by Dacre Stoker
Mina looked at the photo. It was of a severed head. To her surprise, she did not know the woman at all. “No. Should I know her?”
“Well, your husband certainly knew her, if you catch my meaning. We found evidence to prove he was present when she was slain.”
This line of questioning would get the old fool nowhere. Mina felt her strength return. “Why should this concern me, Inspector?”
“Your husband’s blood was found near the woman’s severed head. As well as this button . . .”
He was holding a brass button bearing the initials W&S. Cotford strolled casually toward the gurney. Next to Jonathan’s body were torn pieces of his gray suit, gathered unceremoniously in a small pile.
“We found Mr. Harker’s clothing a few yards away from the murder scene. You will see that this missing button fits right here.”
He restored the button to its rightful place on the remnants of Jonathan’s jacket, forcing Mina to look at his corpse again. Cotford was undoubtedly attempting to manipulate the situation. She could feel her face flush. She could not stand to look at what they had done to her husband. The stench of death overwhelmed her. She could taste her last meal. Her resolve was beginning to crack. She needed to leave. She needed to run.
Cotford continued, “The blood on this button does not belong to your husband. It’s the murdered woman’s blood type.”
“Are you accusing my husband of killing this woman?”
“That is what I intend to ascertain. Did you know your husband was having relations with other women?”
“My husband had many faults, but he was not capable of murder. May I go now?”
By way of response, he stared at her as if his bloodshot eyes were trying to burrow into her soul. So far, Mina had evaded his line of questioning. She had to be careful.
Cotford held up a small, bloodstained business card. “According to La Sûreté report, a calling card was found in Dr. Seward’s pocket. The same person’s card was found in your husband’s wallet.”
Arthur Holmwood.
“Is there a point to all this, Inspector?”
“Lord Godalming has not gone by the name of Arthur Holmwood since before your hunting trip to Romania.”
In this very cold room, Mina felt very hot. Cotford obviously knew more than she could have imagined. Had Seward truly described their horrid experiences in his diaries? If she told the police what she knew to be true, she would find herself locked up in an asylum like the one Seward had owned. Mina realized there was no way she could defend herself. Her only hope was to escape.
Cotford’s gruff voice interrupted her thoughts. “Romania is a rather odd place to hunt, if I may say so. What were you hunting?”
“Wolves,” Mina answered hotly. She moved toward the door. Cotford tossed the bloody card onto the gurney, leapt around the table, and blocked her way. He was swift for such a portly man.
“Do you regularly enjoying hunting, Mrs. Harker? Or are you just an observer of blood sports?”
At least she had moved away from Jonathan’s body, which was now behind her and out of sight. It was only the smell that kept the ghastly image burned in her brain. “Inspector, I sense there is a question you want to ask me. I would prefer if you just—”
“Sergeant Lee paid a call on Lord Godalming this morning, who swears he never met the late Dr. Seward . . . or your husband, for that matter. Do you have any idea why he may have said that?”
“No,” Mina said truthfully.
“I despise unanswered questions, Mrs. Harker. This case is plagued with them. Here we have two men who knew each other, both meeting a tragic end just a week apart. In my line of work, there is no such thing as coincidence. Both men had a connection to Lord Godalming and he denies knowing either. You, Mrs. Harker, are the last living connection to all of them.”
Memories of her adventures flooded Mina’s mind. Even though she was standing in the center of the room, she felt trapped. The ticking clock seemed to go faster.
“Please, Inspector. I need to find my son. I need to tell him his father is dead.”
Cotford was like a lion circling his prey. Mina was starting to crack. “There is just one more thing,” he continued. “We just received this from Paris. You wouldn’t happen to recognize this piece of jewelry, would you?”
Mina took from his hand a photograph of a bloodstained silver pocket watch. Mina could not hide from Cotford the flood of emotions as she read to herself the inscription: “Oceans of Love, Lucy.”
