by Dacre Stoker
Just another trick.
Then comes another howl, again from outside.
He returns to the window to discover two wolves—one black and one gray—standing in the grass beneath him, both staring up with fiery eyes. He spots a patch of red in the fur of the gray wolf—the one he had shot. The black wolf goes to the gray and licks the wound, then raises its head in a ferocious howl.
The creature behind the door answers with a howl all its own—a cry falling somewhere between that of a wolf and a human in dire pain.
At that, a third wolf comes into view down below. More follow. A pack of wolves, all with blazing red eyes.
THE JOURNAL of BRAM STOKER
10 August 1868, 4:06 p.m.—My office within Dublin Castle was far from a lavish affair; it was cold, windowless, packed full with nine desks, nine chairs, and an assortment of cabinets and shelves brimming with old texts and papers belonging to those who came before me. Yet, the eight of us clerking in the Petty Sessions office were a jolly group. We often worked from 9:00 a.m. until 10:00 p.m., and since most of the castle staff, including our supervisor, Richard Wingfield, Esq., J.P. (Justice of the Peace), left at a more civilized hour, we felt free to make arrangements personally.
As I think about it, Mr. Wingfield rarely appeared in the office; when he did, he was known to come in late and leave early, leaving us to our own devices. On those long days, Thomas Taggart, a senior clerk, would cook dinner for us, a few snipe or teal one of us had shot, roasted with carrots or parsnips, but once during a holiday season, he roasted a turkey with all manner of vegetables, salad, plum pudding, and we each brought a beverage—punch, sherry, port, champagne, beer, claret, curaçao, and coffee. We covered a table with blotting paper gummed together and raised our glasses to each other and the Queen till the wee hours. That night, a very large armoire padded with old clothes served as a nest for a couple of the younger boys who could not keep pace.
More often than not, Mr. Wingfield wandered in just before lunchtime, when we were hard at work, and our office seemed normal. I would like to say normal meant tidy, but it was not so. Certainly, my desk was chaos, but I knew exactly where every pen, pencil, clip, or scrap of paper was to be found. And should someone attempt to organize my paltry possessions, they would do me a severe injustice.
As we tended towards diligence in the morning, the other clerks were subdued, and I had taken the opportunity to finish my review of The Woman in White, which I had seen the night before at the Theatre Royal in Dublin:
The tone of the novel is essentially gloomy, and Mr. W. C. doubtless wished to preserve its great characteristic, but he overlooked the fact that the action of a drama is so concentrated, the suspense so great, and the strain on the minds and feelings of the audience so intense, that occasional relief is necessary. Even Hamlet requires the gravedigger, and Lear the fool.
I was so wrapped up in my writings I did not hear Michael Murphy, the office messenger boy, approach my corner until he cleared his throat. I glanced up to find him staring at me, tapping an envelope on the corner of my desk.
“Telegram for me?”
He shook his head. “Only a note; I was asked to run it to you straightaway. The lady said you would provide a generous tip if I got here quickly.”
“What lady?”
“Not my job to collect names, sir, only deliver.” He held out his hand.
I dug into my pocket and pulled out a two-bob bit, depositing it in his palm.
He looked down at the coin, let out a little sigh, and held the envelope out to me. I took it and waved him off.
The envelope contained a single sheet of paper, cornered in fours. I unfolded it and held it up to the light of the lamp on my desk.
Meet me at Marsh’s. 6:00 p.m.
—Matilda
* * *
• • •
10 AUGUST 1868, 6:00 p.m.—Marsh’s Library was founded in the early eighteenth century by Archbishop Narcissus Marsh. It is a rather subdued structure located off St. Patrick’s Close, nearly hidden behind the cathedral. When I was a student at Trinity, Marsh’s Library was a frequent destination, but I found myself spending less and less time there as my studies progressed. At this hour, the library was well attended, not only by students but laymen in kind, finding themselves here after a day’s work.
