There were at least three of them. Two held me back while the third’s grubby fingers tore at my sleeve, trying to get my cufflink, no doubt. I struggled with all my might. Looking back, this was a foolish thing to do, for a few possessions are not worth my life.
In the struggle, I felt the sharp jab of a needle at my wrist. My heart raced as I feared I was being drugged. For what? Did they mean to shanghai me onto a merchant ship? Or worse, to kill me and sell my cadaver to the local medical school?
Just when I felt all hope was lost, a voice cried out, “Stop! You ruffians!” I heard my saviour running towards them, then the sounds of him thwacking them with something.
My would-be abductors released me immediately and ran off. I stumbled to my knees and fell forward, but someone caught me.
He pulled off the sack. “Mr. Stoker!” an astonished voice exclaimed. It was Reverend Wilkins. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t think so. They did jab me with something,” I said as he helped me fully to my feet. “But I am all right, just shaken.”
“I beat them off with my trusty umbrella,” he said, brandishing it like a club.
“That was quite brave of you,” I said. “I am forever in your debt.”
“Jabbed you, you say? Are you sure they did not drug you?” He took my elbow solicitously.
“It was a hypodermic needle. I felt them pull the plunger back but you stopped them before they pushed it down, I am fairly sure of that.” I showed him my wrist, where a slow trickle of blood was evident, then drew my handkerchief to staunch it. “In any event, I feel no effects. Surely it would be a quick-acting agent of some kind.”
“Well, to be safe let me walk you home,” he said in a fatherly tone.
“I thank you, Reverend, and in return, I insist you stay for dinner.”
“Oh, I don’t wish to impose upon your dear wife,” he said. “Unexpected guests can throw women into quite a tither, I have observed.”
I am not sure whether he meant to say ‘dither’ or ‘tizzy’, but either way, I replied, “Florence would never forgive me should I fail to bring my rescuer home for dinner. And besides, our cook always makes far more food than two people can reasonably consume. Please, join us.”
“Well, if you insist. I was on my way to see if Henry wanted to join me for supper, but he is not expecting me.”
“It’s settled, then,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder, and ushering him along the thoroughfare.
“I wish I had got a better look at them,” he said, glancing around as if he might still catch a glimpse of the villains. “But it was so foggy, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
“I am sure we won’t see them again,” I said. “With any luck, having an angry vicar attack from the fog will put the fear of God into them.”
“Well,” he said, chuckling, “I don’t imagine I have ever put the fear of God into anyone before. It is quite a novel experience!”
Florence welcomed our guest graciously and gushed her gratitude when she heard of the evening’s events. I should not have told her, but there is a small but angry bruise on my wrist and a larger one on my right side where I had been held particularly roughly, so it would not have remained secret for long. After a pleasant but hurried meal, I left them chatting and returned to the theatre to complete my day’s work. I encountered no further trouble on the streets. Still, I may do well to arm myself somehow in future. I must remember that London is not Dublin and that not all danger is of the supernatural variety.
From the Diary of Oscar Wilde, 16th of February 1879
Dear yours truly,
My head is still swimming from last night at the Cock and Bull, where Frank and I went to see Derrick play piano for a jolly good singsong.
Few are immune to Derrick’s charms, it would seem, as by the end of the evening anyone in the crowd would have gladly taken him home for a hot meal or to marry their daughter. There was nothing he could not play, and all from memory too; Irish drinking songs, popular parlour tunes, traditional folk songs, none was beyond his repertoire.
The Cock and Bull is near Dutfield’s Yard in Whitechapel, a place I would not normally venture during the day, let alone in the dark of night. Frank, however, has been there many times and has always returned safely. I took along a pistol for protection but felt foolish when I entered the pub and found the crowd to be most jovial. The pub itself was clean and warm, hazy from tobacco smoke, but free of the stale odours one usually finds in such places. I am pleased to note that it bore scant resemblance to the Blue Moon in Greystones! (Do you remember, Oscar of the future, that thrilling tale from our youth? Remind me to write it down so we don’t forget. I doubt Florrie kept the letters.)
Among the patrons were prostitutes and criminal types to be sure, but there were many upper-class gentlemen and middle-class working folk. Even a constable or two came in from the cold for a quick nip.
When we arrived, Derrick was leading the entire pub in a rousing rendition of ‘I am the Captain of the Pinafore’, his sprightly fingers dancing along the keyboard, his clear, fine voice rising above all others, his merry smile making a friend of every person in the room from the swellest gent to the lowest pickpocket. I longed for a moment alone with him, but he belonged to the crowd. As midnight approached, however, snow began to fall and the wind to howl, driving many to leave for home. Only a few of us remained around his piano.
Derrick introduced us to his acquaintances. There was Nick Dripp, who spoke with an Eastern European accent. He was short and stocky, with dirt under his nails and a flinty look about his eyes. He struck me as someone who works in an unclean industry, a chimney sweep perhaps, though his clothing belied this impression, being au courant and of decent quality.
