Dracula's Child

by J. S. Barnes

  Jonathan and I exchanged a look of nervousness. ‘Of course it will,’ my husband said. ‘It must be the foundation stone of your career.’

  Our son seemed not to understand. ‘Father?’ he said. ‘Now may I sit with the Professor, please? I should like to do so as often as I can before I depart. For it is possible, after all, that such opportunities are almost over.’

  As he said these words, I saw him again, through the mists of the difficulties of his age and the strange emotions of this time, as he used to be – my brave, strong, clever boy. Then he rose and left the room and was gone.

  Still, I do wonder quite why he should choose to spend so much of his time beside the body of a man who surely can no longer be aware of his presence. It seems a little morbid, somehow, as though he is bearing witness to an aberrant degree. Does he appear also to be in some fashion relishing the experience? His first true encounter with grief?

  Oh, but what a mother am I! How suspicious and unnatural!

  DR SEWARD’S DIARY

  (kept in phonograph)

  9 December. It is most exciting to be caught up once again in a purely intellectual pursuit.

  I say intellectual though it is, in truth, something else. A profound exercise in mental exertion, to be sure, but also more. The diary of the late R.M. Renfield seems to me – and seemed to be so from the moment that I first held it – to impart an effect that is analogous to a kind of electrical charge. Touching it, stroking its cover, leafing with growing excitement through its pages seems to bring to mind the sensation one experiences when on foot in the countryside before the coming of a thunderstorm, when the air itself feels alive, crackling with a coming power.

  It seems to have moods, this book, to wax and wane in potency according to the hour of the day or night. It is a strange thing, to turn its pages, through line after line all written in a neat copperplate hand, which in itself evinces little evidence of the unspooling of the author’s sanity. It is, in its own way, a kind of privilege.

  Yet there is something most curious about the text. Something which has surprised me and taken up much of my time.

  It has been written in code. I have, at least in part, succeeded in unravelling the cipher – drawn, I believe, from certain numerical arrangements in the earliest books of the Old Testament. I cannot read every word of it but I can discern enough to begin to make sense of the initial entries. I have discovered an oddly unsettling truth, which I would never have thought possible.

  Renfield was once, long before his madness, a policeman of all things. He was a detective sergeant who worked at Scotland Yard back in the last century, alongside a gentleman by the name (half-familiar) of Martin Parlow.

  Strange how the truth emerges only in glimpses and whispers, how it slithers out of the shadows into view, like a snake from long grass.

  Much is still lost to me. The work of translation is tiring and complex. Yet, even from what I am able to glean – of the investigation of Parlow and Renfield into the society murders of ’88; of their mutual determination to uncover the facts of the case under any circumstances; of that terrible corruption which took place in the tavern in Clerkenwell – I see that not only was his story very much stranger than I had ever imagined but that, in truth, I never really knew the man at all. I must read on. I must.

  There are long hours of labour ahead of me. I will see it all now. The whole of the design.

  POSTCARD* FROM CHIEF INSPECTOR MARTIN PARLOW TO SUB-DIVISIONAL INSPECTOR GEORGE DICKERSON

  10th December

  Dear George,

  I wanted to write to let you know I must stay here a while longer. I was delayed on the road to the country and now that I am here in Wildfold I find that things are not altogether as I expected. I shall write again as soon as I have news. My daughter, Ruby, is with me and there is much I have to arrange. I hope that you are ‘holding the fort’ in London and that friend Quire is n’t acting to o much ‘the horse’s as s’.

  Yours,

  M.P.

  * This postcard depicts the members of a circus troupe from the last years of the old century – jugglers, clowns, funambulists, a ringmaster, two caged and weary lions. The effect is inadvertently macabre, a quality that is exacerbated by a sepia tint. The expression of the ringmaster is especially disquieting. His face is blurred and he seems panicked, as though he has just seen something dreadful behind the camera’s lens.

  FROM THE PRIVATE DIARY OF AMBROSE QUIRE,

  Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis

  11 December. A week has gone by since his departure and it is becoming steadily more apparent to me what a lucky charm was Chief Inspector Martin Parlow. He had about him a sense of living history, a lifetime of experience in upholding our laws and a wealth of terrific stories, stretching back to the ’70s. I dare say I never appreciated him as I should have done when he was every day amongst us.

  How odd! I write as if the man has died instead of merely taking a temporary leave. I understand that Sub-Divisional Inspector Dickerson has had some brief correspondence with Mr Parlow stating that he is delayed and that our loss will continue to be Wildfold’s gain. In his absence, our work goes on.

  The American visited me this afternoon so that he might deliver his report on relations between that triumvirate of gangs who are, in spite of my very best efforts, still responsible for much of the vast quantity of criminality which takes place in our metropolis.

  Amid my day of administrative responsibilities, the sight of the Yankee stepping into my office was welcome, for all that the frown on his handsome features meant only bad news. He is a patient man, discreet and determined. A good fellow, I think. Like Parlow, he is cut from stern and solid cloth.

