Stoker's Wilde

by Steven Hopstaken

  When we entered our rooms, we found that our windows and doors were already framed with the yellow flowers of wolfsbane. The innkeeper herself warned us to leave on the next train.

  “The love of God has left our village,” she informed us. “I would leave meself if I could sell this place.”

  Captain Burton wasted no time in gathering information and asked the woman many questions about the recent killing. She told us that the girl had worked as a barmaid at the Blue Moon, one of the local pubs.

  We started there. I doubt a gentle, well-bred soul like you can imagine what the place was like. I myself have scarcely seen anything like it. Walking into its smoky, dimly lit confines, it was not hard to imagine the Blue Moon playing host to all manner of villainy and wretchedness. It bore the marks of violence and debauchery – a deep gouge in the wall here, a puddle of some unidentifiable substance there. I was quite glad that we were visiting in the morning whilst the place was quiet.

  Nevertheless, there were already several sailors sullenly hunched over their drinks or passed out at the filthy tables. The place smelled of stale ale and whisky, which was actually a welcome relief from the smell of fish that permeated the outside.

  In the faint sunlight that managed to filter through the grimy windows, the patrons eyed us suspiciously, and I could not blame them, for we stuck out like diamonds in a bin of coal.

  We sat at the bar and Burton ordered a whisky while the three of us ordered gin and tonics, which seemed to annoy the bartender.

  “We don’t got limes,” he said. “Nor tonic.” He plopped down four glasses, splashing three with gin and one with whisky, then slid them to each of us, spilling much in the process.

  “We are here to enquire about the recent tragic event,” Burton said.

  “We don’t need no outsiders sticking their noses into our business,” the bartender grumbled. “The constable has formed a hunting party and they’re out searching for the beast even as we speak.”

  A tall, wiry sailor weaved his unsteady way to the bar and tapped Willie on the shoulder. “Hey, boy-o. Where’d you get those fancy clothes? Let me buy you a drink.” Willie ignored him and moved closer to Stoker for protection. Stoker stood taller so the sailor could see his full height and bulk. The sailor scowled and slunk away.

  “I have been asked by Her Majesty the Queen to lend a hand here,” Burton said. (Perhaps he had forgotten that invoking the Queen does not always endear one to Irishmen.) He continued, “I am a skilled tracker and hunter.”

  One of the regulars at a back table laughed. “Of what? Rabbits?”

  Burton pulled out a pistol and pointed it at the man. The smile quickly flew from the miscreant’s face. “Of wolves, Bengal tigers and nefarious men,” Burton said, his gaze as clear and steely as one imagines it was when he was a young man fighting for Queen and country. The man averted his eyes and Burton returned the pistol to his belt. (I remember my father telling me that at Trinity, Richard had challenged another student to a duel for laughing at his moustache. Clearly, he is not one to waste time in conversation when more expedient methods are at hand.)

  “Well, you best get tracking then,” the bartender said. “There ain’t no wolf tracks in here.”

  “But this is the last place the poor girl was seen alive?” Stoker asked.

  “Far as I know,” he said. “’Cept by the beast what murdered her.”

  “Tell us about the girl and that night,” I said, getting into the spirit of the investigation. “Was there anything out of the ordinary? Any strangers hanging about?”

  “Aye, there was a shipload of sailors in that night. From that Russian schooner still in the harbour,” the bartender said, lowering his voice. “Too much time on their hands, that lot – their ship is after needing some repairs. Some took a fancy to her, but then most men did. Polly was a pretty little thing. But she could take care of herself.”

  “When did she leave?” Willie asked.

  “I don’t keep my eye on the clock and it wouldn’t do me much good if I did because it’s broken. But it was late, maybe two in the morning. There was a full moon that night and it was starting to set. She wanted to get home before it did. She liked having the light to see her way.” The man’s eyes clouded over and he suddenly felt the need – undoubtedly the first in years – to bend to the task of polishing glasses.

