The sudden change of topic threw St. Cyprian for a momentary loop, but he caught up a second later. “Yes, for a few months. Not long at all.” He looked at Morris.
The man from the Ministry coughed discreetly. “William Melion was our man in Istanbul, Lord Godalming.”
“Then why isn’t he here?” Godalming demanded.
“Ah, well, regrettably, Mr. Melion has—ah—severed his ties to our apron strings, as it were,” Morris replied. “There was an…incident. In Budapest.” He took a gulp of tea. “We call it the Budapest Incident.”
“Careful Morris, you’re skirting dangerously close to poetry with that one,” St. Cyprian murmured. Morris glared at him, and St. Cyprian matched it with a look of placid bemusement, even as he wondered whether the incident Morris had referred to was the source of Melion’s current predicament.
Then, perhaps referring to lycanthropy as a ‘predicament’ was making light of a highly dangerous situation. Melion’s single-minded determination to cure himself of his devilish ailment had already prompted him to make more than a few rash decisions. The most prominent of which was sneaking the not-quite-all-the-way-dead mummified body of Zhang-Su, philosopher, sage, and ravenous werewolf, into Blighty in an effort to discover a cure. Not to mention letting said werewolf fall into the hands of a murderous cabal of blinkered imperialists, looking to restore the British Empire to its former glory.
“So, you’re currently at the crease, then, eh St. Cyprian? Second in batting order, what?” Godalming said, looking at him. “Fine, fine. Be warned…bit of a bouncer, this one. Not my game, really. Not my wicket.” He sat back and looked at Morris expectantly.
Morris grunted and pushed his plate away. “You’ve read Stoker’s book, of course.” It wasn’t a question.
“He wrote several. Care to narrow it down?” St. Cyprian said.
“Don’t be obtuse, Charles. Given the context, you know damn well which one I’m referring to,” Morris said. “The one Edwin Drood helped get published, despite an official protest from the head of the Ministry at the time.”
“Ah, of course…The Jewel of Seven Stars, how silly of me.”
“Dash it all!” Morris snapped, slapping his hand on the table and causing the cutlery to rattle. Heads turned, and waiters became alert. Morris irritably waved the latter off. “You know what I’m talking about,” he said again, more quietly.
“Steady on, old man,” Godalming said. St. Cyprian glanced at the older man, and saw that he’d gone pale. “No need to say the name. I’m sure he’s just having a bit of a poke.”
“Yes,” St. Cyprian said. “What about it? Based on some case or other of Drood’s, I’m given to understand. Some bally Wallachian of sanguinary habits showed up in 1887 or thereabouts, and made himself a bit of a bother before Drood put the kibosh on him.”
“Not alone, he didn’t,” Godalming said. “There were a half dozen of us.” He looked away. “Now there’s just me.”
“After the affair was concluded, the—ah—remains of the gentleman in question were inhumed in the Tower of London. Out of sight, out of mind,” Morris continued.
“Until now,” St. Cyprian mused. He laughed at Morris’ expression. “Oh unclench Morris. It’s obvious we wouldn’t be here now, if something foul weren’t afoot.” He leaned forward. “So, let’s cut to the chase, shall we? What’s going on? And what does it have to do with Dracula?”
3.
Victoria Station, London
“What do you know about vampires, Ms. Gallowglass?” St. Cyprian said, leaning forward. He planted his elbows on the table and waggled his fingers. “The nosferatu, vyrdulak, whampiri, the devil’s bastard children.”
“What, like that book?” Gallowglass asked, watching the hustle-bustle of the train station through the window of the A. B. C teashop situated near the south-bound platforms. The air was full of the noise of travel—whistling shrieks and grinding gears, voices raised in greeting or farewell, the stamp of feet across platforms, newsagents hawking their wares to weary travellers. The teashop was quieter, though not by much.
They sat at a small table in the corner, their luggage at their feet. Gallowglass had a battered sailor’s duffel bag underneath her chair, and St. Cyprian had a heavy leather travel bag. Normally, he’d have brought along a trunk as well, but he had a feeling that travelling light was the order of the day. He would simply have to make do with what he could easily carry, even if it meant bringing only two waistcoats. “Which book?” he asked.
“That one by that bloke, innit?”
