by Syrie James
Dr. Van Helsing bowed again. “Thank you. One last request: Madam Mina, will you bring with you your so valuable typewriter?”
“I will. If there is anything we can do to help you hunt down and destroy this terrible Count Dracula, we are with you heart and soul.”
JONATHAN RETURNED FROM THE TRAIN STATION FILLED WITH energy and excitement, clutching several newspapers. “I feel like a new man, Mina! I will help find and stop that monster, if it is the last thing I do.”
“Thank God Dr. Seward sent for Dr. Van Helsing, or I do not know where we would be.”
“Yes. Although something seemed to alarm him just now when I saw him off.”
“What do you mean?” I followed Jonathan into the drawing-room, where we both sat down.
“We had just picked up the morning papers and the London papers from last night. While we were talking at the carriage window, waiting for the train to start, he was looking over the Westminster Gazette—I knew it by the green paper it was printed on—and his eyes fixed on some article or other. He read intently, his face growing white as he groaned aloud and cried, ‘Mijn God! So soon! So soon!’ I asked what was wrong; but just then the whistle blew, and he waved good-bye.”
“What article was it that alarmed him so?” I asked, for I saw that Jonathan had another copy of the Westminster Gazette.
“I cannot be sure, but I have a feeling it is this one.” He handed me the paper, indicating a story on the front page:
A HAMPSTEAD MYSTERY
The neighbourhood of Hampstead is just at present exercised with a series of events which seem to run on lines parallel to those of what was known to the writers of headlines as “The Kensington Horror,” or “The Stabbing Woman,” or “The Woman in Black.” During the past two or three days several cases have occurred of young children straying from home or neglecting to return from their playing on the Heath. In all these cases the children were too young to give any properly intelligible account of themselves, but the consensus of their excuses is that they had been with a “bloofer lady.” It has always been late in the evening when they have been missed, and on two occasions the children have not been found until early morning…
The article continued at some length, adding a very serious side to the mystery: all of the children, when found, had been slightly wounded in the throat, with marks that might have been made by a rat or small dog.
“Oh!” I cried, upset. “The marks at the throat! Is it the work of Count Dracula?”
“It would seem so; and yet, the children all claim to have been with a lady—a ‘bloofer lady,’ the first child called her, whatever that means.”
“It was a very little child. Perhaps he meant ‘beautiful.’”
Jonathan nodded; then an odd look crossed his face. “Hampstead Heath: isn’t that near Hillingham, where Lucy and her mother lived? Didn’t Dr. Van Helsing say that Lucy was buried at a churchyard at Hampstead Heath?”
A great horror came over me, for I saw at once where Jonathan was heading. Lucy had been bitten by a vampire—many times, apparently—before she died. I knew next to nothing about such creatures; until recently, I had not even believed they truly existed. Could it be that my dear friend Lucy was now a vampire herself?
Had she risen from the grave?
WE HEARD NOTHING FROM DR. VAN HELSING FOR THE NEXT THREE days. Reports continued in the Westminster Gazette. A child was found, terribly weak, who insisted that he wanted to go back to the Heath and play with the beautiful lady. I tossed and turned at night, thinking about poor Lucy, too filled with horror to sleep.
Anxious for more news, I decided to go up to London to see Dr. Van Helsing. At the same time, Jonathan went to Whitby. He had received a courteous reply to his letter to Mr. Billington, the consignment agent who had received the fifty boxes of earth from the Demeter, and felt it best to go down and make his enquiries on the spot.
“I am going to trace that horrid cargo of the Count’s if it is the last thing I do,” he said, as he kissed me good-bye early that morning before leaving for the station.
“I still do not see why you must go to Whitby,” I responded. “If we know the Count has a house at Purfleet, why not go straight there and apprehend him?”
“We cannot be certain that he is at Purfleet. He may have other properties by now. We need to know what happened to every one of those boxes if we are to trap the Devil in his lair. Send me word of where you are staying in town, Mina, and I will join you in a day or two.”
