by Dacre Stoker
Kate would not have come here at all, but the soles of her husband’s shoes needed to be mended, and John Tuck, here in Piccadilly, was the best cobbler in London, second only to Lobb on St. James’s, but Kate couldn’t afford the latter.
Once Kate and her children had successfully ascended the mountain of stairs from the tube station, she steered the carriage and her son around the longer route of the roundabout to avoid the electric sign. She did not want her son to be enticed by the wicked wonders of the flashing advertisement. Unfortunately, the alternate longer path was marred as well, for it led them around the Shaftesbury Monument, adorned with a nude winged statue: even more inappropriate.
The statue was much too sensual to be honoring such a sober, philanthropic, and respectable earl as Lord Shaftesbury. The city fathers had tried to temper objections to the statue by naming it the Angel of Christian Charity. Many good Christians, including Kate, were not fooled. Rumors of the statue’s intended name continued to spread: Eros, the Greek god of love. A false god erected in memory of a good Christian soul. Kate averted her eyes.
Matthew was drawn to the open space of Piccadilly Circus. He broke free of his mother’s hand and launched the model aircraft his father had built for him out of spruce twigs and paper. A strong breeze carried it backward. Enthralled by the mystery of flight, Matthew didn’t seem to mind.
“I’m Henri Salmet! I’m flying across the channel!” The boy ran to retrieve his model.
“Come along, Matthew!” Kate called. “We don’t have time for this. After the cobbler, Mummy still needs to get to Covent Garden before the best fish are sold.”
Kate was forced to wait while several hansoms passed before she could cross Regent Street. She stepped to the edge of the curb and reached for her son.
“Come along, Matthew.”
Her hand found only empty air. Exasperated that she had missed her chance to cross the street, she turned back to see where her son had gone. She found him standing in the middle of the square, looking up into air.
“Matthew, chop-chop!”
The boy didn’t move. His model aircraft was lying on the ground in front of him. Was he gawking at the indecent statue in the center of the circus? A rap across the knuckles with a wooden spoon was long overdue.
“Matthew! Come here this instant.”
Kate maneuvered the perambulator around pedestrians milling about the street and marched over to the boy. “Did you hear me calling you, young man?”
Matthew still did not seem to be aware of her. He was shaking from head to toe. Alarmed, Kate dropped to one knee and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Matthew, are you all right?”
The boy raised a quivering arm. There was something in his eyes that she had never seen before. Terror. She turned her head to see what her son was pointing at: a nearby tree. Wait a moment; there are no trees in Piccadilly Circus.
Kate’s reaction was a scream so horrifying, it stopped all the pedestrians in their tracks.
Kate snatched her son up and covered his eyes as she continued to scream and weep. People came running to her aid. A man asked, “Madam, what’s wrong?”
Kate pointed up. Words trembling, she said, “The Devil has come to London.”
They followed her gaze. Their eyes widened, their jaws hung slack. It started with a murmur and swelled to a crest of sound like a tidal wave, a scream of horror washing over all of Piccadilly Circus.
Constables blew their whistles as they ran toward the crowd that had formed at the base of the tree. Women fainted. Men stopped dead. Motorcars screeched to a halt. Fruit wagons and milk carts slammed into one another. Pandemonium.
In the center of Piccadilly Circus, a forty-foot-long wooden pole had been erected, towering above the Angel of Christian Charity. At the top of the shaft, a naked man had been impaled through the fundament. The man’s jaw was broken from the pointed stake erupting from his mouth. Intestines and other internal organs, hooked by the spike as it passed through his body, spilled from his lips. Blood trickled from his eyes, ears, and nose. The body twitched, croaking a bloodcurdling moan. This poor man was still alive.
It was indeed the work of a devil.
CHAPTER XIX.
When Quincey first met Basarab the previous evening, he had not been sure what to expect. Basarab had informed Quincey that he would not be traveling with the company back to Romania, but he made no mention of accompanying him back to London instead. Quincey panicked, thinking that the actor was trying to get rid of him.
But Basarab laughed when he produced a contract from his pocket. He asked Quincey to join his theatre company and to be his representative, seeing to all of Basarab’s arrangements prior to his arrival in London.
Quincey was overjoyed. Not even the deluge assaulting Paris could dampen his mood.
Pedestrians sought shelter. Not Quincey. He strolled along the boulevard to the Gare du Nord, allowing the rain to run down his face, grinning as if he had not a care in the world. Growing up in England, Quincey was quite accustomed to rain. The rain made everything look gray in London, but in Paris, the rain created a golden hue. The City of Lights sparkled doubly, a mirror of Quincey’s own sparkling, bright future. There was a bounce in his step he had not felt since his father had dragged him kicking and screaming away from the theatre. He bounded onto the Calais train that would begin his journey back to London, and settled into a seat in the restaurant car. His life was back on track. As he placed his ticket and passport into his inside coat pocket for quick retrieval when the conductor arrived, he found the telegram. In all the excitement, he had forgotten about it.