  “Where was she found?” Burton asked.

  “In a grove of trees near the old mill at the end of town,” he said. “At least that’s where we found most of her.”

  “Could you draw us a map?” Burton asked, handing him a pencil and paper.

  He reluctantly agreed.

  “And wasn’t there a witness?” Stoker asked.

  The bartender handed Burton the map. “That would be Mrs. Goode. She owns the pie shop down the street.”

  And where that witness led us, dear Florrie, ah, there our tale grows still stranger and more chilling. But I fear I must, as many a good showman before me, leave you in suspense for the time being. Rest assured, I shall write again soon. Think of this account as a serial, such as Mr. Dickens used to write. Our next instalment promises adventure, blood and, if I may say, a fair show of derring-do from yours truly.

  I sign off now, as I must depart soon for a luncheon with some of my old school chums and I wish to post this today. I can’t bear to go one more day without letting you know how often and how fondly I think of you. The memory of your sweet face and the tender moments we have shared have seen me through darker times than you can imagine, my beloved Florence. I remain, as always,

  Yours truly,

  Oscar

  From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 29th of October 1876

  Archivist’s note: These entries are from one of the seven journals believed by Stoker’s wife to have been burned upon his death. They were saved from the fire by one of the White Worm Society’s operatives, embedded as a servant in the Stoker household. Shorter entries are handwritten; longer passages to come later are typed on a Remington 2 typewriter, the first commercially produced machine to type both upper and lowercase letters.

  Stoker was said to have perfect memory recall, something we would call photographic memory today. This would serve him well as a clerk, and later as a theatre manager and writer. It also serves us well, for his journal entries contain precise physical detail and dialogue not usually found in such materials.

  Greystones: 10:30 a.m.

  I do not know how I get myself into these things. Apparently, I have been kidnapped by Richard Burton and the Wilde family. It is becoming increasingly clear that I will never understand the lives of the idle upper class.

  I fear that I will not make it back to work on Monday and will lose a day’s pay, if I’m not sacked outright. Such is the life of a petty sessions clerk.

  I have recently decided to live a more pious life. I made a promise to myself and God to increase my devotions and self-discipline. However, I am afraid being friends with Willie Wilde and his family is going to make that difficult. It is not yet noon and I have already drunk too much gin. Is milis dá ól é ach is searbh dá íoc é. (It is sweet to drink but bitter to pay for.)

  As I write this, Willie and his brother Oscar (a more vain and irritating seeker of attention you’d be hard put to find, though admittedly he has shown promise in his academic pursuits) are arguing about the proper spelling of wolfsbane. For you see, we are on a werewolf hunt in the charming fishing village of Greystones, where a young barmaid was savagely killed.

  I could tell from the moment we got off the train that Greystones is filled with salt-of-the-earth, hardworking people. The fresh sea air is invigorating, and I could see myself settling here someday and living the life of a simple fisherman or innkeeper. But such rustic, honest pursuits are miles distant from the dark business we undertake today. After questioning the landlord at the Blue Moon, where the unfortunat
e lass worked, we have regrouped back at the rooming house to plan our next move.

  While I am under the firm belief that the recent tragedy was the work of a large, rabid dog, Captain Burton is convinced that the perpetrator is of the lycanthropic variety, and the Wildes, whether through genuine belief or bemused tolerance of a longstanding friend’s flights of fancy, are playing along with this delusion.

  I am almost certain the Wilde brothers do not believe in werewolves any more than I do and are just along for the diversion. They are also quite amused at my scepticism in the face of Burton’s addled imagination. I have long been an admirer of Captain Burton, and it is a sorry sight indeed to see the noted explorer and diplomat tipping on the verge of madness. Sorrier still, he is taking me down with him!

  11:15 a.m.

  It has been decided that Willie and Captain Burton will attempt to pick up the beast’s trail, while Oscar and I question a woman who claims to have seen the creature fleeing the scene of the attack.

