by Dacre Stoker
“Jack was an old fool who could not let go of the past,” Holmwood said as he consumed the cognac in one swift gulp, as if to drown the unpleasant memory.
“My father and Dr. Seward were murdered within days of each other; it’s more than coincidence, wouldn’t you agree?” Quincey asked. “You and your wife are in danger.”
Arthur laughed and refilled his glass. “Danger? Master Harker, you don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Quincey could not believe this was the same Arthur Holmwood who’d ridden a stallion into battle against the gypsies and Dracula. He of all people should have understood the threat. A fury came upon him, and before he knew it, he had run forward and grabbed Arthur’s arm, stopping him in mid-pour.
“Dracula is coming for revenge, and you know it. Help me kill him, once and for all.”
Arthur gave the hand upon his arm a steely glare. With a powerful reflex, he yanked his arm away. “Rash, Master Harker. Foolhardy and rash. So she finally told you, then.”
“No. I discovered the truth myself,” Quincey said, trying with little success to keep a tremor from invading his voice.
“Dracula is dead. I saw him die.” Arthur put down the carafe and walked back behind his desk. “We all did.”
Quincey couldn’t believe such willful blindness. Did he have to spell it out for him? “My father was impaled. Tepes—who else could it be?”
“I’ve fought my battles, Master Harker. In my life, I’ve stood on hell’s battlefields and crossed oceans of blood. All of that is over for me. I will not walk there again.” He picked up a small bell to summon the butler.
Quincey pounded his fist on the desk. “Coward!” He was sure this insult would incite Arthur to react, but the man’s blue eyes were empty of emotion.
“Go home, boy,” Holmwood sighed. “Before you hurt yourself.”
Quincey heard the butler enter the room behind him.
“I gather our meeting is over?”
“Good afternoon, Master Harker.” Arthur picked up a small book, turned to a marked page, and began reading.
The butler came forward with Quincey’s coat. “This way, sir.”
Quincey stood unmoving, utterly shocked. Then he seized his coat from the butler and spun back to the desk, pulling away the book in Arthur’s hands. Their eyes locked. “I won’t pity you when I see you next on the slab,” he declared, hoping that the man would rise to the bait at last. Instead of meeting the challenge, Arthur stared at the bland painting over the fireplace and said in a near-whisper, “I doubt anyone will.”
As the butler ushered Quincey out of the house and into the now-dark street, he dwelled on what had just happened. Whatever force had driven Jack Seward to madness, corrupted his mother, and taken his father’s soul had also smothered Arthur’s spirit. Quincey now knew that Lord Godalming did not fight duels for honor. Lord Godalming fought duels in the hope of death. He used the name Lord Godalming because Arthur Holmwood was no more.
CHAPTER XXV.
The moon was low in the sky, shining through the windows of New Scotland Yard. Cotford struggled to keep his eyes open as he worked at his desk. To his left was the police surgeon’s report of the Lucy Westenra postmortem and the stark, black-and-white photos of Lucy’s exhumation. To his right lay the crime scene photographs of the butchered body of the woman found in the alley five nights earlier. He compared the two sets of photographs. Lucy Westenra’s body, twenty-five years ago, had been torn apart in the same fashion as the recently murdered woman in the alleyway. In Cotford’s mind, the two murders were connected, but he still had no hard proof. He could not go to his superiors; they would see it all as conjecture. He ran through the pictures and notes, looking for a clue, some small, overlooked morsel of information that would confirm that both murders had been committed by the same hand. He shook his head to keep sleep at bay. He had not slept in days.
“Inspector Cotford!”
Sergeant Lee’s voice jarred Cotford awake. “Yes, what is it?” Cotford asked. His neck was sore and stiff. He raised his arm to shield his eyes from the blinding morning sunlight coming through the window. Damn! I’ve slept too long.
“They’ve found another body!”
“Where?” The cobwebs cleared instantly from Cotford’s mind.
“The Thames, sir. Near the Tower of London.”