“This book,” he said, patting the battered copy of Stoker’s masterpiece which sat by his cup. Gallowglass peered at it, sniffed and looked away.
“No, the one with the…” she said, gesturing. “Got a funny name. Got a—a cat in it, don’t it?” she added, shuddering slightly. “Bloody hate cats, me.”
“So you’ve said,” St. Cyprian said. “You’re referring to Le Fanu’s Carmilla, I trust? Rather than any of the other thousand books with cats in, I mean.”
“That’s the nut,” she said, slurping her tea. “Got a cat, don’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. He hesitated. “Well, technically no…it has a vampire who turns into a—never mind,” he said, swiping his hands through the air in a cutting gesture. “I was talking about this book. Dracula,” he said.
“What’s it about?”
St. Cyprian stared at her for a moment. “Drink your tea,” he said, finally. Gallowglass grinned and emptied her cup. She wasn’t stupid, St. Cyprian knew, but neither was she particularly studious. It was hard to tell how much of her ignorance was honest, and how much was feigned for her own amusement. He sighed and shook his head. “Vampires, Ms. Gallowglass, are what’s on the docket today. Or, rather, one at least. And a dead one at that.” He patted the book again.
“Dead,” Gallowglass repeated dubiously. “Ain’t they all dead?”
“There’s dead, and then there’s dead,” St. Cyprian said. “This vampire happens to be the latter. Bones and ash, for the most part, our Voivode—our warlord—Dracula, but no less dangerous for all that.” He pushed the book towards her. “It’s fiction, mostly. Or rather, a highly fictionalized account of an actual occurrence. For instance, it does not mention the part the then-Royal Occultist, Edwin Drood, played in putting paid to the sanguinary count. Nor does it faithfully recount the climax of the affair, instead transplanting it part and parcel to Transylvania. According to Drood’s notes, Dracula’s end took place in a rather nice house in Purfleet, which has since been demolished.”
“Always said you can’t trust books,” Gallowglass said, flipping through the pages.
“Be that as it may, you should read this one, if only so that you might grasp the basics of the matter,” he said. “Vampires—dead or alive—are a bad business. Thankfully, they’re also as rare as hen’s teeth, at least in Blighty. They’re mostly extinct in England and had been since the Twelfth Century; nests of the beasts occasionally surface from some forgotten barrow or a decrepit churchyard, but they’re generally no more troublesome than an outbreak of measles, provided you have them contained and aren’t shy about a good bonfire.”
“You ever fought one?” Gallowglass asked, in evident curiosity.
“Once. In Belgium, during the War,” St. Cyprian said. “A nest of the foul things, hiding in the catacombs beneath Saint Martin’s Church.” His voice softened, as, for a moment, he was back in the mud, blood and poppycock. He pushed the memories back down and away. There were scars on his leg which traced his evolution from a callow youth to a slightly-less callow man. It had been a quick one as such things went; two bullets deep and one long. His thigh still ached abominably in the damp, or, as now, when the shock crept up on him, and reminded him of moments best forgotten.
He found his eyes drawn to the platform past the window, and he remembered that first day in 1914, when he and Thomas Carnacki had set off for Dover from Victoria Station, clad in stiff, new uniforms, unaware of
what horrors awaited them across the Channel. When he turned back, Gallowglass was watching him silently, her dark eyes unreadable. St. Cyprian assayed a smile, and placed his hands on the table. “In any event, different sort of beast entirely,” he said. “Then, no two vampires are truly alike. Each one is as unique as cinders in Hell.” He gestured to the book. “That one was worse than most, before he got a taste of Glastonbury Thorn in the heart.”
“But he’s dead now,” Gallowglass said.
“Quite,” St. Cyprian said. “Unfortunately, dead or not, he’s begun to prove troublesome. It seems, according to our pal Morris, that there have been several attempts, of late, to abscond with the last earthly remains of our Wallachian tourist. The attempts have grown more desperate, and the most recent almost succeeded.”
“So why do we care?”
“Because, even bones and ash can be quickened, especially when they belonged to a creature steeped in sorcery and wickedness,” St. Cyprian said. “Given that Walpurgis Night is fast approaching, one can only conclude that someone intends mischief.” Gallowglass looked at him blankly. He sighed and said, “Walpurgis Night is…”
“I know what it bloody well is,” she snapped. “I ain’t illiterate.”