She caressed the photograph. With a shaking voice, she responded, “It belonged to Jack. It was a gift to him from an old friend . . . Lucy Westenra.”
“Lord Godalming’s former fiancée. Do you know where I might find Miss Westenra now?”
Mina’s head snapped up. He was trying to catch her out in an inconsistency or a lie. Was this interrogation somehow about Lucy’s death, or Jonathan’s? She sensed he was just waiting to put the handcuffs on her. One wrong word and she could find herself under arrest. She could not let Quincey wander alone in the open, exposed to danger, while she dealt with legalities.
Carefully choosing her words, Mina said, “I believe you already know the answer, Inspector. Lucy died twenty-five years ago.”
“Your friends seem to have a high mortality rate, Mrs. Harker.”
“Misfortune is not a crime.” Mina knew that what she said next would cast further suspicion over her, but she had to get out of this infernal place. “I ask you to step aside, Inspector. If you have any further questions, you can ask them through my legal representative. I have to see to my husband’s funeral arrangements. Good day.”
“As you wish, madam. We will speak again very soon, I can assure you.”
Cotford stood aside. Mina was wary. But her only purpose now was to find Quincey. Mina ran for the exit. A few more steps and she would be free.
Cotford called out, “Send my regards to Abraham Van Helsing!”
His words struck Mina like venom, paralyzing her spine. Her legs buckled.
Cotford reveled at the sight of Mina falling against an empty gurney. She spun around and glared at him. This time it was not shock in her eyes from his knowledge of her private life, but palpable fear. She shoved the gurney aside and scrambled out the door. At last, she had betrayed herself. Even after death, she was protecting her estranged husband. If it was not love, what bond was it that had held their marriage together? Their son? Cotford was skeptical. His investigation of the Harkers had told him that Quincey had already left the nest. Jonathan and Mina Harker were bound together by something deeper. A dark secret. Honor among thieves, villains, and conspirators. Cotford now knew that what he had read in Dr. Seward’s journal regarding Lucy Westenra was true. Mina Harker was hiding something. Something terrible. The evil of Abraham Van Helsing. The look on Mina’s face at the mention of the professor’s name told Cotford everything he needed to know. He would request Lucy’s death certificate from the old archives. Undoubtedly, the death certificate would state she’d died of natural causes. His detective’s instinct told him that was a lie no doubt concocted, bought, and paid for by the wealthy Arthur Holmwood.
Lee interrupted Cotford’s thoughts. “What now?”
Cotford pulled a fat cigar from his pocket, an imported Iwan Ries. He sniffed along its spine, the scent of a hot trail. “Now, Sergeant Lee, we let the vultures gather around the carcass.”
Lee struck a match for him. Cotford took a long puff on the pleasant cigar. For the first time, he felt worthy of the sergeant’s admiration.
CHAPTER XXI.
Mina rushed home, shaken to the core, the slow, rhythmic raindrops falling out of rhythm with the pace of her heart. With each mile from London to Exeter, her angst grew. This four-hour journey felt like an eternity: It was the most excruciating train ride Mina had ever experienced. She so urgently felt the need to get home, and no train could move fast enough for her liking.
Mina was deeply hurt that her son was avoiding her. As with
most families, she and Quincey had had minor quarrels over the years, but they had been over petty issues. Mina was certain that once he learned of his father’s death, all would be forgiven, and their squabble would be cast aside in a heartbeat. But what Mina could not overcome was her fear, which was nagging and relentless: What if Quincey was in danger? What if he had already fallen victim to foul play? He had no knowledge of how to protect himself, no idea of the evil he was up against.
Returning home to retrieve her passport for the journey to Paris was taking precious time.
Contrary to what she had told that infuriating Inspector Cotford, Mina had decided to forgo holding a funeral service for Jonathan. Finding Quincey was paramount. Jonathan would understand. In fact, she knew that Jonathan would have insisted upon it; and if the situation were reversed, she would have wanted Jonathan to do the same. Sadly, there was also little point to a funeral service. No one would be there. Quincey was missing, Jack was dead, Arthur was an arse, and Jonathan no longer had any clients who had respects to pay. The only one left was Abraham Van Helsing. No, Mina couldn’t risk that. She knew that the vile Cotford was most likely counting on his arrival.
