Dracula's Child

by J. S. Barnes

  TELEGRAM FROM SUB-DIVISIONAL INSPECTOR GEORGE DICKERSON TO CHIEF INSPECTOR MARTIN PARLOW (UNANSWERED)

  8 January

  Please, sir, forgive this wire. I guess you have troubles of your own. But the city is in danger. Two bombs. War brewing amongst the gangs. Quire worse than useless. If you can, sir, come back to us. London needs you.

  LETTER FROM MINA HARKER TO LORD ARTHUR GODALMING

  9 January

  Dear Arthur,

  I do hope you will forgive me for not writing sooner. Our lives now seem blighted. Not only those of our circle but in the wider world too. Such terrible news from London. So many innocents lost without reason or good cause.

  I understand entirely the reasons for your absence from the funeral. How is dear Carrie? I think of her often and pray for her too. If there is anything that lies within my power to help, please do not hesitate to instruct me. If only matters were different I should come at once to the estate to be by her side.

  However, I am unable at present to leave my own house. Quincey has not been well. At the end of the service, just as the coffin was being lowered into the earth, he suffered a mercifully brief though most frightening fit, the cause of which remains unclear. Yesterday, he suffered another, smaller such incident. As you may well imagine, we are concerned. I am not certain whom we should consult first – a physician or an alienist. If matters persist we shall take him to the hospital in Oxford, for our local doctor is too fond of the bottle. For now, we keep our son close to us and hope that these difficulties will pass.

  Jonathan is, of course, as concerned as I – he sends his salutations to you both – though I do not think that I shall be speaking too grievously out of turn when I say that recent crises seem to have awoken in him much of his old fearfulness. On occasions too numerous, he has taken recourse in the worst of remedies.

  Are we to see you both at the memorial service on the eleventh? It would be wonderful, assuming only, of course, that Lady Caroline is well enough. Somehow I feel that once the service is done with and the Professor remembered with all due propriety, our lives will begin a new, brighter and more hopeful stage.

  My dear friend, there is another matter, another strand in our web of sadness, of which I must inform you. It concerns the question of the whereabouts of poor Jack Seward. The excellent Mr Amory, whom you were good enough to send as your emissary and representative, was, almost from the moment of his arrival, eager to speak to me of our missing companion. Yet, in consequence of multiple difficulties, it was not until late in the afternoon of the day after we had laid the Professor to rest that Mr Amory and I were at last able to speak in private in the study.

  It was meant that my husband should join us but, as matters turned out, he was in our bedroom, exhausted (he said) and sleeping away the afternoon.

  ‘Mrs Harker,’ Amory began as he settled his considerable bulk into the armchair facing me. His eyes filled with sorrowful concern. ‘I have received a goodly number of replies to that advertisement which we placed in The Times enquiring for information concerning Dr Seward. I believe that the Yard keeps an open file on the disappearance, yet experience and instinct both suggest to me that we should expect little enough assistance from that quarter.’

  ‘I sense you are right, Mr Amory. But tell me, pray, how many responses have you received?’

  ‘Just a shade over four dozen, ma’am. And it gives me no pleasure to say that the great majority of them have evidently been sent by pranksters, by the deluded or, in some cases, by the palpably lunatic.’

  He looked away, as though he were embarrassed or, in some obscure fashion, ashamed.

  ‘You may as well as tell me the whole of it, Mr Amory.’

  ‘But, ma’am—’

  ‘I am not as other women, Mr Amory. My stomach is strong. I have seen and endured much.’

  ‘If you are certain.’

  ‘Quite certain, thank you.’

  It was a cold day and our house has never succeeded in retaining much heat, yet Mr Amory was perspiring visibly. He wiped at his forehead with his great right hand before he spoke again. ‘Many of the letters are crude, ma’am, and many are cruel. More than one said that the doctor was roasting in H— and others that he had in some fashion been… made rotten… by an… overindulgence in pleasures of the flesh.’

  In reaction to this, I did no more than raise an eyebrow. ‘The world is full of strange correspondents,’ I said, ‘and, sadly, of mad people also.’

  ‘That is assuredly true, ma’am, yet it seemed to me that there was an oddly standardised quality to these missives, as though they had been sent not by individuals, disparate and without connection, but by a group, or controlled by some organising power. In reading that strange sheaf of correspondence, I felt on more than one occasion the distinct sense that I was in some way being mocked.’

  ‘I sympathise, Mr Amory. Yet amongst this unpleasant flotsam, was there anything more solid? Any useful detail?’

  Your dear old manservant nodded. ‘There were two letters, ma’am, which I believe to be genuine and which I hope may help us yet.’

  ‘What were they?’

  Mr Amory reached into a pocket in his old, dark, well-preserved jacket and pulled forth two folded sheets of paper. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you may peruse them for yourself.’*

  * Having traced originals of the letters which my mother was handed by Mr Amory on that chill afternoon, I reproduce both here in their entirety for ease of comprehension.

