by Syrie James
The third dream was about Mr. Wagner. I was back at the Whitby pavilion, and we were whirling about the dance floor. I was floating, floating, transported by the music and the thrill of being in his arms. The music rose to a crescendo as we waltzed out to the terrace, where he drew me more closely to him, gazing into my eyes with deepest love; and then he kissed me. A long, heartfelt, magical kiss—
I awoke flushed and perspiring, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it might leap from my chest. Oh! Why must I dream of him? What a treacherous thing the subconscious mind was! Such dreams and imaginings, I believed, were as much a betrayal of my marriage vows as any physical act. And yet, I found myself lying in the dark for several shameful minutes, savoring the imagined memory of his embrace and the feel of his kiss. Then I gave myself a mental shake and reproached myself sternly: Mina Harker: you must think of him no more.
I sat up and threw off the bed-clothes. The curtains were open. Sunlight streamed into the room, and the clock announced that it was a quarter past noon. I saw with a start that Jonathan’s luggage was standing just inside the door. He was here—returned from Whitby!
I quickly washed and dressed, relieved that there was work to be done; for our quest to find and destroy the vile Count Dracula would surely take my mind off my longing for Mr. Wagner, a man I loved but could never have.
TWELVE
I FOUND JONATHAN DOWN-STAIRS IN THE DINING-ROOM, DEEP in conversation with Dr. Seward, just as luncheon was being served. The sight of my husband’s dear face filled me with quiet joy. He looked and sounded resolute and full of volcanic energy, as if his trip had done him good. Indeed, any one seeing him to-day would find it difficult to believe that this strong and determined man was the same beaten-down individual I had discovered in hospital only six weeks before in Buda-Pesth.
“Darling! There you are,” Jonathan said, leaping up from his chair with a welcoming smile as I entered. “Dr. Seward said you were up all night, so I let you sleep.”
“Thank you.” I crossed to him and we exchanged an affectionate kiss. “I see that you two have become acquainted.”
“Yes,” Dr. Seward said, rising and gesturing towards a place at the table, which had been set for me. “Your husband is an excellent fellow.”
“May I say the same about you, sir,” Jonathan responded with a sincere and gracious nod. As we all took our seats, he covered my hand with his and added gravely: “We have been discussing the case all morning, dearest, ever since I arrived. Dr. Seward has told me all about what happened to Lucy. It is so hard to believe; and yet, it must be true.”
“At least Lucy’s soul is at peace now,” I said sadly.
“Little consolation for the loss of one so young and beautiful and so dear,” remarked Dr. Seward bitterly.
“We will hunt that Thing down and rid the world of him!” Jonathan insisted with fierce determination. “We have all the facts now, and to-night we can proceed.”
“Did you find what you needed to know in Whitby, then?” I asked.
“Everything and more,” Jonathan replied with satisfaction. As we all began to eat, he continued: “Everyone from the coast-guardsmen to the harbour-master had something to say about the strange entry of the ship Demeter, which is already taking its place in local tradition. Then I saw Mr. Billington—stayed at his house, in fact—that’s true Yorkshire hospitality for you. Billington showed me all the letters and invoices concerning the consignment of the boxes. ‘Fifty cases of common earth, to be used for experimental purposes,’ they said. It gave me quite a turn to see again one of the letters which I had seen on the Count’s table at the castle, before I knew of his diabolical plan. He had thought everything out very carefully and executed it with systematic precision, preparing in advance for every obstacle which might come in his way.”
“And the boxes?” I said. “What happened to them?”
“At first, they were put into storage in a Whitby warehouse.”
“No doubt the Count sneaked in and took shelter inside one of them during the day,” Dr. Seward said.
“Yes,” I murmured, “for it was only a couple of days after the ship arrived that Lucy was first attacked up on the cliff.”
“On the 19th of August, they got a sudden notice to ship them all to London. When I arrived at King’s Cross Station this morning, the officials kindly showed me their records, confirming that all fifty boxes had arrived late on the evening of the 19th. I followed another lead, and found the carrier’s men who delivered the boxes to the chapel at Carfax, the very next day.”
“Then Count Dracula has indeed taken possession of the house next door?” I asked. An ominous feeling came over me as I recalled standing outside the rusting gates the day before, and the strange sensation that I was being watched.
“I cannot say if Dracula is there or not, but all fifty boxes should be, unless any have since been removed.”