I sent a telegram to Dr. Van Helsing at the Berkeley Hotel, informing him that I would be coming up by train that day. Just as I finished packing my bags and closing up my typewriter in its carrying case, a letter arrived for me. I thought it would be from Dr. Van Helsing; but to my complete surprise, it was from the director of the orphanage in London where I had grown up. He had written a brief note, explaining that he had found the missing envelope to which I had referred, and that it was duly enclosed.
This news, so utterly unexpected, took me back entirely. My mind had been so filled with other, terrifying thoughts of late that I had entirely forgotten our visit to the London orphanage the week before. Stunned, I stared at the old, faded envelope enclosed. It was of a cheap sort of paper, and had turned slightly brown at the edges with age. It was addressed in pencil in an uneven hand to: “Miss Wilhelmina Murray: Not to be opened until she reaches 18 years of age.”
Was it from my mother? I wondered, my heart pounding.
I went to my husband’s desk and retrieved a letter-opener. With trembling fingers, I carefully slid the instrument beneath the envelope’s fragile flap, trying to do as little damage as possible as I opened it. I slipped out the two folded sheets of writing paper within, which were likewise inscribed in pencil; there was also a tiny, crumpled, faded, pink ribbon. My pulse pounded in my ears as I stared at these items, which seemed to me as precious as the Holy Grail. I sank down onto the chair and read:
5 May, 1875
My dearest daughter:
I must of walked by the orphanage a hundred times since the day I gived you up, hoping I might get a glimpse of you, but they never took the babies out, and I never dared step inside. Once, a few months past, I thought I might of seed you as you walked to school with the other children, but I couldn’t be sure it was you, for your a growed girl of seven now, and so changed from when last I held you in my arms. Maybe you were placed in a good family somewhere ages ago. I hope that is true, for that was my wish and dream.
Wilhelmina, my darling girl, I think of you every day. I wonder how you are and what you look like, if your happy, and if you ever think of me. At night I dream of what I might say if we were to meet, but I know that can never be. I’ve come on hard times, and I couldn’t bear to see the shame in your eyes, to see me now and know that I’m your mother.
I am writing now because I’m ill. The doctor says I’m not long for this world. I didn’t want to leave it without telling you how much I loved you, and how hard I tried to keep you. I loved your father. His name was Cuthbert. I believe he truly loved me for a time. I met him while serving as a chambermaid in Marlborough Gardens, Belgravia. The two years I spent at that house were the happiest of my life. I understood when I had to leave. I did my best by you for as long as I could, but work was hard to come by. You needed food, medicine, and clothes, and all I had to give was love.
I have kept this ribbon from your baby bonnet all this time, but I thought you might some day like to have it. I hope they give this letter to you when you are grown, and old enough to understand. Please do not think too poorly of me, Wilhelmina. I will always love you with all my heart.
Your own Mother,
Anna
As I read this missive, I was overcome with emotion. The salutation alone—My dearest daughter—caused my eyes to so fill with blinding tears that I could barely continue, and they kept on rolling down my cheeks long after I had finished reading the last line.
Your own Mother, Anna. So that was my
mother’s name: Anna! Oh! Such a beautiful name; and such a precious piece of information! What a tumult of thoughts and feelings coursed through me! First: deep sadness that she was gone. And then questions: what was her surname? Was it Murray? How old was she? Where did she come from? And what about my father—who was he? Was he another servant in the house? Or did they meet elsewhere?
All my life, I had felt ashamed to think that my mother had given birth to me out of wedlock. The shame was somewhat mitigated now by the knowledge that I had at least come not from a hurried, sullied, forgotten moment—but from love—true love. For a long while I sat and wept for the mother who had loved me, the mother whom I would never know, filled with a longing so great that I thought my aching heart would burst.