  He sat before me at my desk, uninvited. He settled himself there with such confidence that I could do nothing other than accept it. He told me of the news from Wildfold. Then, before I was able to ask him myself, in his deep drawl he said: ‘Now, sir, the tensions amongst the gangs just seem to have gone right on rising. Tough to say how or why it’s happening, but all our sources tell us it’s getting real ugly out there.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, and I imagine that I must for a moment have allowed my attention to wander. The next thing I knew Dickerson was asking, not without a touch of reproof in his voice: ‘Commissioner? It would be a real error for any one of us to underestimate the seriousness of this situation.’

  ‘Of course it would. Yes, naturally, I quite agree with you.’

  I paused, and in that instant I believe that I heard (though such a thing is all but impossible) the sound of female laughter, echoing down the hallways. As soon as I noticed it, the phenomenon ceased.

  ‘When last we spoke of this,’ said I to the foreigner, restoring my composure, ‘you had in custody some young bruiser. Arrested after a gang affray.’

  ‘That’s correct, sir.’ Dickerson was visibly impressed by my grasp of detail. ‘He goes by the name of Thomas Cawley. One of the Giddis Boys.’

  ‘I see. And what has he told you?’

  ‘Very little. He ain’t no mastermind. And he’s a very minor figure in any case.’

  ‘All the same,’ I mused, ‘I think I should like to see him for myself.’

  ‘For yourself, sir?’

  Some understandable incredulity was detectable in his voice at the unorthodoxy of my suggestion. I would be a liar if I did not admit to feeling at least a small tremor of pleasure at having impressed this young buck with my swashbuckling disregard for convention.

  ‘That’s right. If we still have him in custody then I’ve a question or two I should like to put to the lad.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘Don’t look so doubtful, George. Who knows – at the sight of so high-ranking a copper he may unstop his tongue and start to squeal like a piglet on a spike.’

  Dickerson said something in response to this, too low and too quick for me to hear. I have little doubt that it was spoken in appreciation of the plain boldness of my words.


  * * *

  The demands of paper business and the necessities of the ledger book being no less onerous than usual, it was past dark when I was finally able to spare the time to visit young Cawley in his cell. He was of a type that is thoroughly familiar to any guardian of justice: a straggle-haired unkempt thing, brutish, muscular and dressed in clothes very much more expensive than anyone of his station ought to be able to afford.

  ‘Look lively, Cawley,’ Dickerson said as we approached the fellow’s cage. ‘You’re a lucky kid tonight. You got yourself a visitor.’

  The prisoner scrambled upright and hastened over to the bars. On closer inspection, I saw that he was even younger than I had assumed. The rigours of the life that he had chosen had aged him badly. Dickerson went on: ‘This is the Commissioner. Stir yourself!’

  The boy blinked.

  ‘Thomas?’ said I, gently. ‘It’s Thomas Cawley, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ His voice was higher than I would have imagined and I thought that I sensed beneath the bravado something much like fear.

  ‘Listen, Thom,’ I said, with all reasonable moderation. ‘We are sensible men. We understand, in our different ways, exactly how the world works.’ I meant to flatter, to woo him and win his confidence – a strategy which has worked on many previous occasions. ‘Sub-Divisional Inspector Dickerson and me, we both know full well that you’re a tiny cog in the Giddis machine. We know you’re a foot soldier. A serf and a vassal.’

  The boy looked down at the floor of his pen as I delivered this speech, but at its final word he looked suddenly up at me with surprise in his hazel eyes. ‘Vassal, sir? What a… What a strange word to use.’

  ‘It means servant,’ I said gently. ‘Or even slave.’

  ‘I know what it means, Commissioner. I’ve heard it before. But not… not when I’ve been waking.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean?’

  The lad fell immediately silent.

  Dickerson took up the task. ‘We have to understand what is happening. The gangs seem suddenly at one another’s throats. Why? What’s the cause?’

  Cawley sighed, an oddly feminine sound. He muttered: ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There must be something. Some reason for this unrest.’

  ‘Someone getting greedy?’ Dickerson asked. ‘Someone looking to extend their territory?’

  Cawley shook his head. ‘Not so far as I know, sir. No. But I think it’s… I mean we ain’t any of us getting much sleep.’

  ‘Sleep?’ I peered at him. ‘What the devil do you mean by sleep?’

  Cawley sighed again. ‘Like I say, sir. It’s the dreams, sir.’

  ‘What… dreams?’

  ‘We’ve all had ’em. Rich and deep and terrible. I’ve seen things myself. A shadow falling… White teeth flashing in the moonlight… My sweet bubbin Sarah-Ann crying tears of blood…’

  This speech done, he turned away and retreated to the far side of the cell.

  ‘You want me to go in?’ asked Dickerson. ‘You want me to knock some sense into him? Oftentimes a bruise can help a guy locate his conscience.’

  ‘No. That won’t be necessary. I think the poor lad is just dreadfully confused.’

  Dickerson looked frustrated at my command, but he agreed all the same and escorted me away.

  * * *

  I worked late again tonight – too late – toiling through a mountain range of papers. It was well after ten when I left the building and took a stroll into the darker regions of the city. On this occasion, I wore a bowler as a disguise, stained my face with burnt cork, and affected in my posture the furtive slouch of he who dwells upon the wrong side of His Majesty’s Laws and Statutes.

