by Steve Seitz
But it was hopeless. Between the police search of the alley and my own examination, there were no useful footprints. The body lay where it fell ...
“By Jove!” I cried. “There are no signs of a third party! I see no evidence of a scuffle, Lestrade, do you? Are you sure this passerby tried to intervene?”
“What do you mean, Watson?”
“Just this: Suppose the passerby was an accomplice. That they both meant to murder this woman for some reason.”
“Did anyone see the villains leave?”
The constables shook their heads. “Too dark, too much fog,” Brock said.
“That may be a line of inquiry for you, Lestrade.”
“My hat is off to you, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade replied with a touch of gentle mockery. “You were a good student after all. I am relieved to know we don’t have a reincarnated Ripper on our hands. Thank you, Doctor. We can take it from here. You’ll be available for the inquest?”
“Of course.”
June 15, 1891
When I returned from my afternoon rounds, the maid handed me a note asking me to call Lestrade on the telephone.
“Good news, Doctor. We have apprehended our killer from last Friday.”
“Good work, Lestrade. How did it happen?”
“He picked up Emily Shawe last night and asked her for a favor she wouldn’t agree to. He offered her a locket that Emily recognized as belonging to Deborah Burke. She screamed for a constable, and he pulled a knife. Luckily, one of our men was nearby, and made the arrest. We just got his confession.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s a German sailor, name of Ebberling. Seems he likes to spend his shore leave crawling pubs and chasing whores, like so many of ‘em do.”
“What about the accomplice?”
“Nothing there, Doctor. Ebberling says he’d never seen the man before in his life. They argued; this other man was apparently quite strong, because Ebberling says he was tossed away, light as a feather, back to the end of the alley. He crawled away so nobody would see him.”
There seemed to be something else, and I pressed for more.
“It’s about this other man,” said Lestrade. “I think he was in one of the pubs last night. A fight had broken out, and Johnson and Rance went in to quell it. A shouting match over something trivial erupted into a brawl, the whole place was soon in turmoil, and at one point someone smashed a bottle on the bar and went after another man with it.
“The blood was flowing freely, and a couple of the witnesses saw a man dressed in black, cloth cap pulled over his eyes, scoop up a glass, grab one of the victims, and squeeze the wound in an attempt to fill the glass. No one tried to stop this in the melee, and once the glass was full, the victim was dropped and our man disappeared.”
“I don’t know what to make of that, Lestrade.”
“I don’t know, either. There’s nothing particularly illegal about it, but it is certainly strange. If this man was also in the alley with Miss Burke, was he also after her blood? And why would anybody be after anyone else’s blood?”
“The only man I know in London with that sort of expertise,” I said, “is Dr. John Seward. He runs the Holloway House asylum in Purfleet.”
“Thank you, Dr. Watson,” Lestrade said, and rang off.
Editorial Interlude
It’s now time to give Dr. Watson a break and let one of his colleagues take over.4 Dr. Seward takes the story over for a while from here.
Holmes and Watson returned from Castle Dracula late in August 1890. By this time, Count Dracula had largely left the financial scheming to Professor Moriarty and embarked on his true reason for coming to England: hunting fresh supplies of blood. I know that Sherlock Holmes met with his brother Mycroft about a week later, presumably to discuss the coming Barings crisis, but the only record I have been able to find is a note in Holmes’ datebook; what he and Mycroft actually discussed, I have no idea. All we know for sure was that the Bank of England stood ready as the lender of last resort when the blow finally fell in Argentina.
As Dracula readers know, Dr. John Seward ran a lunatic asylum that abutted Carfax, Dracula’s English estate. Seward, along with Jonathan and Mina Harker, Dr. Van Helsing, Lord Godalming and Quincey Morris, drove Dracula from London on October 5, 1890, and they pursued him all the way back to Transylvania, catching up with him on November 8, within sight of Castle Dracula at twilight. Though Dracula’s gypsy protectors battled the band of vampire trackers from London, the Count was exposed in his coffin as the sun set near his castle. Had the shadows grown just a little bit longer a little bit sooner, Dracula might be with us yet. But Jonathan Harker and Quincey Morris between them were able to strike fatal blows with sharp knives, sending the villainous vampire to the dust. Morris sustained a fatal knife wound from one of the gypsies in the battle, but, according to Mina Harker, died thinking the sacrifice worth it.
Bram Stoker’s account of the case was not to be published for another seven years, but word of what had happened circulated around London for some time, and Seward unintentionally became London’s vampire expert once Van Helsing returned to Amsterdam; as the head of a mental hospital to boot, Seward was in an unusual position to learn of and evaluate vampire reports, and he received many strange requests. Certainly neither he, Lord Godalming nor Watson ever expected their paths to cross again, but fate has its ways...
Chapter Fourteen: Old Fear and New Love
Dr. Seward’s Diary
(dictation transcribed from wax cylinders)
June 15, 1891
Not a year has passed, and I am chasing vampires again. Twice today someone has asked me about vampire mania. This morning I received a visit from Dr. Archibald Stamford, resident at St. Bartholomew’s.
