Dracula The Un-Dead

by Dacre Stoker

  Quincey happily realized that the decision didn’t involve a choice at all. “I shall continue with the play as a tribute to my father,” he said. “It’s the least I can do. I shall show my father in death the love I so wrongly denied him in life.”

  Basarab smiled proudly. “Then we will make sure you are successful.”

  Quincey felt a great weight lift from his soul. The memories of all the arguments he had had with his father flooded his mind. He had been so full of rage and confusion that he had not yet given himself a chance to properly mourn his father. He didn’t want to do so now. He turned away, not wanting Basarab to see the tears forming in his eyes.

  Basarab placed his arm around his shoulder and spoke in a soothing baritone voice. “There is no shame in tears. I still recall the sad day I lost my own father.”

  “How did he die?”

  “I was very young. My father was a warrior; he was assassinated by his own countrymen.” There was an odd expression in Basarab’s face. Without having to say it, Quincey understood that his mentor knew the meaning of the word revenge.

  “You will do your father proud,” Basarab said as he walked arm in arm with Quincey along the dock. “For better or worse, there are ties between a father and son that can never be broken.”

  For the first time in days, Quincey found himself smiling through his tears. Basarab offered him something his father never had: trust.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  Sergeant Lee looked up from the front door of the Red Lion to see the face of Big Ben illuminated by its new electric light. The sun was beginning to set behind the Parliament buildings as the clock tower cast its long shadow over the Thames. Cotford was supposed to have been here fifteen minutes ago, and Lee couldn’t stand one more minute of waiting inside the pub. He didn’t feel comfortable sitting there. He was getting thirsty and wanted to partake of the joviality, but was still on duty. To avoid temptation, he had stepped outside. It was for the best anyway. If his wife found out he was in a pub—especially this night, their wedding anniversary—she would have been more than a little cross.

  Lee frowned as he glanced up to the clock again. He had not been home in time to tuck his children into bed for well over a week. He hoped his wife would understand that by having to work tonight of all nights, he was not purposely adding insult to injury. Clara knew, when she’d married him, that he was first and foremost a man of duty. Missing a candlelit dinner with his loving wife was a small price to pay for possibly saving another woman’s life.

  “Sergeant Lee?”

  Lee spun around to see Cotford waddling toward him. “You’re late, sir.”

  “Who did you leave watching our suspect?” Cotford asked anxiously. With a smile, he added, “That young Price chap?”

  Lee laughed. He liked Price, too. “No, the poor lad was knackered. Hasn’t slept all week. I’ve sent him home.”

  He could see the look of concern form on Cotford’s face and thought it best that he clarify himself. “Don’t worry yourself. Our suspect is hosting a dinner party. He’ll be there for hours. You know that crowd, cigars and brandy till the sun comes up.”

  “Good. I want you to bring him in,” Cotford said, voice laden with relish.

  “Are you sure about that, sir? If I take him in front of his dinner guests, we’ll be exposing our investigation.”

  “They only talk among themselves. We’ll have to risk it, Sergeant. We need to rattle him.”

  Lee nodded and turned to carry out his orders, when Cotford grabbed his arm. “Be sure you bring him in by way of the Derby Gate entrance.” He pointed to the alleyway running between Parliament Street and the Victoria Embankment. “No one will see you if you bring him in the side entrance.”

  Lee smiled. No one could ever say that Cotford wasn’t thorough.

  “Van Helsing is too sharp to incriminate himself,” Cotford continued solemnly. “Our only option is to get one of his coconspirators to turn on him.”

  With that, Lee was on his way. He knew that Cotford felt as he did, that this suspect was going to be a hard nut to crack. Whatever the outcome, they were in for a long night.

  With a sardonic expression, Arthur Holmwood watched as the fat inspector dropped Jack Seward’s journals in front of him. He was certain Cotford was bluffing. They couldn’t be written by Jack. But, when he read the selection the inspector had marked in the journal, he recognized Jack Seward’s handwriting and was outraged that Jack had broken their oath and had re-created his own account of the events of that tragic night. Grimacing inwardly, he refused to indulge the Irish inspector with any sign of recognition.