Cotford grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and bolted for the door.
On the cold banks of the Lower Thames, near St. Katharine Docks just east of the Tower of London, a small crowd had gathered. Inspector Huntley oversaw the extraction of the corpse from the water. A rope had been tied under the arms of the body, with the other end hitched to the saddle of a horse. Onlookers gasped at the sight of the dead woman’s ripped bodice and exposed breasts. Once the body was pulled up over the railing and onto the street, Huntley gallantly removed his jacket and placed it over the dead woman’s chest, preserving her last ounce of dignity. The police surgeon knelt beside the body to begin his preliminary examination, conferring quietly with Huntley.
Nearby, another woman dressed in ragged, revealing attire wept as she spoke to a detective constable, who took her statement on a notepad.
Cotford grabbed Lee by the arm. They moved through the crowd, angling themselves closer so that they could overhear the young woman’s statement.
“. . . After that, I saw Kristan walking alone and turning onto Devonshire Square. She lives there . . . rents a room at twelve pence a week . . . I mean . . . she used to live there. . . .”
The girl broke into uncontrollable sobs. Cotford noticed a handkerchief in the detective constable’s pocket, but the man did not move to offer it to his witness. She’s still a woman, damn you.
Cotford reached into his pocket for his own handkerchief as he pushed through the crowd. But he’d waited too long, and another man beat him to it. The young woman graciously accepted the handkerchief, and Cotford was surprised that the gentleman was Inspector Huntley. The inspector noticed Cotford and frowned. In a friendly way, which Cotford thought too familiar, Huntley looped his arms through Cotford’s and Lee’s elbows and led them aside.
“What are you doing here, Sergeant Lee?” Huntley asked, his words quick and firm. “I can see now that Inspector Cotford’s appearance the other night in the alleyway was no coincidence. What gibberish has he seduced you with? Associating with a man of his reputation could jeopardize your career.” Huntley turned to Cotford and continued, “I’m sure Inspector Cotford will agree with me.”
“How could I not? But keep in mind, the ends justify the means.”
Lee cleared his throat to respond, but Huntley held up his hand to silence him. “Please, don’t say anything to ruin my good opinion of you any further.” And before Lee could say anything, he turned his attention to Cotford. “Inspector, let me first start by thanking you for your observations the other night. Sergeant Lee informed me you’d found the second set of bloodstains and the handprints. The fact that you instructed him to bring it directly to my attention and not to our superiors demonstrates that you still uphold protocol and show professional courtesy to your fellow officers.”
Cotford nodded. “My only duty is to bring the killer to justice.”
“Very well, allow me to return your professional courtesy,” Huntley said. “I will thank you to not jump to any further conclusions. I know you, so let me say this plainly. There is no correlation whatsoever between the woman in the alleyway and this victim here today. This dead woman was a poor prostitute murdered by a depraved client, a common occurrence on these streets. The decapitated woman from the alleyway was wealthy. I concede that she was probably murdered by a third party as you surmised, but I maintain it was a crime of passion. Most likely a jealous husband. Rest assured, I will find him.”
“This is personal for me,” Cotford replied. “I’m not looking for glory, and I have no desire to show you up. I will gladly turn over to you any evidence before I present it to the High Court. As I said,
my only duty is to bring the killer to justice.”
“Let me be perfectly clear, Inspector Cotford.” Huntley’s tone became more forceful and exasperated. “If I find you interfering with my investigation, or creating a public panic with claims that these latest murders are connected, you will leave me no choice but to protect my own standing by reporting you to our superiors. I beg you, do not put me in that position. Please, it would be best that you not endanger your reputation by chasing ghosts.” Not waiting for a reply, he patted Cotford on the back, gave him an encouraging smile, and marched over to greet the awaiting press.
Lee stepped forward anxiously and said into Cotford’s ear, “What was that about?”
“Sergeant Lee, Huntley was not wrong. You have a family to think about. If you wish to bow out from our investigation now, I won’t blame you.”