“I wouldn’t bother you ordinarily, but something strange has been happening at Bart’s, and I think you might be able to shed some light,” he said.
“How may I be of service?”
“Please tell me what you know of vampirism, and where I might find some literature on the subject.”
He could find it on these very cylinders, but it will be years before those recordings see the light of day, if ever. The memories of my encounters with Count Dracula, and how he destroyed my poor beloved Lucy, gave me an involuntary shudder, still do. My heart will ever be with poor Arthur, who needed every ounce of his compassion and will to end her suffering. Had she accepted my proposal over his, I am not sure I could have struck that fatal blow that freed her in the end.
To the matter at hand. When Stamford gave me a curious glance, I rose and closed the window, even though the day was warm and pleasant.
“The world authority is Dr. Abraham Van Helsing, in Amsterdam,” I replied. “I was his student, but ... why do you want to know?”
“There have been strange goings-on in the pathological wing, particularly in the morgue and some of the labs. Put succinctly, someone has been stealing blood.”
“What?”
Stamford went on to explain that a lab attendant was seen draining blood from fresh corpses, and caught drinking it on one occasion. Not only that, students conducting blood research have found their supplies taken.
“Let’s be clear,” I said. “This man, so far as you are aware, has attacked no one?”
“No one living, though I wouldn’t want to speak for his soul on Judgment Day. I should add that I have not seen him myself.”
“He was draining the blood into a vessel.”
“Yes.”
“Not drinking directly from the corpse.”
“As I told you.”
This brought me great relief; a true vampire would not do these things.
“Without actually examining the patient, I would say your lab attendant suffers from religious mania, not vampirism,” I said. “Vampires attack
living victims and take their blood directly.”
“Then why do you say this is religious mania?”
“Because your man is re-enacting Catholic rituals,” I said. “Pouring blood into a cup is a literal way of tasting the blood of Christ. He may believe he is bringing himself closer to God in this deranged manner. Of course, this is pure conjecture. Without examining the patient, I can’t be of any real help.”
“Not a madman who believes he is a vampire, then?”
“Perhaps. I really need more information than this.”
Stamford rose and extended his hand.
“Thank you, Doctor Seward, you’ve been most helpful. You have eased my mind somewhat.”
When I returned from luncheon at around two, I found a Scotland Yard inspector waiting for me in my office. He was a short man, slender, with sharp weasel-like features, in age I should say about forty-five. He introduced himself as Inspector Lestrade.
“I have been told,” he said, “that you know something of vampire mania.”
“Not again,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
I summarized the visit I had from Dr. Stamford, and asked Lestrade why he was here. He told the most extraordinary story about a man dressed in black who had been present at two violent crimes, and that he was seen draining blood into a glass at one of them.
“Could it be the same man?” asked Lestrade.
“I don’t know. Dr. Stamford didn’t describe this lab attendant to me. On the other hand, that there are two such people seems to strain coincidence.”
“So such a man has not passed through your gates?”
“The last case we had that was remotely like this died last year,” said I, thinking of the late Mr. Renfield. And, as with Stamford, I explained that this man, whoever he is, does not act like any vampire I have encountered. (I realize that two vampires do not an expert make, but still, it’s two more than most people ever encounter. And of those who meet just one vampire, how many live to meet another?)
Lestrade did not ask me to elaborate; he thanked me for my time, and left. I must write Van Helsing and see what he thinks.
Later. At last, something cheerful to report. I have received a note from Arthur Holmwood - he’s Lord Godalming now, I must remember that - formally announcing his engagement to a Miss Amanda Keswick, whose existence comes as a complete surprise to me. I have not seen much of Arthur since our adventures with Count Dracula last year, and I thought he would mourn Lucy forever. After that ordeal, indeed, I should have thought he would die a bachelor. This new love comes into his life too soon for me to believe he fully knows what he is doing; the mourning period for Lucy ended but two months ago. Arthur is quite wealthy, and could be prey for a more common vampire - a “gold-digger,” as the Americans say. I shall form a fuller impression Saturday afternoon.
***
The Telegraph
June 18, 1891
POLICE SUSPECT GHOUL
A bloodthirsty madman is believed to be lurking on the streets of London.
Inspector G. Lestrade of Scotland Yard seeks the public’s assistance in identifying a man who intervened in a brawl on Farringdon Street. Insp. Lestrade believes the fight started in a dispute over cab fare. There have been prior complaints about this cabman, the inspector said, and he was recognized by some passersby who also had a dispute.
Before long, there was a melee in the street. Witnesses reported a tall man dressed in a black frock coat and cloth cap literally picking the brawlers up and tossing them aside like bags of grain. When he reached the cabman, who was bleeding from several wounds, he bent over him in what looked to onlookers like an attempt to minister to his wounds.
But in his statement to Insp. Lestrade, the cabman said the vile creature actually drank the blood pouring from his nose and cheeks. The ghoul has thin black hair, unusually sharp teeth, and foul breath. He did not inflict new harm, which comes as a puzzlement to police.