Dripp was flanked by two equally unsavoury characters, introduced as Mr. Leech and Mr. Coal. Both were brutes like you might see working the docks or in the back of a butcher’s shop and neither had Mr. Dripp’s fashion sense. Leech was pale and looked as slimy as his namesake. Coal might be mistaken for ruggedly handsome if one were to wipe away a layer of dirt and perhaps comb his hair, an unruly mop as black as his name implies. The three of them had been joining in the general mood of conviviality, but there was a nastiness about them, as though their amusement was at, not with, the rest of us. They could often be seen muttering to each other, stealing furtive glances at one or another of the assembled crowd, and laughing harshly. None of these people seemed to be worthy of Derrick’s company and I was curious as to how they had ever met, let alone become friends.
Derrick ordered up a round of brandy and French cigarettes for Frank and me. Frank had taken out his sketchpad as usual and was feverishly trying to capture Mr. Dripp’s swarthy face as a charcoal caricature.
“’Hey, vut are ya doin’ there?” Dripp asked, straining to see Frank’s drawing.
“I am making you famous,” he said.
Dripp lurched forward, ripped the paper from the pad and crumpled it up. “I like my anonymity just the vay it is, thank you.” It was surprising to hear a word like ‘anonymity’ come out of his mouth un-mangled. It was like hearing a dog say ‘good morning’.
“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Dripp,” Derrick said as he improvised a soft tune on the keyboard. “He has little appreciation for the arts.”
“What line of work are you in, Mr. Dripp?” I asked.
“I’m an assistant to a fine gentleman. Leech and Coal here vork for me.”
“Ah, I should have known you were a gentleman’s gentleman,” I said, hoping he would hear the mocking in my voice. “Your calm, helpful demeanour gives it all away.”
He took offence, but not as one would have hoped. “I am not a valet! I run an entire estate. And just vut do you do for vork, Mr. Wilde?” he asked, taking care to over-enunciate the W in my name – perhaps he thought it was some sort of insult.
“He amuses me,”
Derrick said before I offered an answer. “Isn’t that enough?” At that moment, I felt that it could, indeed, be enough. Mr. Dripp disagreed.
“A monkey could do that,” he said. “And probably be content with less expensive cigarettes and liquor.”
“Indeed,” I retorted. “There is ample evidence of that right here in this pub tonight.” I had made sure to slide my hand over the pistol in my pocket before I said this, but Dripp’s only retaliation was a loathing glare.
“Ve haf someplace ve need to be,” he said to his burly friends. “It’s time to go.”
With that, Leech and Coal followed their master into the snowy night. On their way out, they let in a gust of icy cold wind that made me shiver.
“Interesting characters,” Frank said. “Wherever did you find them?”
“They found me,” Derrick said, still playing the piano, seemingly with as little thought or effort as the average person puts into breathing. “Before my current benefactor took me in I earned my living as the musical entertainment in a house of ill fame where they were regulars.”
“How the ladies must have looked forward to their visits,” I remarked. Derrick just smiled.
“They took a shine to me and would take me out on the town with them. The seedier part of town, of course, but I was grateful for the company when I didn’t have a penny to my name. Now I am returning the favour and am hoping to introduce them to a little culture.”
“And how is that project going?” I asked.
“Better than expected,” he said. “They have made the acquaintance of soap and table cutlery. And next week I shall teach them to waltz. I saw a bear waltz once, so I believe they could do it as well.”
“In whose employ are they?” Frank asked. “Surely not your patron, Lord Wotton?”
“Heavens no, he would disown me if he ever found me associating with the likes of them. No, they work for some mysterious foreigner. They’re getting his estate ready for his eventual emigration to England.”
“From where will he be emigrating?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. Dripp just calls it ‘the old country’, in that manner that foreigners often do. I always assumed it to be some place full of peasants farming cabbages and Gipsies playing accordions. Dripp gets awfully weepy when he hears accordion music and he often smells of cabbage.”
“Well, I do wish you would persuade him to let me draw him,” Frank said. “His face fascinates me. I imagine it leering out from a dark alleyway or looming over a prone figure in a deserted warehouse. And with that cheery thought….” He paused a moment to down the rest of his brandy and turn up his collar. “I think I shall depart as well. It’s getting wicked out there.” He gave me a knowing glance. “Don’t keep Oscar out too late, Derrick. His mother is expecting him for tea tomorrow.”
“I’ll do my best to see he makes it home, although I cannot control the weather.”
Frank departed, leaving Derrick and me alone at the piano.
Derrick closed the keyboard and grabbed his brandy snifter. “Come on, I’ve rented a room upstairs. Please stay awhile longer and play a few hands of cards with me.”
The ‘room’ was more of a suite and very nice. He lit a fire in the fireplace and the room became quite toasty. We never got around to playing cards, and before your mind goes where it should not, dear diary, it was because we became lost in conversation.
We talked of art, music and philosophy. He was quite taken with my theories on aesthetics, and we conversed until the sun was nearly up. By that time the snow had made the roads all but impassable.