“Really? Because the only time I see you with books is when you’re using them to stand on in order to reach the top shelf of the pantry,” he said.
She ignored the jibe and said, “So, somebody wants to bring him back.” She slapped her palm down on the cover of the book for emphasis. St. Cyprian tapped his nose.
“Got it in one.” He reached down and hauled up his Gladstone. He set the bag on the table between them and opened it, retrieving a number of thin, cord-bound notebooks to show Gallowglass. “Drood’s notebooks go into some detail about our wicked count. Sorcery, lycanthropy, cannibalistic rituals, diabolical rites beneath crimson moons, the whole ruddy lot. A veritable satanic hurricane in human form. Makes the exploits of the late, unlamented Sir Francis Varney or the dreadful Countess Sarah of Hagarstone seem positively tame in comparison.” He dropped the notebooks back in the bag and set it down again.
“Sounds like just the sort of bloke you’d want to resurrect, innit?” Gallowglass said, smirking. She shoved the book towards him, and he caught it.
As he dropped it into the Gladstone, he pulled his pocket watch out of his waist coat and said, “Indubitably, depending on your propensity for suicide.”
“So what’s all that got to do with us, then? That why you had me pack a bag?” Gallowglass asked. “Only you didn’t tell me where we were going…”
“As to what it has to do with us, well, it’s well within our bailiwick. Given Drood’s involvement in the story, it’s only meet that we see to the epilogue. Or so Morris reminded me, at length. As to the other, I’m afraid I have no clue,” St. Cyprian said. He snapped his pocket watch closed. “Need to know, I’m afraid. At least according to Morris. And we don’t need to know, yet.” He looked around. “Though, one can hazard a guess, given the platform we were asked to meet him at.” He gestured. “That’s the train to Dover, over there.”
“France,” Gallowglass murmured.
“Farther afield than that, I’d wager,” St. Cyprian said. He hefted the teapot and gave it a slosh. He emptied the dregs into his cup. “Somewhere over the mountains and far away, to misquote an old ditty.”
“Why can’t he do it himself?” Gallowglass sniffed.
“Because, unlike you, I have responsibilities,” Morris sniffed, as he pulled up a chair and sat down. St. Cyprian glanced at him, and then around them. The tea shop was empty, save for several men dressed in Ministry blacks and browns. There were three of them and they sat or stood nearby, studiously looking elsewhere, hands in their pockets, eyes alert, ignoring the half-eaten pastries and cooling pots of tea on the tables they’d commandeered. St. Cyprian looked back at Morris, who smiled thinly.
“Only three?” St. Cyprian murmured.
“There are others, outside the station, watching the street,” Morris said. “Thank you for meeting me, Charles. All packed, then?”
“Quite,” St. Cyprian said. “Though it would have been a dashed sight easier if we knew where we were going.” He took out his cigarette case and extracted one. As he popped it into his mouth, he added, “Though I can make a guess, given what we discussed yesterday.”
“Mind like a steel trap, Charles,” Morris said. He hefted the tea pot and shook it. “You didn’t save me any,” he said.
“No,” St. Cyprian said, lighting his cigarette, “we didn’t.”
Morris put down the pot. “No matter. No time for it, at any rate. Your train will be leaving in a few minutes, after all.”
“Dover,” St. Cyprian said.
“Very good Charles. Yes, Dover, and then to Calais, and then onto Paris.” Morris reached into his coat and extricated a heavy envelope. “Everything you need to know is in here, including tickets and the like.”
“And after Paris?”
Morris turned and motioned to one of his men. “Istanbul, Charles. The city at the heart of the world. Enemy territory, once upon a time.” He turned back, smiling slightly. “Still dangerous, I’m afraid, though not for the same reasons. You’ll be taking the Orient Express. A private berth, naturally.” He clasped his hands together on the table as he leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’ve booked your journey through for you, though the budget did not extend to return fare.”
“Is that because you don’t expect us to return, or because you’re cheap, Morris?” St. Cyprian asked, with a sharp laugh. Morris’ face darkened and he was about to reply when the man he’d signalled returned, carrying a bulky black valise case. He set the case down on the table and backed hastily away, as if he didn’t want to linger near whatever was in it. St. Cyprian didn’t blame him.
