Twice now we have found him out of his room and out of the building, roaming the grounds. How he made his escape is unclear and troubling to say the least. Once it was below freezing and he nearly succumbed to hypothermia.
His zoophagous mania continues and, short of sewing his mouth shut, we can do little to keep him from devouring insects and rodents.
He has taken to reading the Bible and praying for hours on end. We encouraged this behaviour at first, believing it to be a non-destructive outlet for his delusions. However, he has developed a complex fantasy world where he is the head of the Church of England and on a mission from God to purge the world through fire. Very disturbing thoughts indeed. He has drawn dragons and fire imagery all over the walls of his room, along with quotes from imaginary prophets. The language is blasphemous and profane, and many of the writings are from a mysterious figure he has named ‘the Black Bishop’, which I feel represents his relationship with his father. When ink and pen are taken away from him he draws on the walls with faeces and even his own blood. Twice now he has punctured his wrists to obtain this gruesome writing material. We have had no choice but to restrain him in a straightjacket for fear he will harm himself further.
I have been forced to stop administering opiates to keep him from growing dependent on them. Ice-water baths and electrical shocks to his body are the only courses of treatment left to us.
I shall keep you informed as to our progress; however, I have begun to fear we shall not make any.
Sincerely,
Dr. Seward
From the Journal of Florence Stoker, 15th of January 1880
It is a very cold but sunny day and my sadness continues, though it has been lightened some by a visit from Oscar.
I managed to dress and go downstairs to receive him for tea. It is hard to keep my sadness hidden from others, but I do my best.
“You are looking lovely, as usual,” he said, smiling kindly as he lied. I could tell by the concern in his eyes and the way he scrutinised me while trying to disguise his doing so that he had heard about my difficulty in childbirth and possibly my condition since. I should have been embarrassed at this but could not find the energy.
I merely replied, “How nice of you to say,” and forced a smile, which Oscar, of course, detected.
“You don’t have to be happy on my account. People seldom are,” he said. “So, where is this miniature person of yours?”
Miss Jarrald brought the baby down and, to my surprise, Oscar scooped him up in his arms.
“Oh, Florrie, he is beautiful. Thank goodness he doesn’t look like Stoker.”
“He does so, Oscar,” I protested. “More than me, I think.”
“Nonsense, he is a Balcombe through and through.” He rocked Noel gently in his arms and the baby smiled and cooed. It made me sad to see what might have been had I made other choices. Oscar would have been a good father.
I started to cry. Oscar handed the baby to the nurse and tended to me.
“I’ll put the baby down for his afternoon nap,” Jarrald said.
Oscar waited until she left. “Florrie, whatever is the matter?”
“Oh, Oscar, nothing and everything. I feel I am an utter failure as a mother. I have no maternal instincts!”
“Instincts are for the animals. We have logic and reason and a strict code of etiquette to guide us. Maternal instinct went out with the joy and exuberance abolished by Queen Victoria. In exchange, we have stiff upper lips, soap and hot tea. A fair trade, if you ask me.”
I laughed a real laugh.
“Seriously, Florrie, I have heard of this before. My mother suffered from this kind of melancholia. Not after having me, of course, but with Willie’s arrival. She always had strong intuitions about people! She said it was quite terrible. Father had to drag her out of bed and into the sunlight every day. That’s what cured her, lots of fresh air and sunlight. That and opium, which I would not recommend, for that’s when she started cavorting with Gipsies and talking to spirits.”
For the first time in a long time, I felt happy.
“Now, drink up your tea, stiffen that lip and let’s go for a stroll in the garden.”
“It’s freezing out, Oscar.”
“That does not stop the Eskimos or the Finns. It is a sunny day. We shall bundle up against the elements and walk across the tundra.”
And we did.
“I do so wish you and Bram could put your differences behind you,” I said. “It would mean so much to me. With vampires about I would feel better if you two could be friends, if only to protect Noel.”
He stopped and stared at me. So now my accomplishments include rendering Oscar Wilde speechless, which is surely something.
“Yes, Bram told me about them,” I said. “And that you helped him hunt one in Dublin. Oh, and that ludicrous story about the werewolf – that was true! And I thought you were just a gifted teller of fanciful stories.”
He seemed uneasy, but said, “Well, I am gifted, but not nearly as fanciful as you’d imagined.”
I took his arm again and we continued our walk. “Please think about what I said, Oscar. I would so like it if we all could be friends.”
“I will make peace with Bram if he can make peace with me,” he said. “I am sorry I have been away. I have been looking for someone who has gone missing and fear he is gone for good, taken by those wretched creatures; he may even be one himself by now. When I find him, I will be all yours again.”
From what I could see of his face I knew that he too has been no stranger to melancholy of late. I took off the silver cross he had returned to me and put it around his neck.
“You need this more than I do,” I said. He objected, but I told him I have a box full of crosses from Bram, and Dr. Hesselius has given me many phials of holy water.
“This cross saved me from Lucy. Now it can work for you.”
It cheered me to know that Oscar might be a part of my life once more. We walked some more and I let him prattle on about nothing in particular.