  Although I have met Oscar on a few different occasions, this is the first that I have spent any significant amount of time with him. To say he is annoying is an understatement. He has affected a London accent, and from time to time will slip into speaking French, Italian or Greek as if to prove his intellectual superiority. Alas, he merely comes off as a pompous twit.

  He also finds himself exceedingly witty and humorous, often laughing at his own bawdy jokes. Furthermore, I suspect he may be a poof. At least he dresses the part, often wearing frilly velvet shirts and a purple top hat. When first I met him, I thought perhaps he was going to a fancy-dress party as the Mad Hatter.

  Ah, the Hatter calls. Off to play detective, while my livelihood surely disappears like the Cheshire Cat.

  6:00 p.m.

  My head is pounding and I am visibly shaking. It has happened again – one of those spells has come over me. It has been many years since I have experienced such a thing. I had all but convinced myself that the other incidents were nothing but childhood flights of fancy. Most children see fairies in the woods, do they not? However, today it was strong and vivid and I fear I may be losing my sanity!

  To make matters worse, I experienced the latest hallucinations in front of Oscar. He claims to believe my visions, even more than I do myself, but I am not certain he isn’t just humouring me.

  It happened after we questioned the woman who says she witnessed the creature fleeing the woods. Mrs. Goode, a plump and motherly lady, runs a pie shop down the street from the Blue Moon. (I shall attempt to recreate our conversation as best I can from memory; I find that remembering what was said helps me to think more clearly on the subject.)

  “It was horrible,” Mrs. Goode informed us. “All hairy, with fangs and claws, but it ran upright like a man.” Oscar was busy savouring the smell of the pork pies cooling on a table next to the window. It was up to me to keep the investigation moving.

  “Let us be honest; it was dark. How can you be sure of what you saw?” I asked.

  “’Twas a full moon,” she countered. “I could see with no trouble at all. Nothing wrong with my eyes. It was as close to me as he is.” She pointed at Oscar, who was eating one of the pies.

  “Do you partake in drink, madam?” I asked.

  She took offence. “I’ve been known to have a sip of brandy or cider on occasion, but that night I was sober as a bishop!”

  Apparently, she hadn’t known the bishops I had. I pointed out the window at a passing sailor. “Tell me, dear woman, how many stripes are on that sailor’s shirt?”

  She squinted. “Er, four?”

  “There are no stripes,” I exclaimed, with too much vigour I suppose, for she cowered back in fear. “And yet you claim you clearly saw a monster by moonlight, as it ran into the forest?” I was surprised to find I was actually good at detecting and wondered if there could be a career in law enforcement in my future.

  “I don’t think I care to answer any more of your questions,” she said, staring at me coldly. “You will kindly leave my shop.”

  Oscar came forwards and took a coin from his pocket to pay for the pie. “This is surely the most delicious thing I have ever put in my mouth,” he said. “And I make it my life’s mission to only put tasty things in there!”

  She lit up at this and replied, “An old family recipe.”

  He smiled at her in a way that was, I’ll admit, most winning. “Pardon me, madam, but I must correct you there,” he said. “It is an old family treasure. With pies like these, your shop must be a smashing success.”

  “Well, I do all right,” she said. “Course, if I didn’t have some regular custom after fifteen years of business in a little village like this, I daresay it would be time to hang up my rolling pin.”

  “Fifteen years!” Oscar exclaimed. “Why, whenever did you open for business? When you were five? My good woman, I fear you are having me on, and me, a humble visitor to your fair village. I ask you, is it kind to tease a stranger so?”

  The woman actually blushed. “Now, sir, who’s teasing who?” she said, with a bit of a giggle. “I’ve earned every one of my years, and I’ll not let you deny me any of them.”