Mina had not known where to reach Quincey so she had been forced to send the telegram in the hope of reaching him at the Théâtre de l’Odéon where, the day before, Antoine had given it to him. He had been carrying it around, unopened, since then. He knew what his mother would say. She would beg him to reconsider his course of action and to return to the Sorbonne, no doubt pressured by his immovable father. Quincey still felt bad for having left his mother after such a bitter argument, but was not yet ready to make amends. He wanted to be properly established with the production before another word was said to his parents. They would witness his newfound success on the opening night of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Quincey hoped they would be proud of him when they saw his billing as coproducer and costar, realizing he was not throwing away a great future but making one. Until then, Quincey planned to avoid any unnecessary confrontation. Although it pained him to avoid his mother, he knew he needed to stay strong.
Quincey ordered tea and settled in for the journey back to the French coast. His excitement over closing the deal with Deane at the Lyceum drew him back to his books and with them the history of the Romanian prince. Why did Stoker call Dracula a count instead of his true title, prince? Curious. Perhaps he had wanted to separate his fictional character from the historic Dracula’s bloody legacy, hoping to earn his villain some sympathy.
When his tea arrived, Quincey laid his down his books and notepad. He glanced up at the passenger in front of him, who was reading the evening edition of Le Temps.
Quincey nearly dropped his cup.
He snatched the newspaper from the man’s hands, who saw the look on Quincey’s face and raised no protest. Quincey could feel the gritty paper in his fingers, but couldn’t believe the headline before his eyes: HOMME EMPALÉ.
Beneath the headline was a crosshatched sketch of the victim. Quincey’s eyes flew to the woodcut drawing in his book. Prince Dracula dined while surrounded by impaled bodies of his condemned. Quincey’s heart was racing faster than the locomotive’s engine as he read the newspaper story. “Un homme a été découvert empalé hier matin á Piccadilly Circus.”
“Man found impaled yesterday morning in Piccadilly Circus.”
Quincey’s hands shook, making the text difficult to read. He placed the paper on the table to steady it as he reread the article. His translation was sound. Quincey breathed faster. Upon reaching the last line, h
e thought he might pass out. He forced himself to read it again.
The impaled victim was identified as Mr. Jonathan Harker, a prominent solicitor from Exeter, a city to the west of London.
CHAPTER XX.
Inspector Cotford took hold of the white cotton sheet. It had an eerie, iridescent glow under the hydrogen spotlight hung directly above it. He turned toward Mina Harker and observed how she took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
Cotford had watched her very carefully upon her entrance into Scotland Yard’s morgue. She did not shrink at the door like so many other widows who came to view their husbands’ remains. From the way she carried herself, and how she looked straight ahead when she marched into the room, Cotford could see her quiet strength. She had a calm, stately elegance. She was dressed from her ankles to her neck in a black dress, her blond tresses pulled up into a bun in the same way Cotford’s mother used to wear her hair. He also could not help but notice that, despite her matronly bearing, Mrs. Harker looked quite lovely for a woman of her age. Her face was strikingly beautiful, devoid of lines. Cotford thought Jonathan Harker was an idiot to be looking for the company of a tart in an alley when there was such a remarkable woman waiting for him at home.
He put on his poker face. Back in the alley, he’d developed his theory, which the evidence seemed to support but could not yet completely prove. Then Lee had showed him the murder book from the as-yet-unidentified woman wearing white. The bloody handprints found in the alley matched Jonathan Harker’s, and it was his blood type in the droplets. Cotford had no doubt in his mind that Jonathan Harker was the second victim from the alley. There was nothing quite like the warm sensation of being correct. Upon reading Seward’s journal, Cotford realized that what was contained therein was indeed a confession, for in it Seward plainly named his coconspirators. In an instant, it became clear to Cotford why he and Abberline had failed to catch the elusive serial killer. Jack the Ripper was not just one man; he was a cabal of mad occultists. Since Seward died with a sword in his hand, he must have been killed to be silenced. It stood to reason that the leader of the cabal would begin to fear his coconspirators. Cotford knew that Seward’s death would start a wave of new murders. The death of the woman wearing white was not a surprise to Cotford, either. Once drawn out, his bloodlust reignited, it was inevitable that the leader of the cabal would kill more women. The murder of the tart in the alley was, unfortunately, sauce for the goose.
Dr. Seward wrote of Mina Harker in his journals as well, but in close to saintly terms. Cotford doubted she was directly involved in the murders, but he was sure she had knowledge of them. He hoped Mrs. Harker would be the key to redeeming his past.
When Cotford asked for this meeting with Mrs. Harker, and asked for all chairs to be removed from the morgue, Lee did so without question. If Cotford were to take Dr. Seward’s journals at face value, rather than as the ranting of a madman, then he would have to accept that Mina Harker was a strong woman. So much so, that she would be a formidable opponent. His only chance to trap her into betraying what she knew about the cabal was to severely rattle her. Forcing her to identify her husband’s remains would immediately place her at a disadvantage. He hoped it would be enough. The moment she walked in, Cotford could see that he was going to have to be harsher than he’d ever been with a widow before.
Still gripping the white sheet, Cotford said, “I should warn you, madam, your husband’s body is not in a very presentable state.”
