turmoil he had left. Genevieve attracted troubles, trailing them through centuries. He still loved her, he supposed. A dead weight of useless emotion. Official communications, stamped 'URGENT', had been brought by postman and personal messenger. They also lay unopened.

He did not read the newspapers, but Bairstow conveyed the barest outlines of the course of the war. It was little satisfaction to know Caleb Croft had been relieved of his duties. Ruthven had many other men of his stamp ready to step in.

Dracula had been seen in Berlin, storming out of the Imperial Palace in a black humour after an argument with the Kaiser. Hindenburg was promoted to the position of commander-in- chief of armies that were shattered and demoralised by their recent reverses. Dracula was shouldering the blame for the ultimate failure of the Kaiserschlacht. It seemed the sacrifice of his doubles created a great deal of confusion and loss of morale in the ranks. The mediaeval tactic should be retired in this century. Dracula's fall would be only temporary. The worst ones always came back.

He spent time looking at old, framed photographs. The camera made vampires of all, preserving the young for the alien future. In one group, Pamela was alive again, posed by the river with a flock of little girls in sailor suits. A blurred boat passed in the background. The girls were Penelope, Kate, Lucy and Mina, warm and untidy, ignorant of the things they would become.

Mrs Harker had also written to him. She was forever organising for other people. She wished to hustle him into a new programme of activities.

Bairstow entered, bearing a calling card on a tin plate. The silver had gone for the war effort years ago. Beauregard tried to wave him away, but the servant was swept aside by a long- legged spider in grey.

'Prime Minister,' he acknowledged, not getting out of his chair.

'Beauregard, this is absurd. Have you any idea how many pressing matters compete for my attention? Yet, here I am like a common tradesman, forced to hie myself to your doorstep to solicit an answer?'

Ruthven was plainly agitated. From Churchill, Beauregard knew the cabinet were fractious. Lloyd George was proving more obstinate than anyone had supposed. The Prime Minister's position was entrenched, but hardly secure.

Lord Ruthven had not come alone. Smith-Cumming was with him, his leg grown anew.

'The Diogenes Club has reopened its doors to members,' Smith-Cumming declared.

'Croft's crew were worse than useless,' the Prime Minister ranted. 'His hare-brained assassination fantasies came close to losing us the war. The country needs living minds.'

'Mycroft's place on the Cabal is vacant,' said Smith-Cumming. 'Only one man can fill it, Beauregard.'

He looked at the two vampires, the shiftless elder and the solid new-born. Ruthven's hands were still on the tiller of state, embattled though he was. Smith-Cumming was a good man, blood-drinker or no. There were still good men.

Mycroft had preserved much of value from the past in this changed century. Without him, the Ruthvens and the Crofts crept on selfishly, wasting too many lives in a pursuit of power without purpose.

'Beauregard, please,' begged the Prime Minister.

In the absence of Croft and the Diogenes Club, the British Secret Service was run by a schoolmaster who concealed secret ciphers in sketches of butterfly markings. Results, obviously, had not been encouraging.

'England needs you, Beauregard,' insisted Ruthven. I need you.'

But does England need Lord Ruthven, he wondered.

Pamela seemed to catch his eye from the photograph. She would have expected him not to yield.

'Very well,' Beauregard said. 'I accept the position.'

Smith-Cumming clapped him on the back. Ruthven allowed himself a smile of relief.

'But there are conditions.'

'Oh, anything, anything,' waved the Prime Minister.

'We shall see,' said Beauregard.