The sun is setting now and my gloom is returning, but now I know it is something that can go, and that is heartening.
Letter from Richard Burton to Oscar Wilde, received 15th of January 1880
Archivist’s note: Due to the distance between London and India, Oscar Wilde did not receive a response to his letter sent on the 24th of June until the 15th of January 1880.
Dear Oscar,
I find the recent events you have found yourself in disturbing, to say the least. I have heard rumours about the Order of the Golden Dawn for years and thought it nothing more than legend. If what you say is true and they are dabbling in the dark arts, they must be stopped at all costs.
I am told you and Stoker are not on speaking terms. I highly suggest you put your differences aside for the sake of the Empire! Bram is investigating a recent vampire attack in London and he would find your information extremely valuable. Tell him immediately about the Order and expose those you know to be involved.
Had I not important business here in the Far East I would return at once to help you destroy these vile creatures, but I have my hands full with a black magic cult of Thugees who are killing thousands to appease their god.
I implore you, Oscar, join forces with Stoker. I have sent him a vampire expert to help track these demons down and destroy them. Swallow your pride if you must. The team of Stoker & Wilde is once again called forth by destiny to put down the forces of darkness!
Queen and country are counting on you.
Sincerely,
Richard Burton, Bombay, India
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 18th of January 1880
10:15 a.m.
A full house this Sunday morn, and a full day ahead as I continue my investigation into the mysterious vampires and their even more mysterious scheme.
Florence’s mother has
come to tend to her melancholy. It has been three weeks and she still rarely gets out of bed. The baby seems to be her only sense of comfort when she does rise. I blame myself, for I have been distracted and not as fully attentive as I could be.
Along with Mrs. Balcombe is her maid. The poor thing is sleeping on a mattress on the floor of our housekeeper’s room.
Still, I am glad Florence has others around to tend to her needs while I fret and fear about the vampire threat.
A fear kicked up again with a visit from Oscar Wilde. It seems I am never rid of the man for very long.
There he was on my doorstep in the pouring rain, like some wet alley cat. Oscar did not even have the sense to bring an umbrella, instead relying on his purple velvet top hat for protection. It was ruined now, of course.
There was an awkward silence, which I broke with an impatient, “What do you want?”
More silence followed, his face becoming strained at the words that would not come.
“For God’s sake,” I said. “Come inside before you catch your death.”
“Thank you,” he finally managed to stutter. He entered and took off his dripping hat and soggy coat.
The housekeeper appeared from wherever she had been hiding. “Get Mr. Wilde a towel, please,” I asked her, before ushering him into the study to dry by the fire.
“First, let me apologise for my behaviour when last we met,” he said, and to his credit, he did look quite contrite. “The best man won Florrie’s hand and I should accept that.” More silence. This was very much out of character for him and made me oddly uncomfortable.
I know I should have accepted his apology graciously, but to be fair I hadn’t particularly liked the man even before he had attacked me in the street. “And second?” I finally asked.
“Ah, yes, there must be a second if there is a first.”
He was interrupted by the maid with his towel. “And some tea,” I said. She nodded again and scampered off.
He blotted his face and neck and dishevelled hair. It struck me that I had never seen Oscar dishevelled before. Well, possibly while under attack by a werewolf, but that was it. Finally, he met my eye and said, “Bram, I have come to ask you for your help. May I sit?”
“I suspect you will drip all over the furniture, but I suppose so.”
Oscar actually smiled slightly at my brusqueness. I suspect for him it was something of a return to normalcy. Sitting, he said, “I am at my wit’s end, which you know for me is a long journey. I would not inflict myself upon you if I had anywhere else to turn, but who else would believe me, much less be able to help? It seems a friend of mine has got mixed up with vampires.”
He was visibly shaking now and told me his friend had been abducted by them and they killed a woman in his flat. He dares not go to the police for they will think him mad, and likely a murderer to boot.
I got up and poured two brandies. He took the glass but did not drink. It was the first time I had seen a Wilde not indulge in drink. This was almost as unnerving as his silence and unkempt appearance.
I sat across from him in my favourite armchair and told him about Lucy and how we killed her sire.
“Furthermore, we have learned that London is crawling with them, an epidemic of evil that could easily become the next plague,” I said.
“I personally know this to be true,” he said sheepishly. “I should have said something earlier, told someone, but I am ashamed to say I did not.”
He told me of a vampiric ritual he had witnessed at a party in Knightsbridge. Apparently, there is some sort of hierarchy in this vampire coven – the Order of the Golden Dawn, it’s called – and one either buys one’s way into the ruling class or offers oneself up as a slave for eternity. His friend, Derrick Pigeon, was initially eager to join, but when he changed his mind they took him against his will.
We were interrupted briefly when the housemaid brought the tea, but by then he had started to drink his brandy and the pot was destined to grow cold.
I had something of my own to confess and told him of Irving and his visit to me as a child.
“Egad, one right under your nose, and you couldn’t sniff him out?” The irony of this seemed to enliven him for the first time in the conversation.
“The same blood that gave me powers clouded my mind in his presence, I believe.”