“I fear that may be the case,” Dr. Seward said, frowning. “A little more than a week ago, while I was at Hillingham looking after Lucy, the doctor I left in charge reported seeing a carrier’s cart leaving that house, loaded with some great wooden boxes. The only reason he reported it was because one of our patients escaped and attacked the carriers, accusing them of robbery and shouting that he would ‘fight for his Lord and Master.’”
“His Lord and Master?” Jonathan repeated, intrigued.
“What patient was that? Was it Renfield?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Who is Renfield?” Jonathan asked.
Dr. Seward gave him a brief summary of the lunatic who was under his care, to which Jonathan replied: “Do you think he knows something of this business with the Count?”
“I do,” I interjected. “While listening to Dr. Seward’s phonographic diary last night, I sensed that somehow, in his madness, this Mr. Renfield has a mental connection with Count Dracula. I have a feeling that if we look at the dates carefully, we may find they are a sort of index to the comings and goings of the Count. The first time Renfield escaped from the asylum, for example, and ran next door—I believe it may correspond with the date the Count arrived at Carfax.”
“Interesting,” Dr. Seward mused. “What a good thing you put my cylinders into type, Mrs. Harker! We could never find the dates otherwise.”
“In this matter, I think dates are everything,” I replied. “If we get all our material together, and put every scrap of evidence into chronological order, we should be able to make real sense of it—and make a good start on this case to-night, when the others arrive.”
AFTER LUNCHEON, JONATHAN AND I WENT UP TO OUR ROOM. While he read my typescript of Dr. Seward’s diary, I typed up in triplicate all the rest of the related correspondence, as well as Jonathan’s newest journal entries and the information he had brought back from Whitby. We then put all the papers into order in folders for the members of the party who had not read them.
At three o’clock, Dr. Seward was obliged to leave on some other business, and Jonathan went out to visit the carrier’s men who had been seen hauling away some of the boxes from Carfax. I was about to take a nap when the maid knocked on my door and announced that Lord Godalming and Mr. Morris had arrived some hours ahead of schedule. As Dr. Seward was not at home, would I be willing to receive them?
I issued down-stairs and greeted the gentlemen in the foyer with a brave smile and a heavy heart, for we all shared a common bond and purpose, rooted in the sorrow of Lucy’s death. I had only met Arthur Holmwood once before, the previous spring, when he had called on Lucy during one of my visits—and although still very handsome, his face was so lined with suffering, it seemed as if he had aged a decade since then.
“Lord Godalming,” I said, as I gave him my hand, “I am so sorry for your loss, both for dear Lucy and for your father.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Harker,” he replied gravely, “but I know you and Lucy were like sisters. Her loss has been deeply felt by all of us, I fear.”
“You are right, sir.
” I then turned to Mr. Morris. He was tall like his friend, and very young—perhaps a few years older than myself—with a thick moustache, wavy auburn hair, piercing hazel eyes, and a firm grip. From the phonographic journal and letters I had typed the previous night, I deduced that Mr. Morris, Dr. Seward, and Lord Godalming had all shared in many past adventures in their youth, in remote places from the Marquesas Islands to the shores of Lake Titicaca in Peru. “How do you do, sir?” I said, holding out my hand.
“As well as can be expected, ma’am, under the circumstances,” Mr. Morris replied in an accent which I took to be the American Texas twang I had read about in books. As I led the men down the corridor, Mr. Morris continued: “We’ve heard tell a lot about you, Mrs. Harker. Dr. Van Helsing has been blowing your trumpet. He says you have a man’s brain—a brain that a man should have, that is, if he were gifted—and a woman’s heart.”
“Where Dr. Van Helsing gets that idea, I could not say. Indeed, I have spent very little time in his company.”
We entered Dr. Seward’s study. Both men stood awkwardly in the centre of the room, as if unsure of what to say or do.
“Please forgive us for coming so early,” Lord Godalming remarked uncertainly, “but I have been pacing the halls since yesterday, and I thought if I could just come over here and be given something useful to do—” He then lapsed into silence.
“Gentlemen,” I said, wishing to put them at ease, “let us speak openly. Last night, I listened to Dr. Seward’s detailed phonographic account of everything that has happened thus far. I know that our foe is a vampire, and I know all about Lucy’s death—her real death—yesterday, at the graveyard.”