I must have re-read the letter a dozen times on the train to London, fingering the tiny, fragile scrap of pink ribbon while dashing away tears. At length, I felt strong enough to put away the envelope and turn my mind to other things. To my surprise, a wire was delivered to me en route:
PURFLEET 29 SEPTEMBER 1890
MRS. MINA HARKER
VAN HELSING CALLED BACK TO AMSTERDAM. I WILL MEET YOU AT STATION.
JOHN SEWARD, M.D.
When I arrived at Paddington Station, I searched through the bustling crowd on the platform for a sign of Dr. Seward, hoping I would be able to pick him out, even though we had never met. As the crowd thinned, I spotted a tall, handsome, strong-jawed gentleman wearing a dark brown suit, who looked to be about thirty years old, and was glancing about uneasily.
I stepped up to him with a hesitant smile. “Dr. Seward, is it not?”
“And you are Mrs. Harker!” He took the hand I offered with a shy, nervous grin. “The professor sends his apologies.”
“The professor?”
“I mean Dr. Van Helsing. To me, he will always be the professor, as he was my most valued teacher. He had to dash off very suddenly—he had something to do back home, and will return to-morrow night. I take it you got my wire?” Although he was making every effort to be charming, I sensed that he was very upset about something, a fact which he was struggling to hide.
“Yes. Thank you. I knew you from the description of poor dear Lucy, and—” I stopped, a blush rising to my cheeks; for even though I knew Dr. Seward had proposed to Lucy, it was unlikely he knew I was in possession of his secret.
At the mention of Lucy’s name his smile fled, and he appeared even more anxious than before. What prompted this reaction? I wondered. Was it grief over Lucy’s passing? Had he guessed what I was thinking? Or was it something else of which I was unaware? Just then his eyes met mine, and we shared a brave little smile, which seemed to set us both more at ease.
“Allow me to get your luggage,” he said. This accomplished, he went on in a kind and noble but rather distracted manner: “Forgive me, Mrs. Harker, but the professor and I have been much preoccupied the past few days with—with some difficult matters. We did not have a chance to discuss your coming, or how he intends for us to proceed with—” He broke off.
“I understand. I appreciate your meeting me, Dr. Seward. If you would be so kind as to take me to the Berkeley Hotel—I believe that is where Dr. Van Helsing has been staying?—I will simply wait there until he returns.”
“No—I did not mean that, Mrs. Harker. You need not go to the expense of a hotel. In fact, it was the professor’s express wish that you and your husband should stay with me. I would be happy to provide you with a suite of rooms at my house in Purfleet. Unless—”
“Unless?”
“Did Dr. Van Helsing mention the kind of work that I do?”
“Yes.” Although I tried to sound matter-of-fact, a little shiver danced through me. “He said that—that you are the proprietor of a private insane asylum.”
“That is so. But be advised that it is a very large country house. The patients all come from well-to-do families, live on a completely separate floor, and are well looked after. You would not be obliged to see any of them. Given the nature of the work ahead of us, it would be convenient, I think, if you were near at hand. Would you feel comfortable with such an arrangement, Mrs. Harker? If not, you have only to say the word, and I will find you a hotel.”
I hesitated. I had never been to an insane asylum, and had had little contact with the mentally ill. It was certainly not the kind of place where I preferred to stay. However, it did make more sense for Jonathan and I to stay with Dr. Seward in Purfleet, rather than in London proper. Another reason came to mind, too, which made the idea particularly appealing: it would afford me an opportunity to see Carfax, the adjacent property belonging to the mysterious Count Dracula. I managed a small smile and said: “Thank you. I will accept your kind offer, Dr. Seward.”
He immediately sent a wire to his housekeeper to have a room prepared for me. I sent a wire to Jonathan, informing him of where I was staying. We then took the Underground to Fenchurch Street, a large and bustling station, where we boarded a train to Purfleet, Essex, a journey of some sixteen miles. Since we shared a compartment with several others, I kept my voice low as I informed Dr. Seward about Jonathan’s hurried excursion to Whitby. He nodded but made little comment; he still seemed very distracted, and the anxiety I had noticed upon my arrival had not gone away. I wondered what was on his mind and how best to gain his confidence.