  Holmwood closed the book with a snap. “Who knows what drug-induced lunacy possessed Jack to write such drivel.”

  It was a publicly known fact that the once-esteemed scientist Jack Seward had not only gone mad, but was also addicted to morphine. No matter how incriminating they might appear, Jack ’s journals would not hold up in court. He studied the inspector. There was a great deal more to this man than his slovenly appearance suggested. He noted that Cotford had gone out of his way to make him uncomfortable. The interrogation room was barren, save for a table with a few stiff wooden chairs. Suspended only two feet above the table was a plain metal light fixture, which focused its harsh glare upon the table. The abnormally low placement of the light created a strain on the eyes. The room was hot. There was no coatrack, and no one had had the good manners to take his coat, thereby leaving him baking in his full evening best and a thick winter overcoat. Cotford had a glass of water for himself, but made no offer to him.

  But none of this would have the effect Cotford desired. Arthur Holmwood had once been a prisoner in the Empire of China after the Tuyen Quang siege. The Chinese were masterful in their interrogation methods, inflicting both physical and mental anguish. By comparison, this Inspector Cotford was a rank amateur.

  “Perhaps this will more readily spark your interest,” Cotford said with a mischievous smirk, opening a pale green folder and holding it close for Holmwood to see.

  Arthur’s eyes drifted down to the handwritten scribbles on the open page. After a moment of reading, he looked up and said, “An autopsy report?”

  “On Lucy Westenra.”

  This time, the man couldn’t hide his shock. Cotford smiled.

  Holmwood was confused. No autopsy had ever been performed. At the time it was determined that there was no need.

  “Don’t bother with all the clinical terms,” Cotford said as he flipped to the last page in the folder. “It’s the conclusion that matters.”

  He pointed to a handwritten line. Holmwood leaned forward to examine the word trapped under Cotford’s finger.

  “ ‘ Murder’?” he read aloud. “That’s preposterous. Lucy died of a rare blood disorder.”

  The words stung his lips as they passed. The painful memories of Lucy’s illness were ones he’d rather forget. Her inexplicable loss of blood, the desperate attempts to replenish her with blood transfusions, the money spent on specialists, none of whom could diagnose the cause. None except Dr. Van Helsing, and even he had been unable to prevent Lucy’s death. Death. Ha. The image of Lucy lying un-dead in her coffin forever scarred his heart. Her true death that day was an event that had scarred him for life.

  “Miss Westenra came from a wealthy family,” Cotford said, his voice heavy with sarcastic mock-revelation. “Shortly before her death, on the eve of your impending marriage, she changed her will. You became the beneficiary.”

  “That gives you motive,” Lee chimed in. He was standing by the back wall of the room, trying to look as imposing as possible. “Along with the testimony in Dr. Seward’s journals, we have more than enough for an arrest warrant.”

  Holmwood’s jaw clenched, his fist tightened. He felt his blood pressure starting to brew. He held his breath for a moment and cursed his rising anger. His first instinct was to bash both their skulls against the wall, but to give way to his fury would be playing into Cotford’s perverse game. The
malignant inspector was bluffing. Instead, he said, “This is a perverse joke. I had no need for the Westenra estate, as I am sure you know.”

  “I assure you, this is no laughing matter.” Cotford produced a photograph from a pocket. He set it on the table.

  The blood drained from Holmwood’s heart.

  It was a hideous, skeletal corpse. A mane of long hair flowed from the skull, which was severed from the body. An iron rod was impaled through the skeletal ribs. The ivory dress, which Lucy had made for their wedding, was rotted and stained with dirt and dried blood. Judging by the state of decomposition and the quality of the photo, the photograph had been taken recently. That fat Irish bastard has opened Lucy’s grave! He wanted to look away from the horrid photograph, but could not. He wasn’t even able to blink. He purposely did not pick up the photograph, as he knew Cotford would see his hands shake.