I took a deep breath and derived simple satisfaction in the scent of old leather-bound books, of which there were many. The library boasted a collection nearing twenty thousand volumes, with topics ranging from medicine and navigation to science, religion, and history. Much of the collection was original, procured by the archbishop himself, all painstakingly cared for. The walls of the library were lined with metal cages, referred to as “cells” by the students of Trinity. If you requested one of the rare texts, you would find yourself locked inside one of these cells with the treasured tome until you completed your reading of it. Only then would the keeper unlock the door of the cage, the book never leaving the protective custody of the library.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light of Marsh’s Library, I found Matilda ensconced in one of the cages near the back. Her door was open, which meant she had selected this cell intentionally but had not requested a rare text; if she had, she would have been locked in. I found her surrounded not by manuscripts but by newspapers. She was scribbling away furiously on a page in her sketchbook; it was not a drawing she was laboring over but writing, in her thin, neat script, nearly a pageful. She glanced up as I approached and closed the pad before my curious eyes could catch a glimpse of what she was writing.
With thoughts of our conversation from the day before in mind, I instinctively tugged at the sleeve of my shirt, ensuring the two tiny red marks were not in view. “Ah, my dear sister, that was a clever way to rid me of my hard-earned funds. Could you not have just stopped by my office?”
“Could that space accommodate one more body? I was under the assumption you discouraged visitors because you prefer not to have them standing on your shoulders.”
I considered a retort, but I had plans to attend the theater and did not wish to be late on account of this unscheduled stop. “Care to share why I was summoned to your lair?”
Matilda gestured to the chair beside her, and I took a seat.
She said, “What do you remember of Patrick O’Cuiv?”
It took me a moment, then it came to me. “He nearly killed his entire family before turning the knife on himself. He also slew his employer’s land manager that same night, or maybe it was earlier in the day. I really don’t remember anything beyond that, though; I think Ma and Pa kept the stories from us. They probably felt we were too young to hear of such a thing.”
Matilda pointed to a stack of newspapers to her left, all editions of the Saunders’s News-Letter. “I gathered together every issue mentioning the case.”
“What would prompt you to do that?”
She reached for the stack and dropped three of them in front of me, reading each headline aloud. “These are the three we saw: ‘Family Murdered in Malahide,’ ‘Land Manager Killed in Altercation at Farm in Santry House,’ and ‘Mass Killing in Malahide Father Suspected of Santry Estate Murder.’ The last one was dated 10 October 1854.”
Matilda pulled a second stack forward and tapped them with her finger. “These four came later. Go ahead and read them; the stories are not very long.”
“To what end?”
“Just read them, Bram.”
I sighed and pulled the first paper towards me. As with the others, the O’Cuiv story dominated the front page:
CROWN AUTHORITIES PUTTING TOGETHER PIECES OF THESE LOCAL DEATHS SUSPECT THAT THEY ARE ALL CONNECTED
Patrick O’Cuiv of Malahide will be charged for the murder of Cornelius Healy, land manager of the Santry Estate. In addition, once thought of as a victim, Mr. O’Cuiv will also be charged with the willful murder of his wife and tw
o children. The grisly account of the at-home murder will likely be corroborated by the one surviving daughter, Maggie O’Cuiv. The authorities have determined that in spite of her tender age, she is fit and capable and will be best served by having her testimony taken by deposition which shall be admissible as evidence.
I looked up at Matilda after reading the first story; she retrieved the next paper and placed it in front of me before I could say a word.
MURDER TRIAL
Crown authorities have issued a statement about the recent murders in Santry and Malahide.