Give my regards to Abraham Van Helsing. The inspector’s words played over and over in her mind like a scratched phonograph. She would not give that stuffed Irish pig the satisfaction of delivering Van Helsing up to him. The circumstances surrounding Jonathan’s death were complicated enough without some old bloodhound trying to make a name for himself by digging up the past. Some things were better left dead and buried, like her dear sweet Lucy.
Mina instructed the undertaker to cremate Jonathan’s remains. She would collect his ashes at a later date. At least burning his corpse would ensure his eternal rest. Mina said a silent prayer for her beloved, wishing she could take back all she had said and done that had brought disharmony between them.
Mina was rain-drenched by the time she trudged up the stone steps of the house. This big house they had inherited from Peter Hawkins. How could she live here now? It was too large. Too empty. Despite Jonathan’s frequent absences of late, already it felt different. Final and cold. There was no time to dwell on that now. She had only an hour to dry herself, to change, and to pack a few things before making her way to Ports-mouth, where she’d take a ferry across the channel to Cherbourg and then another train to Paris—a two-day journey in all. Two days more in which Quincey remained exposed, in peril. That fat oaf of an inspector would no doubt be on the prowl twenty-four hours a day; but at least she would be beyond Cotford’s reach in Paris. Perhaps this was the last time she would be able to freely return to her house. If Cotford dug too deeply, she might soon be on the run as an accomplice to murder. She struggled with the thought of alerting Arthur to the dangers of Cotford, but thought better of it. He would surely slam the door in her face.
Mina placed the iron key into her front door and realized something was wrong. It was already unlocked. She paused. Had she left it unlocked in the hurry to catch the train to London? No, she distinctly remembered locking it before setting out. She had given the house servants a few days off. There should be no one inside, yet Mina could sense that someone was in her house.
Slowly, she opened the door, hoping it would not creak, every nerve afire, expecting some monster to leap out at her. There was no one there. Mina cautiously craned her neck through the door and peered in. The sight of Quincey’s unmistakable rag of a wet coat on the marble foyer floor made her heart soar. Quincey was home! But just as she began to smile with relief, there came a crash from the adjoining drawing room. He was home, but that did not necessarily mean he was safe. Her feet couldn’t move fast enough.
Quincey heard the door slam and spun around to see his mother, looking like a drowned rat, standing at the doorway to the drawing room. For a moment, she stood motionless, shocked by the ransacked condition of the room. “Quincey, are you safe? Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” Quincey tried to sound civil, but his anger was palpable.
“I have been looking for you everywhere.” Her eyes drifted to the mess he had made. “What in God’s name . . . ?”
Like a good solicitor sifting through his research, trying to discover the history of a case, Quincey had laid bare all his family secrets. He had used a sledgehammer to smash open the family safe, pried open each of the locked cabinets, and rifled through each and every drawer. The result was stacks of letters, journals, Mina’s private diaries, and newspaper clippings that he had painstakingly placed in chronological order: the entire hidden history of his mother and father’s life before he was born.
Quincey scooped up a crisp, white envelope with one hand and a stack of handwritten letters with the other. He displayed the writing on the envelope for Mina to see and recognize.
LETTER FROM MINA HARKER TO HER SON, QUINCEY HARKER, ESQ. (To be opened upon the sudden or unnatural death of Wilhelmina Harker)
The look on Mina’s face was somewhere between relief and despair. Quincey flung the letter at his mother, the many pages raining down in a blizzard of paper. “Even in death, your shame would drive you to hide what you really are from me. You thought me a fool. You thought, and you were right, that you could hide your unnatural youth by pretending to strangers that we were brother and sister, turning it into a private joke between mother and son.”