I fell asleep in a big, comfortable chair and dreamt Derrick and I were alone on a Greek island. We walked among the ruins of an ancient civilisation admiring the alabaster statues of gods surrounded by the blue Aegean Sea. I could hear the tranquil waves breaking on the shore, punctuated with the occasional faraway cry of a seagull.
I wanted to stay there forever, except for the sudden gathering of storm clouds that blackened the sky. Then, to my horror, a werewolf leapt out of the ruins and tore into Derrick! I fought the beast furiously, to no avail. The harder I attacked, the faster he ripped Derrick apart. I awoke with a start, in a silent scream.
I gathered my wits about me and was calmed by seeing Derrick alive and sleeping peacefully across the room. The fireplace was dark and a winter chill had crept in. I watched Derrick sleeping and thought to myself, how can such terrible things be in the same world that holds such an innocent beauty?
Until we meet again, dear diary, keep my secrets safe amongst your pages.
Letter from the Black Bishop to Lord Alfred Sundry, 23rd of February 1879
My dearest Alfred,
Success at last! Stoker’s blood does show the properties we need. My Gipsies tell me that the most effective date will be 6th of May 1880. I am a bit concerned as that will be the last day of the intersection, but they assure me it is our best chance to take advantage of the largest opening. Our timing will have to be precise and we will need to get all our pawns on the board before that day.
I worry we may have to dispose of Henry Irving should he continue to stumble in our way, but please do what you can to keep him safe and in the dark.
You have done fine work, my friend. Soon we will rule over the thousand years of peace and be the guardians of the gates at the Second Coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.
BB♝
From the London Times, 3rd of March 1879
Murder on the Docks
A ghastly murder took place last night at the east London docks, pier 28. Mr. Leonard Trowl, a stevedore working the night shift unloading ships, had his throat cut as he attempted to stop a robbery in progress.
Thieves boarded the merchant ship Demeter around midnight and stole a large crate of unknown cargo. Several sailors on board were assaulted in the brash robbery. A sailor reported witnessing Trowl being killed by the thieves when he valiantly tried to stop them from loading the cargo onto a hearse carriage.
The hearse carriage is believed to have been stolen earlier from morticians Wolfram & Hart, who are offering a reward for its return and the apprehension of the murderous thieves.
The owner of the crate has been notified of the theft but has not come in for police questioning.
Anyone having seen this carriage or with knowledge of the crime should contact Scotland Yard immediately.
White Worm Society Black Bishop Report, 5th of March 1879
Operative: Anna Hubbard
Location: London, England
I regret to inform you that my employment at the Lyceum has been terminated. Ellen Terry, an actress at the theatre, caught me trying to steal the Order of the Golden Dawn membership registry. It was all I could do to get out without revealing my cover entirely or ending up in jail. She seemed very adamant about me paying for my crime. However, after a few tears and quite a bit of begging, I was released.
In any event, I think I have learned all I can from Irving’s library. He and Stoker should continue to be of interest to us, but I am unable to connect them to recent occult activity in the area.
Letter from Florence Stoker to Dr. (William) Thornley Stoker, 14th of March 1879
My dearest Thornley,
I hope this finds you well. Your brother and I look forward to your next visit, however brief.
I write today of a more pressing matter. My friend Lucy has become quite ill. Her skin is distressingly pale and she suffers from fainting spells. Her physician suspects anaemia but can offer no theory as to its cause.
She is often too weak to rise in the morning, but by early evening is right as rain.
I remember you had some success with a treatment involving a transfusion of blood. Would this be something that could benefit Lucy?
Should you think so, I have included the address of Lucy’s physician for you to discuss the matter through correspondence.
Love,
Your new sister, Florence
Letter from Dr. (William) Thornley Stoker to Florence Stoker, 23rd of March 1879
My dearest Florence,
Regarding your friend Lucy, I am afraid we are not having much success these days with the transfusions. Some patients take to it immediately and spring back to life. Others, it seems to make worse. Blood from related family members increases the chances of success, but even then, the results can be disastrous for the patient.
So, you can see, this is a treatment we use only as a last resort. I have sent detailed instructions to Lucy’s doctor, should she take a turn for the worse. I have also sent him a recipe for a tincture of iron that we have had great success with in treating mild forms of anaemia.
On a personal note, make sure that brother of mine stops burning his candle at both ends and spends some much-needed time relaxing with his beautiful wife.
Hope to visit soon and will try to write more often.
With much fondness,
Thornley
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 12th of June 1879
9:24 a.m.
A recent turn of events has put me in a difficult and awkward position. Ellen Terry came to me in quite a terrible state. She confided in me that she has witnessed what she believes to be a horrific crime. If true, it would indeed be the ruin of this theatre and its company; if not, it means Ellen Terry herself may be mentally unstable, something that would trouble me greatly as I have developed the utmost respect for her in these past few months.
She is dramatic; after all, she is an actress and that is at the core of her personality. However, I have found her to be quite levelheaded for a woman and not given to flights of fancy or hysteria. She is very intelligent and worldly and not shocked easily by the darker aspects of human behaviour. She is also possessed of a remarkable memory and keen powers of observation, as her craft requires these skills.
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