  LETTER FROM MRS ELIZABETH DRABBLE TO MR AMORY

  Undated

  Dear Mr Amory,

  I saw your advertisement in the newspaper and I think as I have seen your man. I am a cook in one of the great houses at Ely and I was on my way to perform my evening duties on the Friday before Christmas, walking from my little cottage to the manor house. In the gloom of the afternoon, I passed by some barren ground which borders the fenland. This is by way of being my ‘short-cut’.

  It was on this lonely path I met him who I think was your man. I took him at first for a common vagrant so idle and bewildered did he seem. But as I drew nearer I saw that his clothes were too fine for that and his ways too nobby. In other respects, he looked just like your description.

  When he stopped me I was fearful he would ask for money, of which I had none. He seemed nervous and fitful. He seemed lost but frightened too. Though all that he asked me in the end was whether I knew the way to Wildfold.

  Eager to be done with the talking, I said that I had heard of such a place but that I knew it to be half a county away in Norfolk (not so far, as I had heard tell, from Cromer).

  He thanked me and I think there was more he would have wanted to ask but something I saw in his eyes scared me then so I pushed my way past and hurried on.

  I looked back once and saw that he had not moved at all but still haunted that same spot.

  I am not in the least wise embarrassed to say that I have not walked that way since. I never saw the man again. I hope this letter of mine may be of use to you. I am a Christian woman and I pray for that poor man’s soul.

  Yours sincerely,

  Mrs E.B. Drabble

  LETTER FROM HORACE BARING-SMITH TO MR AMORY

  Undated

  Dear Sir,

  My attention has lately been drawn to your advertisement concerning the present whereabouts of the noted London specialist, Dr Seward. Whilst I cannot be altogether certain that it was indeed that roving gentleman whom I encountered in the course of my duties shortly after Christmas, it would not surprise me to learn that I had done so.

  Now, whilst my name may be unfamiliar to you, my rank and occupation will surely not be. I am a station guard in the employ of the railway terminus in the city of Norwich. My duties and responsibilities are plentiful and I bear them all with the solemnity that they deserve, without neglecting to maintain that demeanour of friendly knowledge which has enabled me to rise to the top of my profession.

  It was in this capacity that I wa
s approached as I patrolled the platforms of the station on perpetual lookout for those who require my aid and expertise (and for the less desirable sort who would seek to use our station for reasons of shelter, beggary or worse).

  I was approached shortly after noon by a man of dishevelled appearance who fitted nonetheless the description which you have circulated. I remember that he struck me at the time as being a superior sort of person who had, no doubt through no fault of his own, fallen on evil times.

  I felt a deal of pity at the sight of him and I care not if any think me too tender-hearted for such an admission.

  He had money, for he clasped fiercely in one hand a pound note as though it were a gypsy charm.

  ‘Can you tell me, good sir,’ said he, ‘how I might get a train to the town of Wildfold?’

  With patient kindness I said: ‘Wildfold, sir? You must get the train to Cromer, sir, leaving shortly from platform three. Your stop is the thirteenth.’

  I drew my big, old-fashioned watch from my pocket in order to effect a consultation. The thing was a present, dearly loved, from my father (a decent man and a clever one for all that he had had little education).

  ‘Seven minutes, sir,’ I said. ‘That is all the time which is left to you.’

  The stranger thanked me with much warmth. I found this pleasing, for folk can be discourteous indeed to men of my position. He left me and walked away. Something in me bade me follow him, and I watched as he went to the third platform and boarded the train which hissed and panted there, readying for departure.

  The gentleman then passed from my view and from my life.

  I feel in my heart that this traveller was indeed Dr Seward and I hope that my testimony is of some material assistance to your finding him. Of course, if you were able to remember me in any future account of your search, then I should be most grateful.

  I remain, sir, your obedient servant,

  H.R. Baring-Smith

  LETTER FROM MINA HARKER TO LORD ARTHUR GODALMING

  9 January

  Continued. Once I had read these letters I passed them back to Mr Amory, who looked at me with grave severity.

  ‘You think that these are real?’

  ‘I do, ma’am, yes.’

  ‘Then I am inclined to agree. But why would Jack be seeking with such determination to reach this Wildfold?’

  ‘I cannot say for certain, ma’am. Though I am from that part of the country myself and spent the first fifteen years of my life there. Wildfold has always had a certain reputation. It seems almost to attract, ma’am, strange stories.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I said, thinking how odd it felt – almost impertinent – to hear stately Mr Amory speaking of his earliest days. ‘I fear that I have never heard of the place and that it conveys nothing at all to me.’

  ‘Ma’am.’ Mr Amory looked towards the floor as he spoke. ‘I do not know the full particulars, or anything like them, of what befell you all in the last century. Yet there have been moments when my master has confided in me and told me something of the outline of the truth. And those stories which I heard long ago about Wildfold are… in accordance with certain of those fragments with which Lord Godalming has entrusted me.’

  A long silence yawned between us. To delve any further into the past seemed, I think to us both, to be dangerous.

  Then, very quietly, I said: ‘What do you propose, Mr Amory?’

  ‘Ma’am, I have some outstanding leave. I should like to suggest that I take that holiday in the vicinity of Wildfold in the county of Norfolk and that, if I should find him there, I bring Dr Seward home again.’

  Oh, Arthur, he struck me at that moment as so noble and so implacable!