Mina implored her Quincey, “Everything you need to know is in that letter. Everything Jonathan and I should have told you years ago, but were afraid to.”
“Everything you say is a lie!” Quincey was too furious for further niceties. “How do you know Bram Stoker?”
“Who?”
She seemed genuinely earnest in her confusion. Up until the day before, he would have taken his beloved mother at her word. Much had changed in a single day. “When I first read it, I thought it was a coincidence, but now . . .”
Quincey tossed the bright yellow-covered book toward his mother and studied her face as she read the title aloud.
“Dracula . . . by Bram Stoker.” Mina gasped. Her fingers trembled as she fumbled through the pages. She looked up at him, aghast. “Where did you get this?”
Her performance was better than any he had seen on the stage thus far. All his life he had loved her. Confided in her. Sided with her against his father. But now he realized that he hardly knew his own mother. “Do not play the innocent. Within those pages lies the one truth you left out of your letter, the answer to the great mystery that has torn this family apart.”
“I swear to you. I know nothing of this book.”
“I’m not surprised you’d say that. Stoker wrote the truth you so conveniently left out of your letter. He writes you had a ‘connection’ to that monster, Dracula. I fear Stoker put too polite a spin on it.”
“You are too bold!”
His mother looked so young, her face like that of a wounded adolescent. Quincey thought of the three schoolboys he had thrashed for insulting his mother’s honor. Suddenly, he felt ashamed of his actions all those years ago. He grabbed the novel out of her hand. “That murderous creature, Dracula, is the chasm that always came between you and Father. Tell me I lie.”
“You know nothing about it!”
“You conspired with Dracula against Father. You drank his blood,” Quincey cried. Reciting from memory, he said, “Chapter twenty-one . . . On the bed beside the window lay Jonathan Harker . . .”
“Enough!” Tears streamed down her face.
Quincey would have normally been horrified by the notion of making his mother cry, but the thought of her drinking that monster’s blood while his father, her husband, slept only inches away, repulsed him.
All these years, he had thought his father’s drinking had been responsible for bringing ruin to his family. Now, Quincey knew the truth. It was his mother’s betrayal that had driven him to drink. She was the wretch who had brought a plague upon their house, ruining his father. “Stoker’s book is no work of fiction. That demon Dracula is the reason for your e
ternal youth.”
“I knew you wouldn’t understand. I could not at your age.” Mina sobbed. “Evil comes in shades of gray, not black and white.”
Quincey shook the book again. “Oh, but I do understand. I understand everything now. This is why Father was so tortured, why he wanted to keep me under his control. To keep the truth of who my mother really is from me.”
“Your father wanted you in his world so that he could protect you.”
Quincey now understood that when his father had talked of “safety,” he was not talking of financial safety but of Quincey’s personal safety. This was why his father intervened when Quincey had been about to gain notoriety in the spotlight. It was for his son’s protection. Quincey slammed the book on the desk and grabbed the copy of Le Temps he had spread there to dry. He held up the front page for his mother to see the crosshatched illustration of the man impaled in Piccadilly Circus.
“Tepes . . . The Impaler. In the end, it seems it was not me but Father who needed protection . . . from your former lover!”
Mina took a deep breath. “I loved your father as much as I love you.”
Love. Quincey sneered inwardly. Mina’s actions did not illustrate any love for his father. “All my life, you let me unjustly denounce my father. All those things I’ve said to him and about him. All those terrible lies you led me to believe. I can never take it back. I can never make amends. I cannot believe anything you say to me anymore. But rest assured, I am no undecided Hamlet. I shall avenge my father. God help you!”
Quincey stormed out into the vestibule, grabbing his coat from the floor.
Mina called after him, “No! Quincey, please! Hate me if you must, but this family has sacrificed enough! If you love me, look no more into those wild and terrible days. Leave the truth dead and buried, or you could suffer a fate worse than your father’s.”
Quincey slammed the door behind him. He never looked back.