  He was unnerved. Over the years, he had tried to pretend that night had never happened, but it plagued him nevertheless. How Van Helsing had forced him to go to the mausoleum where Lucy was laid to rest. How his heart had leapt for joy when he’d seen her walking, looking as alive and beautiful as she had only days before. At first, he had thought it was a hallucination, until he turned and saw the look of horror and shock on Jack Seward’s face. Lucy had called to him, her voice as melodic and sweet as always. Come to me, my husband. Kiss me. We can be together. Forever, as we promised.

  He had been given a second chance to be with his love. He could still remember how Lucy’s smile had warmed him on that cold night. How he’d reached for her outstretched arms, longing to kiss her red lips. He knew that once he was in Lucy’s embrace, all the pain he had felt since her funeral would melt away.

  When his fingertips had been just inches away from hers, Van Helsing had bounded between them and held a crucifix up at Lucy. To Holmwood’s unparalleled horror, Lucy had hissed, exposing her fangs, and spat blood at Van Helsing. Her eyes had become black orbs as she bent her body into her coffin. Holmwood had tried to seem grateful to Van Helsing for saving his life, but over the years, he had come to resent the professor for intervening in that fateful moment. Wouldn’t an eternity of everlasting youth with his beloved Lucy be better than what his life had become? Van Helsing had tried to explain that it would have cost him his eternal soul, but what Van Helsing could never understand was the twenty-five intervening years without Lucy had cost him far more.

  Cotford’s voice jarred him back to the present. “Admit your crimes. Testify against Professor Van Helsing, and I’ll save your worthless neck from the gallows.”

  Did the inspector actually think he was afraid of death? Holmwood had seen fates far worse. He had marched into the underworld: Death would be a blessing to him. For the first ten years after that hellish night, on every anniversary of Lucy’s final death, he had locked himself away in his study and stared at Lucy’s portrait as he polished his dueling pistols. He’d place the barrel of the gun to his temple, near where the tip of his ear had been, and tried to end his suffering by willing himself to shoot. He wanted to be with Lucy. But each time, the words of the Bible he had learned as a child had crept into his mind, reminding him that those who committed suicide were damned. He knew in his heart that Lucy’s soul was in heaven. It had been his desire to free her soul that had allowed Van Helsing to persuade him to drive the iron stake into her un-dead heart. Even so, he found little comfort in the thought, remembering how his hands had trembled as Lucy screamed when the mallet had smashed the iron stake deep into her chest, splashing crimson blood over her beautiful ivory wedding dress. Fate was never so cruel as to ask a groom to kill his bride on the day that was to be their wedding. Lucy had never asked to be turned into a creature of the night. That devil, Dracula, had taken the deed upon himself.

  Holmwood became aware of Cotford’s watchful eyes upon him. It was time to force him to show his hand and find out how much the Irish bloodhound really knew. He pushed the journals and autopsy report back at Cotford, and reclined arrogantly in his chair. “A kind offer, but your evidence is purely circumstantial, Inspector. If you could have obtained an arrest warrant, I’d be in shackles now.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game,” Cotford replied, gesturing to the journals. “Seward couldn’t live with his guilt. He planned to expose Van Helsing, and the professor killed him.”

  “With all due respect to a representative of Scotland Yard, that is the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard. Jack Seward was Van Helsing’s prize pupil, like the son he’d never had. That kind of bond does not end in murder. You are grasping at straws.”

  “When Jonathan Harker discovered the truth,” Lee added, heedless of Holmwood’s argument, “Van Helsing killed him as well.”

  “Van Helsing’s covering his tracks,” Cotford said. He leaned forward, taking a new tactic, trying to sound like a friend. “You’re next on his list.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.” Holmwood laughed as he called Cotford’s bluff. “Van Helsing is a frail seventy-five years old.”

  “I’m not saying he acted alone. Van Helsing once played Svengali to you and your friends. He seduced you into committing murder.”

  Arthur Holmwood stopped laughing and fixed him with a battlefield glare. The abrupt silence was deafening, broken only by the ticking clock and their collective breath. Whoever spoke the next word would lose this battle of wills.