“About that,” he said hesitantly. “When I returned to Dublin a few months back I had a chat with Bonnie Ashcroft.”
I was taken aback. “My family’s former maid?”
“Yes, that Bonnie.” He looked down as if to avoid looking me in the eye. “She knew a vampire had saved your life. She didn’t know it was Irving, but she told me of his curing you. I am further ashamed that I didn’t tell you. You had a right to know. It could have helped.”
“I don’t understand,” I said astonished. “How did you come to chat with Bonnie? Last I heard she was cloistered in a convent.”
“Yes, she is. I tracked her down.”
“Whatever for?”
“I am not entirely sure, myself. To get something on you, I suppose. And I was truly intrigued by your visions and wanted to know more.”
I should have been angry with him for prying into my personal life, not to mention not telling me about what had transpired on my seventh birthday, but I was not.
“To think, Oscar, both of us had important information the other one needed but our petty squabbling kept us from communicating. There is too much at stake for us not to pool our resources.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” he said. “I shall do so from now on.”
“Good, I shall too.”
“Bram, why ever did Irving cure you? Was it just out of altruism?”
“Not entirely,” I said. “He does not wish to be a vampire and takes no joy in it, and somehow thinks infecting my blood will lead to a cure for his own affliction. The details are vague – they are in a book he was trying to have translated that went missing – but it apparently involves the spilling of great quantities of my blood.”
“Intriguing,” Oscar mused. “Though I imagine you would prefer not to have been a participant in his experiment. To do that to a child of seven.” He shook his head wonderingly. “Why, it lends an entirely different colour to his Richard III.” I laughed grimly at that. “Still, it saved your life.”
“When you were at the ceremony, did you meet or hear of someone referred to as ‘the Black Bishop’?”
He jumped to his feet, exclaiming, “Yes! Their club calling card is a black bishop chess piece like the one we found on Count Ruthven. I think he may be their leader.”
“We had the same impression after interrogating Lucy’s killer. I wish we hadn’t dispatched the creature so soon. There are so many unanswered questions.”
“Yes, pity he’s dead. I should have liked to ask him about Derrick. However, I think I might know where the monsters are nesting,” Oscar said. “I have come to ask you to accompany me and use your powers to see if my suspicions are correct.”
I shook my head. “It would be dangerous for only us to go. Robert is out of town on business for the army and won’t be back until tonight. Dr. Hesselius, our vampire expert, is in Cardiff for more research, and Irving is of little use to us during the daylight hours.”
“Surely it would not be dangerous to just investigate the location. You could sense if they are inside and we could gather reinforcements later,” Oscar suggested.
So, I have agreed to go with him later this afternoon to the Carfax estate, which he suspects the vampires are using as a base of operations, as it was Lord Wotton, now a vampire, who abducted his friend. I have sent word to Robert at his hotel, in case he returns this afternoon in time to accompany us.
It is a simple reconnaissance to be sure, but I can’t help but feel a foreboding and not even crucifixes and wooden stakes are easing my fear
s.
1:25 p.m.
I decided to leave word of our whereabouts with Ellen as well, so that if we should go missing for any reason at least someone could alert the authorities. She still resides with Lucy’s aunt across the courtyard.
I startled her with a rap on her French doors. Fear quickly turned to a smile as she invited me inside. We sat down for a cup of tea, but decided on stronger refreshment, an apple brandy, while I told her of our plans.
“Do let me come,” she pleaded. “I wish to be a part of this adventure.”
“It is not safe, and it is not an adventure,” I said. “It is grim business, and I wish to God that it didn’t fall to me. I am ill-prepared for heroics.”
“I disagree,” she said, smiling.
Yes, I blushed. “In any case, bringing you near to that vipers’ nest would put you in unnecessary danger. Besides, I need you to keep watch over Florence and Noel.”
“Have you told her of the vampires?”
“Yes. I did not wish to upset her in her delicate condition, but when Lucy came to her as a vampire it became a difficult secret to keep. Not knowing almost got her killed.” I don’t know why I continued to speak, but my words would not stop. “She has barely spoken to me in days, and I can hardly blame her. All this madness could not have come at a more inopportune time. Why me? Why did I have to get dragged out of my blissful ignorance of all things supernatural?”
“Perhaps it is your destiny,” she said. “Men of destiny often have it thrust upon them, whether they will it or no. You have risen bravely to the challenge for the greater good of the Empire and, dare I say, all mankind.” She paused a moment, then added, “You do not have to face this alone.”
Then, without warning and to my total surprise, she leant over and kissed me full on the mouth, her hand reaching up to caress my face. In my mind, I pushed her away and jumped up to make my apologetic but entirely proper escape, but physically I did none of this. I took her in my arms and kissed her like I had never kissed another woman before, like I have been wanting to kiss her for many weeks. She felt different against me than Florence does – or at least than my memories of Florence, for how long has it been since she allowed me to hold her close? Florence is (Was? Will be again?) a loving wife, but her kisses are girlish, willingly acquiescent to my passion. Ellen felt strong in my arms, and pulled me closer, running her fingers through my hair and pressing her lips hard against mine.
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