The case radiated…something. He could feel it, in the back of his head, like a phantom ache. He reached for it, hesitated, and then pulled his hand back. His psychical senses were twitching painfully. “Is that it? Is that him?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” Morris said, in a subdued voice. “There wasn’t much left, you know. After the fire and such. Fragments and ashes, most of his—ah—skull.” He swallowed and pushed the case towards St. Cyprian. “The case is of special devising. One of that mountebank Deaker’s designs. You know Deaker, I trust?”
“I know Deaker,” St. Cyprian said, staring at the case. Otto Deaker was a dealer in rare books and erotic bric-a-brac with a shop in the squalid precincts of Clare Market. He also made forgeries of a unique nature. Half of the unpleasantly batrachian idols floating about among the occult libraries of their green and pleasant land had been crafted by Deaker, rather than long dead Polynesians or Assyrians. But besides forgeries, Deaker was a dab hand at crafting display cases and containers for the…feistier sort of eldritch collectable, to order, cash up front.
“Silver lining, blessed of course. Sigils from certain protective rites inscribed on the interior, and more etched into the…larger fragments.” Morris looked at him. “Drood oversaw those personally.”
“I’ll bet he did.” St. Cyprian nudged the case towards Gallowglass. “Carry this, if you would, assistant-mine.” Morris made a face, but before he could speak, St. Cyprian added, “It’ll be safer with her than with me, I assure you, Morris. She has all the spiritual sensitivity of a brick.”
Gallowglass snorted and reached for the case. Before she could take hold of it, however, someone coughed. One of Morris’ men pitched over out of his chair. St. Cyprian saw a second man, silenced revolver in hand, pivot and fire at the last, the one who’d brought the case, punching him backwards into the sugar trolley. Morris gawped, eyes bulging in shock, as his remaining bodyguard turned and levelled the revolver at him.
“I will take that case, I think,” the man said.
“Stevens, you—you…” Morris spluttered. “The others won’t let you escape.”
“The others will have problems of their own. I am no
t alone. We are legion. Now, give me the case, or I will kill you,” Stevens said.
Gallowglass cut her eyes towards St. Cyprian, who nodded shallowly. She slid the case towards him, and he picked it up. “First, a question: who are you?” he asked, as he pushed his chair back. “I’m guessing you don’t actually work for the Ministry.” He rose to his feet, the case held between him and the pistol. He would only get one chance; if he messed up, at least one of them would die. And with his luck, it would be him.
“A man may serve more than one master in his lifetime,” Stevens said. “And some oaths supersede others. The case, please.”
“Of course—catch!” He shoved the case forward and flung it towards the gunman, who cursed and stumbled back. The revolver swung aside as the valise barked against Stevens’ shins. Gallowglass caught hold of the side of the table and the back of her chair and half-rose from her seat. She lashed out with her foot, and caught Stevens on the arm. The revolver coughed, and the bullet punctured a floor tile. St. Cyprian slugged Stevens as the latter ducked for the valise. Stevens staggered, and St. Cyprian drove a fist into his gut, doubling him over. He caught the back of the gunman’s overcoat and shoved him towards Gallowglass, who brought the teapot down on his head, dropping him to the floor. She tossed the remains of the pot aside and said, “Let’s blouse.”
“Cheers, Ms. Gallowglass,” St. Cyprian said, as he snatched up the valise. He heard the whistle of the Dover train, and knew that they needed to go. He tossed the case to Gallowglass and turned to secure his own luggage. He hefted his suitcases and looked at Morris. “Morris, I trust you’ll handle this, with your usual efficiency. Would stay to help, but, well, train to catch and all that,” he said cheerfully. “Ta-ta!”
4.
Victoria Station, London
Miss Lucy Harker, late of Purfleet and Kensington, dropped from her perch and plummeted down onto the inobservant heads of the men below. She struck them with all the fury of the celestial object which had levelled Tunguska. The first died instantly, neck, spine and sternum crushed by her falling weight. The second followed suit, his neck bone splintering as he was caught by the back of her fist. He spun away, slamming into the wall of the alley. The third raised the revolver he’d managed to pull, eyes wide, an oath on his lips.
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