Insp. Lestrade said he knows of other incidents of this type, in which a man matching this description was seen stealing blood from crime and accident victims, sometimes drinking from a glass. If anyone knows who this man is, please contact Insp. Lestrade at once.
***
Dr. Seward’s Diary
(dictation transcribed from wax cylinders)
June 20, 1891
I must say that Arthur has chosen a most beautiful and charming partner.
Miss Keswick is American, the daughter of an iron magnate. (Laughter) I must say, that sounds like a pun when it’s spoken aloud. I must still be giddy from the champagne. What I meant to say is that her father, Mr. Eustace Keswick, was a miner who discovered iron ore in Minnesota, struck a deal with U.S. Steel, and can now afford an English lord.
Did I just say that? I must be drunker than I thought. It’s been such a long time since I’ve enjoyed any outright merry-making that its lack may be catching up to me all at once. This continues tomorrow. (Laughter, cut off suddenly.)
June 21, 1891
Oh, my head. I now know how a belfry feels after the last chime has rung, and my mouth feels like an unswept barn floor. Luckily, to-day is Sunday. I hope no-one noticed me dozing in church.
Despite the way I feel, I must record my impressions of last night’s event while they are still fresh, if a little hazy, in my mind. I feel that Arthur’s betrothal comes too soon; Lucy Westenra has been truly dead for less than a year, and the horrors of her final moments haunt my dreams even now. It was Arthur whose strong hand put her to rest; can he really have put the whole affair behind him so quickly?
I think not. I believe this engagement is a spiritual balm. I think he will be grappling with poor Lucy’s ghost for years before she lets him be.
All this said, I must admit that I can understand Arthur’s attraction to this delightful woman. She is closer in age to Arthur than was Lucy, who had just turned twenty when she died. Miss Keswick is five-and-twenty, with rich, dark and curly tresses, skin as smooth as cream, and dashing hazel eyes. Her laugh is a silver bell.
My belief that she is after his money is completely misplaced. Her father, who introduced the couple, is worth several of Arthur, who is hardly a pauper. No, prestige is what Eustace Keswick is after.
Though dressed impeccably to-day, Mr. Keswick has never lost the air of the hardscrabble iron digger he once was, and no amount of elocution training can eradicate his strange guttural accent. To his credit, he has realized this, and Amanda has had the finest schooling; but for her independence and verve, she could almost be English.
It was also a relief to see Arthur’s home properly decorated again. The Godalming estate could have been a funeral parlor for most of the last year. The drapes were drawn no matter what the weather; crucifixes everywhere, as well as portraits of Lucy. Funereal flowers as well, but with a difference - Arthur placed garlic in every room.
With this new love, all that is gone. Sunshine streamed into the grand ballroom, the crucifixes have been placed to provide a sense of devotion, not protection, and the ghastly aroma of garlic has been purged in favor of lilacs.
I’m afraid I indulged a bit too much in the champagne. I realize this morning that, since the Dracula affair, I have been drowning in my work, and dark, depressing work it can be. I have not taken a holiday in more than a year, and each day I contend with the worst of humanity.
I am certain I embarrassed myself with my empty chatter and rusty dancing. The orchestra was fine; Mozart, Liszt, Chopin and recent popular composers were in the repertoire.
Toward the end, Arthur and Amanda took the floor, and a bit of magic occurred. The orchestra seemed about to take a break, but one of the violinists kept playing, and, I believe, improvising. Instinctively, all the dancers but Arthur and Amanda left the floor; the violinist’s aria seemed to be for them alone.
&nbs
p; At first, he played a lively Hungarian polka, then gradually slowed the tune down, changed the tempo until all eyes were on the betrothed couple who moved beautifully in one another’s arms, their eyes locked in love until they, and the music, faded to a stop.
There and then, the match was truly made. Never were a couple more in love for all the world to see, and to applaud in gentle envy. Applause rippled across the room, and attention gravitated to the orchestra stand, but all we saw was the violinist walking calmly away, his back to the audience. We called for an encore, but I think he wanted to leave us with a beautiful memory, for he never did come back. I have no idea who he was.
“You have outdone yourself, Arthur,” I said, when I was able to steal a moment alone. “How did you meet her?”
“Actually, I’ve known her for years. My father was Mr. Keswick’s agent in England, and he used to bring Amanda along when he came over for business trips in Europe. Until last month, I hadn’t seen her since she was in finishing school, and-”
“Love at first sight,” I interrupted.
“Exactly!” Arthur exclaimed. “Have you talked to her? She is charm itself.”
“I can see that,” I said. “If I may ask a question in my professional capacity ...”
“You’re thinking what everyone else is thinking,” Arthur replied, his eyes narrowing. “That this is too soon after Lucy. No one mourns Lucy more than I, and no one misses her more. But she is gone, John, and I am not. My life is not over. Have we not had our fill of death, and after-death? Amanda is spring sunshine, and I want that sunshine in my garden.”
I nodded. “I hope you understand my concerns. I have loved you a long time, Arthur, and have no wish to see you hurt.”