  The inspector reminded him of a retired sea captain he had once met on holiday in Scotland. The captain had been hunting a monster believed to be lurking in the waters of Loch Ness. The old man spent all his time and resources trawling the waters for evidence of the creature. Cotford was doing the same and, like the sea captain, had no evidence, merely a theory based on fiction and myth, obviously hoping that under the guise of saving his life from an imagined threat, he could intimidate him into a confession to fit his wild theory.

  Good Lord, the inspector had no idea to whom he was speaking!

  The tension in the room continued to mount until Cotford finally blinked. “Who’s to say Van Helsing hasn’t found a new cabal of impressionable young men to murder for him?”

  Arthur Holmwood shook his head at this useless prattling. Cotford was not the threat he’d at first taken him to be.

  There was a look in Cotford’s eyes. It was the same look Van Helsing had when he first spoke of the un-dead, the Nosferatu. The look of a zealot. Even though he had lost this hand, Holmwood knew that Cotford would never let this go. If it could end his bitter suffering, he would gladly confess to whatever trumped-up charge Cotford could concoct, and willingly accept a quick neck-snapping death at the end of a noose.

  But he had to consider his wife Beth’s place in society, and that of his family, all of whom would suffer if he allowed Cotford to besmirch the Holmwood name. Death at the gallows would allow him to join his Lucy in heaven, but he had already caused his family enough shame. He’d married Beth out of friendship, to save her family from crushing debt. Beth loved him, he knew, but he did not share her depth of emotion. She avoided dealing with the pain by consuming herself with the niceties of society. She had been planning tonight’s dinner party for weeks, ensuring that all of the finest members of society would attend. His arrest in front of all their guests had ruined her evening and would be shameful gossip among their peers for weeks to come. Although he did not love Beth the way a husband should, she was his best and only friend. The tears of embarrassment in her eyes as he was led away by Lee had nearly broken his frozen heart. He could not allow a conviction to damage Beth’s place in society further. It was all she had.

  He stood to face his accusers, calmly pulling his white gloves over his hands and challenged them: “I’ve heard quite enough. I am an English lord and you have no grounds for keeping me here. Harass me again, and I’ll have both your badges.”

  Without another word, he started toward the door.

  “You and Van Helsing may like to excuse your crimes by telling yourselves evil exists in an all-p
owerful devil,” Cotford said. His words made Holmwood pause at the door. “I know the truth because I’ve seen it. True evil exits in the soul of man . . . and it’s coming for you.”

  Arthur Holmwood exited with the last word: “It’s coming for all of us.”

  Van Helsing had much to do. Upon reading Mina’s telegram, he planned to immediately return to his room, grab his hat and coat, and rush out in search of Quincey. But after forgoing his meal, and exerting energy in the lobby confrontation with Cotford, he now felt too weak to begin his quest. He would start fresh in the morning. He’d wasted too much time trying to reason with Detective Constable . . . no, Inspector Cotford. After all the years he had spent doing God’s work, fighting evil so that ignorant men like Cotford could sleep safely at night, this was the gratitude he received in the sunset of his years. Accused of committing murder, indeed. Cotford was as mad as a Spanish Inquisitor! Van Helsing had to put Cotford out of his mind. He had come back to London for a greater purpose, and Cotford was once again barking up the wrong tree. Van Helsing would not let the imbecile inspector interfere. He could only pray that Quincey was safe for one more night.

  Pinned on the walls of Van Helsing’s hotel room were portraits of the historical Dracula, the Romanian prince, Vlad the Impaler, and drawings depicting his bloody exploits. In the center of them all, prominently displayed, was the woodcut artwork depicting Dracula dining amidst thousands of his skewered enemies: the Forest of the Impaled.

  Looking at these images, Van Helsing knew that a final confrontation with Dracula was his destiny and that destroying this evil creature utterly was his duty. He was doing God’s will. If Cotford impeded him in any way, he would kill him as well.