  ‘Thank you,’ I said softly, ‘for all that you have already done, and for that which…’

  He completed the sentence: ‘For that which I am yet to do?’

  ‘Have you no doubts?’ I asked. ‘No uncertainties? I have an inkling that the journey may prove to be a dangerous one.’

  ‘I feel, ma’am, that this is to be my role in events and that I can do no better than to play my part to the hilt.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Will Lord Godalming allow it?’

  ‘He said that he would, ma’am, though I am sure that the cause should only be strengthened were you to write to him yourself. As to the prosecution of my own duties, I have the utmost faith in the capabilities of that admirable young mastermind, Mr Strickland.’

  So this, dear Arthur, is the final reason for this letter of mine. Will you give Mr Amory leave to search for Jack? I feel certain somehow – with something of my old intuition – that such an action is both necessary and just.

  I do hope that you reply in the affirmative.

  My love to you and Carrie always,

  Mina

  PS. If Mr Amory should go to Wildfold, can you urge him to take care? And to mistrust all whom he meets. Tell him to look for men’s reflections in mirrors and to watch for shadows which move of their own volition. You may think me mad (my own husband would seem to hold a view not so very far removed from that opinion), but I fear that there is more in this matter than we have at present fully understood – or dared to face.

  TELEGRAM FROM LORD ARTHUR GODALMING TO MRS MINA HARKER

  10 January

  Letter received with thanks. Amory may pursue suspicions with my blessing. May the Lord grant him success. C a little better today. God willing, we shall see you tomorrow in London. We surely have much to discuss. A.H.

  RECORD OF CONSULTATION KEPT BY DR ISAAC HOROVICH OF OXFORD GENERAL HOSPITAL

  10 January

  Patient: Quincey, a boy of twelve, brought in by parents Jonathan and Mina Harker. Boy has suffered three ‘fits’ or ‘attacks’ in which he is seen to shake and flail. Some rolling of eyes. Paroxysms. It is said that he has muttered numerous strange remarks when in this state. No history or evidence of epilepsy. Parents both concerned. Husband capable of hysteria.

  At their urging, I examined the boy thoroughly. No physical cause. I asked if he had been under strain and they said that this was so. Slow death of beloved family friend. Difficulties at school and, I deduced, at home. The father clearly drinks. Privately, I suspect the boy is either faking or in the throes of a transient phase which will pass very soon. I was happy to prescribe a restorative syrup. All seemed calm once we were done and I sent them on their way.

  One curious postscript: as he was leaving and once his parents were already beyond the threshold, the boy leaned close to me and whispered in my ear.

  My wife, he said, has never loved me and has of late been unfaithful to me on five separate occasions.

  Dumbfounded, I watched him go, too shocked to comment. Of course, this was mere fantasy on his part since he can know nothing at all of my own recent domestic unpleasantness.

  Nonetheless, I should be most grateful were I never to receive the Harkers into this institution again.

  FROM THE PRIVATE DIARY OF AMBROSE QUIRE,

  Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis

  11 January. Time was I would wake early in the morning, hurry down to breakfast and make haste to the Yard to begin a day heavy laden with responsibility. Time was I would fill my life with duty and strive to uphold my vow as an officer of the law to protect the peoples of the city. Time was, I was a policeman and a person of honour.

  Nowadays, I am a coward, a vassal, an agent for the enemy. Yet the dreadful paradox is this: I have never once been happier or known joy in greater quantity than I do today. Such is the nature of habit at its most seductive; how much better do I now understand the helpless actions of the lotus eater, the laudanum addict, of he who reaches too frequently for the syringe.

  This morning has been something of a case in point, a sequence of incidences which typify my life as it is now lived.

  It was almost eleven (hours after I would generally rise) when I was woken in my bedroom, woken by a cool touch upon my forehead and by the gentle brushing of a nipple against my unworthy li
ps. I was dreaming of infancy, yet it was with sudden urgency, at the realisation another was present in the chamber, that I clawed my way as fast as I was able into complete consciousness.

  I knew at once who it was – the intruder, the night-prowler, she of the bat and the mist. His dark herald, bringer of agonising joy.

  I reached out hungrily with my tongue. She arched her back. Her breast moved out of reach. I caught her scent – something of spices, of the evening air and of freshly turned earth.

  Lying happily beneath her. I murmured her name. ‘Ileana…’

  She looked down with a look of great disdain. ‘It is not being long now,’ she said. ‘There will today be a double-event. For this you must stay silent. You must be thwarting any efforts to investigate.’

  ‘But…’ I tried to move but found that legs and hips and arms would not obey. ‘I cannot stave off the others for ever. The American grows ever more indignant.’

  She smiled at me, that devil-goddess. There was no true humour in the look, for her laughter is the laughter of malice.

  ‘Be silent, Mr Quire,’ she said. ‘Be silent and be doing as you are told. For after today… none will be able to stop us.’

  I gasped. ‘Very well. My dear. Yes. But would you… Could you…’ I tried to flex my neck at the moment, hoping to entice her with a vein.

  She snarled at the sight, which was, I dare say, a pitiful one.

  ‘You wish me to feed?’