Lee looked him in the eye. “I’m with you so long as you’re right, Inspector. So long as you’re right.”
Cotford smiled as the two men walked over to the body of the dead woman lying beside the river’s iron railing. Her hair was soaked, but she was clearly a red-haired woman, as Lucy Westenra had been. The face would have been quite pretty if it were not locked in an expression of absolute horror. Her dead green eyes were frozen wide-open, staring blankly at Cotford. Her neck had been gouged away, nearly to the bone. The wound looked more like the bite of an animal than anything a human could inflict. Cotford believed he was indeed chasing a madman.
Had he wasted precious time searching for hard evidence? Had his slow and steady scientific method cost this woman her life? Cotford realized that time was of the essence. He had to shake things up. He turned back to Lee, his blood surging. Something consumed him, something the weeping young woman had said. This victim, Kristan, had last been seen walking to her rented room on Devonshire Square.
Devonshire Square? That’s only a stone’s throw from . . . from the hotel where Van Helsing was staying.
“Damn him. Damn his eyes!” The veins in Cotford’s head pulsed with rage. “Stay here, Sergeant. Find out everything you can.”
Without another word, he raced northward.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The old man used his cane to adjust his position in the overly plush velvet chair. He sat in the opulent restaurant that had once been the grand Victorian ballroom in the Great Eastern Hotel. The old man took comfort in the familiar setting, a setting long unaffected by time. He had already finished his cold tomato consommé and was greatly looking forward to the steak and kidney pie for which this restaurant was famous. The taste and smell of the dish had remained with him over the decades since he’d last stayed here. His mouth watered when a young man approached with a silver tray. To his extreme surprise, the old man realized it was the concierge and not the waiter he had expected.
“Can’t you see, young man, I’m anticipating a meal?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” the concierge said as he lifted the polished lid and presented the tray to the old man. “A telegram just arrived for you. Forwarded from Amsterdam.”
The old man looked down at the familiar yellow envelope with his name inscribed upon it. Telegrams usually contained bad news; he had a feeling the odds were not in his favor.
“Thank you,” he said with a sigh. He took the envelope with one hand and placed a half crown on the silver tray with the other. The concierge bowed politely and departed, slipping the coin into his pocket with practiced decorum. Obviously, Maaijcke, the grocery store delivery boy, had found his note in Amsterdam and was accordingly forwarding his correspondence.
Using the steak knife, the old man tore open the envelope:TELEGRAM—Mina Harker, Exeter, to Prof. Abraham Van Helsing, Amsterdam QUINCEY IS ASKING QUESTIONS. COME AT ONCE. WE NEED YOU. MINA.
He had always admired Mina Harker’s strength and will, traits that had made her an asset during their adventures. Although that very same strength and will made her unpredictable at times. A woman with a mind of her own was dangerous. A man, apart from his sexual urges, was ruled by mind and logic. A woman in all things was ruled by her emotions, and in his experience, all her decisions were born from them.
Mina had been tempted by the demon, had even given in at one point. It was due to her loyalty to her husband, Jonathan, that she had chosen the path of light. Now that her husband was dead, she no longer had to be loyal. If tempted again, would Mina give in to her desires?
A hot steak and kidney pie was set in front of him. The food smelled delicious, just as he had remembered. His stomach growled; but even so, he found himself rereading the telegram. Quincey Harker was asking questions. No surprise, as so much had been kept from the boy. But secrets are like flowers buried under snow: Eventually they rise up and push through into the light.
He wondered if Quincey could handle the dark secret their band harbored. With luck, he would have inherited the unwavering faith that Jonathan Harker had possessed in his youth . . . and perhaps also his mother’s strong will? That would be unfortunate. In any case, if Quincey was confronted by the demon, like his mother before him, he would have to make a choice. Youth could be reckless, and rebellious. If it came to that, Quincey could become a greater threat.