  “Well said, madam,” Oscar replied, bowing slightly. “But that makes me wonder whether, in all those years, you’ve ever seen this wolflike creature before? Or heard tell of its like? Any other brushes with the supernatural? Do you, perhaps, have the second sight?”

  “Nay, I’m a good Christian woman and haven’t been bothered by those beyond the veil.” She thought for a moment while Oscar finished the last bite of his pie, then added, “But when I was but a girl, I did hear the cry of the banshee, right before my parents died.”

  Oscar gasped. “So, you are connected to otherworldly things! If I were you, I would keep the Lord’s cross at hand and wolfsbane at your door. Thank goodness you are a good Christian, free of sin, for that will keep you safe and on the road to heaven.”

  Then a remarkable thing happened. The woman’s brow furrowed and she frowned as if a pain had suddenly overcome her. Oscar noticed this too and pressed the matter further.

  “Have I said something to upset you, dear lady?”

  “No…I must be getting back to my pies.” She turned as if to avoid meeting Oscar’s eyes.

  “Madam,” Oscar said with real concern in his voice. “If there is something burdening your heart you can certainly tell me. I am not one to judge, being a sinner myself, and I know how confession can uplift the soul. Pray tell me, what did you really see that night?”

  Mrs. Goode wiped her hands on her apron fretfully. “I…was only trying to protect my brother. Danny’s a good man when he doesn’t drink, and he raised me when our parents died.”

  “If you know something, you must tell us,” I ordered her. Oscar held up his hand to silence me and approached the woman, who still had her back to us. He gently took her by the shoulders and turned her around.

  “We are not the authorities,” Oscar said. “We are just trying to keep others from being killed. If you know something, if your brother is involved, his very soul may be at risk.”

  She gazed at him for a moment, fear and worry etched upon her face. “That night,” she said, her voice trembling, “I saw Polly go by from my bedroom window. She was with my brother, who I know fancies her and walks her home from time to time.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Late. I had woken up from a bad dream. I’m not sure of the time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the constable this?” Oscar asked. “It sounds innocent enough.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes. “They were arguing about something. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but then he grabbed her roughly. She broke away from him and ran into the woods at the end of the street.”

  “I see,” said Oscar.

  “He ran after her…into the woods. And that’s the last I saw of
her.”

  “But you didn’t see him attack her?” Oscar asked.

  “Nor did you see a creature,” I added.

  “Nay, I didn’t see him do anything to her, and I’m sure he didn’t.…He couldn’t!” she cried. “But I made up the story of seeing the creature because one has been seen – by none other than the constable himself, though not with poor Polly. It must have been the beast what did her in, and I saw no need to distract the police by dragging Danny into it.”

  “So,” Oscar said, “you saw her run into the woods at the end of the street, not down by the mill as you claimed earlier?”

  Her head hung down in shame. “No. They found her body at the mill, so I told them that’s where I saw the creature.”

  “Thank you for telling us the truth,” Oscar said, giving her a small kiss on the cheek. “We will look into the matter and protect your brother if he is innocent.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Mrs. Goode wiped a tear from her eye before exclaiming, “Oh, my pies!” She rushed off into the kitchen.

  Just as I was starting to think Oscar was not the cad he appeared to be, he stole a pie, wrapping it in a towel and putting it in his pocket.

  “Let us depart, Stoker. Captain Burton and Willie are looking in the wrong place!”

  He rushed out and I followed. We headed down to the end of the street and into the woods.

  “Shouldn’t we try to find Burton and Willie before we go getting lost in the forest?” I protested. “We are hardly equipped for a hunt.”

  “The beast, or man, is far from here by now. We must gather evidence. Find the abduction spot to find the beginning of the trail. My God, but this is exhilarating!”

  Before I could stop him, we were rushing headlong down a deer trail into the thick of the shadowed woods.

  “She must have run down this very path,” he said. “With that sweaty man hot on her heels.” He stopped to catch his breath; I’m sure this was the fastest he’d moved in many years.