Mr. Patrick O’Cuiv will be charged with unwillful murder of Santry land manager Cornelius Healy. Public defender Simon Stephens, acting as agent for the defense of Mr. O’Cuiv, has entered a motion to dismiss the case on the grounds of reasonable rationale for self-defense. Mr. Brian Callahan has further stated that the three murders of O’Cuiv’s wife and family members were committed under duress of extreme hardship and drunkenness and will be tried as willful murders. Mr. Stephens claims that Mr. O’Cuiv was rendered hopeless by the prospect of being unable to provide food for his young, starving family. After being denied the purchase of grain at his place of work, he tried to steal an amount of grain. He was brutally punished by caning at the hands of Mr. Healy, which caused him to act irrationally and engage in fisticuffs with Mr. Healy. “Sadly,” stated Stephens, “Mr. O’Cuiv felt justified in the slaying of his own family as a reasonable method to reduce their suffering.” Stephens followed up by asking Judge Dermot McGillycuddy to dismiss charges on the basis that Mr. O’Cuiv was rendered insane by placing his family in such a sad predicament.
“My Lord, this is horrible,” I muttered.
Matilda slid the third paper over to me.
O’CUIV CHARGED WITH ASSAULT, NOT MURDER
The coroner has found that the death of Cornelius Healy was accidental, the result, according to witness accounts, of Mr. Healy’s slipping during a fair fistfight and hitting his head on a rock. The judge took advantage of the finding to add that denying Mr. O’Cuiv the opportunity to purchase grain for his starving family while such grain was being shipped out of Ireland is not justification for killing a man but certainly may be grounds for driving a man to desperate lengths to provide for his family. Mr. O’Cuiv was sentenced to five years of penal servitude.
Matilda handed me the final newspaper. Patrick O’Cuiv was again the headline.
O’CUIV SUICIDE
While the Crown Solicitor was pondering on the first day of deliberations the case against Mr. O’Cuiv for the killing of his wife and two children, Mr. O’Cuiv managed to hang himself in his jail cell, thus putting an end to the debate about the solicitor’s claim of insanity.
I set the paper down and turned to my sister. “So, as we suspected, he killed his employer over food and then killed his family rather than watch them starve to death.”
“All but his daughter, Maggie, who escaped. She was six and a half at the time; she would be twenty-one today,” Matilda explained.
“I wonder what became of her,” I said.
Matilda ignored the comment and instead dropped another folder on the table in front of me. “I found the record of his death.”
“Why would you—” I began a little louder than appropriate, and a number of library patrons glared at me through the bars of the cage. I offered an apologetic smile and lowered my voice. “Why would you extract his death records?”
She pulled a sheet of paper from the file, reading just loud enough for the two of us to hear. “‘Patrick O’Cuiv was found hanging in his cell on the morning of 9 October at twenty-six minutes past the six o’clock hour. Twisting his bedsheets into a makeshift rope, he looped it through the bars of the cell’s single window, then twisted it repeatedly around his neck. Because the window was only five feet off the ground, and O’Cuiv stood at a height of five feet eleven inches, it appears he leaned back against the wall, then lifted his feet out from beneath him and held them extended out in front of him, the weight of his body forcing the noose to tighten and ultimately strangle the life out of him. As hangings go, this would have been a difficult one since he could have stopped it at any moment simply by lowering his feet. Instead, he committed fully to the task at hand and did not waiver until dead. Upon examination of the body, it was determined the cause of death to be strangulation and not dislocation of the cervical vertebrae. The wounds upon his arms had grown infected and were most likely very painful. I counted no less than six lacerations on the right arm, beginning at the wrist and continuing nearly to the elbow. The left arm had four cuts of similar size running the length of his forearm. Although he had been treated by Bartley Rupee with chloride, the skin had turned purple and yellow surrounding the wounds, and, even in death, the odor of infection was present. Because O’Cuiv died at his own hand, he will not be permitted burial at Saint John the Baptist but will instead be laid to rest in the suicide graves behind the main cemetery. May God have mercy on his soul.’”
I let out a sigh. “This is all quite fascinating, Matilda, but I still do not know why you are showing it to me. These events took place a long time ago.”