The old man frowned as a disturbing thought entered his mind: It might fall upon him to destroy Quincey. Would God grant him the strength to kill the boy he had once loved as a son? He prayed it would never come to that. Deciding that the price for his telegram’s bad news was to forfeit his meal, Van Helsing rose from the table. He grabbed his cane and hobbled toward the lobby. It dawned on him that, in the time he had left, he might never again have the opportunity to sample the Great Eastern Hotel’s steak and kidney pie. As he reached the lift, he sighed. Life at its best was made up of only small, special moments. How many do we have in a lifetime? For him, so few were left. He cursed the Harkers for stealing one of these from him. How could Jonathan and Mina have been stupid enough to have kept the truth from their son for so long? Ignorance bred anger. In their misguided attempt to protect their son, the Harkers had put Quincey in grave danger. The demon was out there, and the old man had to find Quincey first.
“And now all the vultures have at last assembled,” a man said, breaking into Van Helsing’s thoughts.
He knew that voice, though he had not heard it for a very long time. “Cotford!” Van Helsing pivoted on his cane.
Standing in the middle of the lobby was a ghost from his past. Cotford looked much older now, and had gained even more weight, but the bloodhound still growled. Cotford in his younger days had been a gruff sort who did not waste his time with conforming to the niceties of society. Time had obviously not mellowed him. He hadn’t even had the decency to remove his hat upon stepping inside.
“Death follows you like stink on a pig, Van Helsing.”
Cotford watched as Van Helsing stepped forward, supported by his cane. The walking stick was a nice touch, playing up the frail old man act to deflect suspicion.
He tried to hide the fact that he was still out of breath, having almost run from the Thames straight to the Great Eastern Hotel. Perhaps it was no irony that Van Helsing liked to be a guest in this place. Before becoming a grand hotel in 1884, this building had once been a lunatic asylum, much like the one his former pupil, Dr. Jack Seward, had operated in Whitby.
Cotford had learned in his years of service that predators liked to operate close to their home base. The Great Eastern Hotel was on Liverpool Street, west of Bishopsgate. A stone’s throw away, on the east side of Bishopsgate, was Devonshire Square, where Kristan had last been seen. The mad doctor had not even waited a night after checking in before claiming his next victim. Cotford didn’t have the irrefutable proof he needed to arrest Van Helsing, yet he dared not wait for him to take another innocent life. As he had with Mrs. Harker, Cotford hoped this surprise confrontation would trip Van Helsing up and force a confession. The look of shock on the professor’s face indicated he had not expected to ever see him again. So far, so good. He had the upper ha
nd, with the element of surprise on his side.
“Still on the case, Detective Constable?” Van Helsing asked.
“It’s Inspector now.”
“How very British to hide failure with promotion.”
Cotford was stung by Van Helsing’s wit, but allowed this remark to roll off his back. He retorted with some bite, “Another two women ripped apart in Whitechapel, and here you are. In 1888, you escaped justice. This time, I will have you and your band of murderers.”
“Open your eyes wider, Cotford. There is no justice you can bring to the evil you seek.” Van Helsing turned back toward the lift.
Cotford glared at the old man’s back, enraged. He despised men like Van Helsing, who claimed to be men of science but, when faced with a question their minds could not answer, leapt immediately toward the supernatural. He was a product of a bygone era.
The professor pressed the button to call the lift. Cotford’s whisky-scarred voice echoed through the marble lobby: “I opened Lucy Westenra’s grave.”
Van Helsing stopped dead in his tracks. He turned slowly. The look of anger in the eyes behind his spectacles was exactly what Cotford had hoped for.
He hissed through his teeth: “You travel down the path of your insignificant life in ultimate complacency. Safe in your modern world of machines and oblivious enlightenment. Blind to the ancient pagan evils that rot the ground beneath your feet because you refuse to pay them heed.”
Patrons in the lobby by now had all stopped and were staring at the two men. Cotford didn’t care: Let them all hear. It was time Van Helsing’s madness was exposed.