“Believe me, Inspector,” Mina whispered, “after the things I have witnessed in my life, there is very little that can make me squeamish.”
Cotford yanked the sheet away with a dramatic flourish. Beneath it lay the ravaged body of Jonathan Harker sprawled on a white enameled cast-iron gurney. After the wooden spike, forty feet high and four inches in diameter, had been removed postmortem, the man’s face had collapsed in on itself. Jonathan Harker’s hollow, misshapen body had begun to decay as Cotford waited two days before contacting his widow. The corpse’s skin had become a greenish blue, which looked even worse under the hydrogen lamplight. The stench billowed out into the morgue the moment Cotford pulled back the sheet.
Most women would have broken down or fainted at the mere sight of their dead husband’s corpse, let alone one so mutilated. Cotford noted that Mina simply stared at the body for a moment. Then, as the shock wore off, her eyes widened with realization at what she was seeing and she turned away. Her eyes moistened, but tears did not flow. Mina summoned her resolve and straightened her back. It was as if she was willing her calculating mind to overrule her heart. Cotford was impressed by her steel. She has the iron will of a man hidden in the delicate form of a woman. Dr. Seward had been correct in his description of Mina Harker.
“Good God, Jonathan,” she said. She glanced about the room as if looking for a place to sit. When there was none to be found, her eyes went to the door. She was uncomfortable and wanted to leave. Her reaction was just as Cotford had hoped. Now he needed to add more fuel to the fire.
From a dark corner, the graying police surgeon bolted forward with a glass of water in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. Mina gave him a grateful smile. Cotford resisted the impulse to box the doctor’s ears. Cotford had gone to great lengths to make the situation as uncomfortable as possible, and this twit was ruining his strategy. The surgeon then pulled a bottle of smelling salts out of his lab coat. The fool. She was not likely to faint. Cotford shot a disapproving glare at Lee, who seemed uncertain what to do. He needed to compensate.
“Buggered like a shish kebab he was,” Cotford remarked. Chuckles of laughter from Lee’s three subordinates erupted from behind him.
The police surgeon stepped into the light. “I find this completely improper and highly irregular.”
Cotford shot another glare at Lee, who intercepted the police surgeon, intimidating him simply by towering over the man. In a low voice, Lee said, “Your job is to follow our orders and keep your comments to yourself.”
Damn Lee. Even his voice at a whisper seemed loud enough for Mina to hear.
“Your compassion, Inspector, warms my soul,” she said.
Lee and the other constables stopped their chortles and cleared their throats with embarrassment. Touché, Mrs. Harker. Cotford needed to gain the upper hand before he lost his advantage. “Forgive me, but you did say only moments ago that there is very little that can make you squeamish.”
Mina made no response.
Cotford leaned on the wooden desk and slapped his hand on Seward’s stacked leather-bound journals. “Based on the writings of the late Dr. Seward, untimely death is nothing new to your family.”
Mina’s eyes widened in surprise. For a moment, Cotford thought he had broken her, but once again he watched as Mina willed herself not to betray emotion of any kind.
“Just what are you implying?” Mina replied, resolute.
“The Grim Reaper has been your constant companion. Your son’s namesake, Quincey Morris. An American. A Texan, to be exact—”
“Died twenty-five years ago while on a hunting trip in Romania,” Mina interrupted.
“Do you know who could have done something like this to your husband? Did your husband have any enemies?”
There was a spark in Mina’s eyes. “My husband was a solicitor. In the legal profession, there are always negative associations.”
Ah, now we’re getting somewhere, Cotford thought. “A crime this violent would require a more passionate motive.”
“To what are you referring, Inspector?”
He had the hunch that there was a name etched in her mind. All he had to do was get it out of her. “Someone took great effort to erect a vast stake in Piccadilly Circus and impale your husband upon it. That is not a spontaneous act; this took planning. This was the work of someone with more than a passing grudge. Come now, Mrs. Harker, if there was someone in your past capable of such a ferocious act, his name would not be foreign to you.”
It couldn’t be him, Mina t
hought. Her heart was beating so quickly, she thought it would burst from her chest. No matter how much or little Cotford knew, he already knew too much. Mina felt for a moment as if she would swoon. Her prince was long dead. He lived only in her nightmares. Even if he were, somehow, still alive, she refused to believe he would hurt her like this. It couldn’t be him. But if it was, why now? Why wait twenty-five years? But who else could be so brutal?
Mina’s thoughts swirled. Her emotions had been frayed even before she had set foot in the morgue. The guilt from her last conversation with Jonathan, a heated and hurtful argument, weighed on her heart. There would never be any reconciliation. She’d never have a chance to say all that she had felt. She vowed never to make that mistake with Quincey.
The room was devoid of heat, and the stark lighting did nothing to warm it up. Somewhere in the darkness, Mina could hear the ticking of a clock. Time was not on her side.
The inspector pulled something from a folder on the desk. She recognized the familiar cut edges of photographic paper and prepared herself for the worst.
“Do you know this woman?” Cotford asked.