Matilda pulled another paper from the stack at her side, this one a recent edition of the Dublin Morning News dated 9 August 1868. “This is yesterday’s paper. Look—” She tapped at the headline.
VAGABOND FALLS FROM STEAMBOAT AND DROWNS IN RIVER LIFFEY
An unidentified man, thirty to forty years of age, stumbled while walking the deck of the Roscommon during the ship’s final voyage last evening. He attempted to recover his step but instead tumbled over the rail and into the frigid waters. A gentleman passenger dove in after him and hauled his body to shore, but at that point life had deserted the victim. Other passengers aboard the Roscommon told this reporter that the man had begged his way aboard, receiving fare from no less than three other patrons, and upon departure from shore became extremely agitated. “The moment we left the dock, he began running up and down the length of the boat in sheer panic, believing the vessel was about to sink,” one passenger said. “A number of times he went to the rail and peered over the side at the water, his face lined with fear.”
The Roscommon, which was en route to Holyhead, has been held in port by the harbor police until the conclusion of their investigation. With permission of their office, we have included a photograph of the unidentified man. Anyone with information on his identity is asked to contact the coroner at Steevens’ Hospital.
Matilda unfolded the paper so I could view the photograph.
It was Patrick O’Cuiv.
* * *
• • •
I STARED DOWN at the page. “It cannot be him.”
“But it is,” Matilda replied. “Look at his arms.”
The man wore no shirt, and his arms were clearly visible, each lined with long scars from wrist to forearm.
“Six cuts on the right, four on the left. The exact same as those listed in O’Cuiv’s death records,” she said.
“This is a coincidence; there can be no other explanation.”
“The only explanation is the simplest one: this is Patrick O’Cuiv.”
“Perhaps a son or close relative.”
“The O’Cuivs were survived only by their daughter, Maggie. Patrick killed his only son.”
“A cousin, then?” I lifted the newspaper and held the photograph to the lamplight. The image was grainy, decidedly so, but I recognized that face. As much as I wished to deny it were true, the man staring up at me with death in his vacant eyes was Patrick O’Cuiv. I reached for the folder containing O’Cuiv’s death records and reread the documents. Then a thought occurred to me. “What if he faked his death?”
“The hanging?”
“Yes. Maybe he had help: someone, or a group of someones, who sympathized with him.”
“Who would sympathize with a man who killed his wife and
children?”
“Perhaps someone grateful for the death of Cornelius Healy?”
“The land manager?”
I nodded. “Perhaps he had friends at Santry House or others who also harbored hatred for Healy and were grateful for the man’s death. If he wouldn’t grant O’Cuiv grain, I imagine there were others. It’s possible they faked his death and somehow snuck him from the jail.”
Matilda was shaking her head. “There are records of his burial.”
“The same people could have concealed that as well. A few shillings to the undertaker and he buries an empty coffin.”
“That is a conspiracy of grand scale, too grand. But let us say for a minute you are correct and all of these people helped him fake his death, fake the records at the constable’s office, then bribed the undertaker to fake his burial. If, after all of this, he finds a new life in Dublin and is killed again in a freak accident fourteen years later, how do you explain his appearance?” She reached into the stack of newspapers and pulled out the first one, which had a mention of him at the outset of the trial, and positioned it next to the paper from the previous day, pointing to both images of O’Cuiv. “He has not aged a day from this photograph to that. Fourteen years behind him, and these images seem to be taken a day apart.”
Again, she was right. The man in the paper from the day before actually appeared a little younger than the older image. I did not want to hear her say the words, but I asked anyway; I had no choice. “How do you explain the likeness?”
“You know how.”
“First, you tell me you saw our old nanny and she has not aged in fourteen years. Now you believe the same of this man. Who next? Old Mrs. Dunhy from the dairy? That drunkard Leahy, who used to wander the fields until all hours singing to the cows? People get older. They do not rise from the grave only to die again.”