  I am confident that I passed amongst the ranks of Whitechapel’s very worst without arousing the least suspicion. As I lumbered on, not dropping my guise for so much as an instant, I took a series of discreet glances at those beggarly villains who were abroad. Was it my imagination that I saw there, in an echo of young Cawley’s words, the frequent signs of utmost exhaustion, as if derived from a marked paucity of sleep, as if they all suffered regularly and without respite from night terrors?

  LETTER FROM LADY CAROLINE GODALMING TO MRS MINA HARKER

  12 December

  Dearest Mina,

  I hope that this letter finds you as well as might be expected. I hope that you and your family are well and that the Professor is at least comfortable in his extended twilight. And I hope also that you will forgive the direct nature of my approach. I know, for all that you have done your very best to make me as welcome as possible in your little circle, that we have never been what one might truly call friends.

  I write this letter in a period of relative calm in my mind. I am prone to nerves and I have never been robust in the face of vicissitudes and strains. Those confusions and uncertainties which seem to have clouded my thoughts for weeks may at any moment return. So I must be brisk.

  Mina, my dear, I have a boon to ask of you.

  I have, I know, imposed upon you before now, and more than once. Today, I fear I must do so again. Might you come and see me here in the great house? Arthur is away so often, dealing with matters of politics and the Council. All these things have served to distract him from the new life which swells within me. I may as well confess it, my dear: I have become much afraid.

  I am frightened for the future and I am wary of the past. In spite of that legion of nannies and staff with which I am sure I shall be provided, I am afraid that I shall prove to be a very poor mother indeed to the little Godalming who approaches. You know something of my past, I believe, that I was once unwell and was placed by those who loved me into the expert care of Jack Seward. Those were difficult months. I am almost whole again now, however, for all that some fragility remains.

  It is a state to which I would do anything not to have to return. Dearest Mina, do say that you will visit soon. I need your advice. I am in urgent want of a friend. We shall pay whatever it takes for you to travel here. I know that you have troubles of your own at present, but I would owe you a great debt of gratitude were you to consent to do this for me.

  Yours, always,

  Carrie

  DR SEWARD’S DIARY

  (kept in phonograph)

  13 December. The code. The code has shifted.

  Ninety pages into the text and the cipher has grown still more complicated. I must solve it. I must read the entire manuscript, the whole of the story, or else the exercise is fruitless. So much I did not know! About Renfield and Martin Parlow. About the horror that they glimpsed by the railway siding. About the enquiries that that future madman conducted wholly on his own. About the laughter in the darkness and the prophecies of the Piccadilly gypsies. Yet I am only beginning. There is much more, I know it. So much to discover and to learn. The code can be understood. It must. I need only time.

  Speaking of time, I am dimly aware that the days are passing more quickly than they should, and even that there are events which I have overlooked. The Harkers. Lady Godalming. The poor Professor. There are numerous duties and responsibilities which, I fear, I have ignored and thrust aside. I will return to them all, as I shall to my neglected patients, in due course. But first – the code, the diary and, at long last, the truth.

  LETTER FROM MRS MINA HARKER TO LADY CAROLINE GODALMING

  14 December

  Dear Carrie,

  Thank you for your kind and heartfelt letter. Please forgive me for not replying by return of post.

  Matters here are but little improved. The Professor seems a little better, perhaps in consequence of Miss Dowell’s ministrations. Sarah-Ann herself remains stoical and determined, although she seems to nurse some private anxiety, connected, at least if I read the signs aright, with an absentee sweetheart.

  Quincey, meanwhile, has returned to school for the final week of term. We thought this for the best, as the atmosphere in the house is scarcely conducive to the wholesome development of a sensitive boy. I wonder if it might not al
so be leading him into morbidity? Certainly, his behaviour of late (if I might confess such a thing in confidence to so excellent a friend) has not been all that it might have been. In addition, given the candour of your message, perhaps I might be permitted to confide in you that relations between my husband and I are now at rather a low ebb? He makes recourse far too often for my liking to the decanter and the hip flask.

  But you must have small desire to hear my ill tidings when your own life is so crowded with concern. I am sorry to discover that Arthur has been so very absent. Though I should not be troubled overmuch by it. Men are both easily distracted and often dismayed by questions of the heart. They will always choose matters of politics and business over those which require that tender self-knowledge which is said to be our birthright.

  I would urge you to set aside all fears and vexations upon the issue of motherhood. You should not have the slightest doubt that you will be as wonderful a parent as you have already proved to be a wife. It is my hope that the months ahead will make us even better friends. The difficulties of the present will soon enough seem distant things and the challenges of the future will serve only to bring our families closer together.

  I should be delighted to visit with you. Could we say the seventeenth? Christmas is already bearing down on us and there is much to be done. Quincey is to be returned to us on the nineteenth. Do let me know if such a time would be amenable to you, and I look forward to our conversation in person.

  Your loving friend,

  Mina

  TELEGRAM FROM LADY CAROLINE GODALMING TO MRS MINA HARKER

  15 December