“I understand that it was you, Dr. Seward, who first summoned Dr. Van Helsing to London to attend Lucy?”
“Yes.”
“For this I must extend my gratitude, for he seems to be a man of fine intellect. If any one can find and bring down this horrible Count Dracula, I think it is he.”
“I hope so.”
“Have you seen the property that Jonathan purchased for the Count?”
“We have only made a cursory inspection. It does not appear as though any one is living there yet.”
“I did not see yesterday’s copy of the Westminster Gazette. Have there been any more sightings of the mysterious lady on Hampstead Heath?”
Dr. Seward’s face went ashen at this. Glancing at the other occupants of the train compartment, he lowered his voice and said, alarmed: “I think it best that we reserve this discussion for a later time, Mrs. Harker.”
I fell silent and looked out the window, greatly worried. Were my fears and intuitions about Lucy correct? Had Lucy risen from the grave? Had something else of dire consequence occurred since I last spoke with Dr. Van Helsing? If so, what?
IN SHORT ORDER WE ARRIVED AT DR. SEWARD’S HOUSE, WHICH was situated on lovely, spacious, wooded grounds. It was immense—three storeys high—and built of dark red brick, with a large new wing of clean brick. If not for the discreet sign by the front entrance, which read PURFLEET ASYLUM, I would never have guessed that it was anything other than a respectable gentleman’s country seat.
As we crossed the threshold, however, and entered the marbled hall, I heard a strange, low moan emanate from somewhere down the corridor, followed by an eerie laugh. Is this what I could expect to be hearing every day, I thought with a shudder, while staying under this roof?
If Dr. Seward noticed my discomfort, he did not mention it, only saying: “Are you hungry, Mrs. Harker? May I order you something to eat?”
“No thank you. I ate on the train. I am most anxious to speak with you about the matter at hand and to get to work if there is any way that I can be of help.”
“In that case, I will have my housekeeper show you promptly to your room. Feel free to meet me in my study as soon as you are settled.”
I was directed to a very nice bedroom up on the first floor, where my luggage was deposited. I took only a moment or two to tidy myself, and then went back down-stairs to Dr. Seward’s study, which had been pointed out to me. As I approached in the passage, I heard him talking with someone within. I paused a moment outside the door; but at length, since he was expecting me, I knocked. His conversation ceased, and I heard him say: “Come in.”
I entered. It was a very large room, lined with b
ookcases on three sides and furnished so as to serve as a comfortable parlour and study as well as a meeting-room. There was a sofa and an arrangement of tables and armchairs on one side, a long table surrounded by chairs in the centre, and a good-sized desk on the other, where Dr. Seward was sitting. To my surprise, however, there was no one else with him.
Suddenly, I understood to whom—or should I say, to what—he had been speaking. On a table opposite to him was a brand-new machine, a sizeable wooden box with an assortment of metal fittings across the top. One of these fittings was a horizontal, spindle-shaped device holding a wax cylinder, which I knew was designed—incredibly—to record and play back the spoken word.
“Is that a phonograph?” I said excitedly.
“It is indeed.”
“I have read about such things! Mr. Edison is a great genius. What do you use it for?”
“I keep my diary in it.”
“Your diary? On a phonograph? Why, this outdoes even shorthand! May I hear it say something?”
“Certainly.” He stood up to put it in train for speaking; but then he paused, troubled. “On second thought, perhaps not. Everything on these cylinders is about my cases, Mrs. Harker, so it would be awkward—” He stopped.
“Oh! I understand,” I replied, trying to help him out of his embarrassment. “A diary is very personal, and your thoughts on your cases, I presume, are not meant to be shared.”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Perhaps you could play just one part of it for me.”
“Which part is that?”
“You helped attend my dear friend Lucy at the end, did you not?”
“I did.”