The men’s eyes widened. “You don’t say!” exclaimed Mr. Morris. “You know all about it?”
“I not only know about it, sir, I have typed it all up, along with all the papers and diaries everyone has kept.”
I gave them each a copy of the rather sizeable manuscript. “Did you really typewrite all this, Mrs. Harker?” Lord Godalming asked.
I nodded. Mr. Morris eyed me in wonder and said: “May I read this now?”
“You may, sir.”
As Lord Godalming stared at the papers, I saw that his eyes were laced with sudden tears. Mr. Morris laid a hand on Lord Godalming’s shoulder for a moment; then, with quiet delicacy, he took the manuscript I had given him and walked out of the room.
Finding himself alone with me, Lord Godalming sank down onto the sofa and began to cry. I sat beside him in heartfelt sympathy, saying whatever I could think of to ease his sorrow. When our grief subsided and we had dried our tears, he thanked me for my words of comfort; and then a thought seemed to occur to him. From his coat-pocket, he withdrew a small box and offered it to me. “I almost forgot. I have something for you, Mrs. Harker. Before Lucy died, she asked me to give you this.”
I opened the box. I recognised the contents at once: it was the black velvet neckband with the exquisite diamond buckle that Lucy had so loved. “Oh! I cannot accept this, Lord Godalming. It is far too valuable, and your family heirloom. Did it not once belong to your mother?”
“Yes, but Lucy wanted you to have it. She made me issue my most solemn promise that I would see it safely into your hands. I would be happy to have you wear it in Lucy’s memory.”
“Then I must not refuse. Thank you, sir. Every time I wear it, I will think of her.”
WHEN DR. SEWARD RETURNED, I HAD TEA SERVED, WHICH SEEMED to revitalize everyone.
“May I ask a favour, Doctor?” I said, as I replaced my empty tea-cup in my saucer. “I would like to see your patient, Mr. Renfield.”
“Renfield?” Dr. Seward looked at me in alarm. “Why do you wish to see him?”
“What you have said of him in your diary interests me very much.”
“It is not a good idea, Mrs. Harker. Renfield is the most pronounced lunatic I have ever met with, and he can be very dangerous. Two weeks ago, he escaped and stabbed me in the wrist with a stolen dinner-knife, and then tried to lap up my blood.”
“I know.” I also knew that Mr. Renfield was fifty-nine years old, and a man of great physical strength, who alternated between periods of morbid excitability and deep gloom. “But he has no reason to wish me harm, Doctor—and I will be safe if you are with me. I would like to talk to him, to see if I can get him to admit anything about his mental connection to Count Dracula—if indeed there is one.”
He sighed. “Well, I suppose you could have a shot at it. I haven’t been able to get a useful word out of him of late. But under no circumstances will I leave you alone with him.”
Dr. Seward led me down the corridor to the patient’s room, which was situated one floor below mine, on the same side of the building. “Wait here,” he said, as he unlocked the door and slipped inside the chamber. I could hear the murmur of a brief conversation within; shortly thereafter, Dr. Seward reappeared and shut the door with a disgusted look on his face.
“What is wrong?” I enquired.
“Mr. Renfield’s method of preparing to greet guests is very singular. He just swallowed up a great quantity of flies and spiders that he has been collecting—no doubt to prevent us from stealing them.”
This pronouncement was disturbing, but not wholly unexpected. “I am well-acquainted with Mr. Renfield’s zoöphagous habits, having heard about them in some detail in your diary.”
Dr. Seward paused uncertainly, as if silently debating whether or not to allow the interview. With a reluctant sigh, he finally said: “All right. But do not be fooled by his quiet mood. He cannot be trusted.”
Dr. Seward preceded me into the room, which was small and starkly furnished. Mr. Renfield was a man of average height with wide shoulders and a very pale face. He was sitting on the edge of the bed in an eerie position: his head was down, but his eyelids were raised, and his eyes were fixed warily on me, with a look so dark and intense, it sent a chill up my spine.
Dr. Seward stood in close proximity to him, as if prepared to seize the madman at once, in case he attempted to make a spring at me. I swallowed my fear, held out my hand, and approached the patient with what I hoped would appear to be ease and gracefulness. “Good evening, Mr. Renfield. Dr. Seward has told me a great deal about you.”
Mr. Renfield made no immediate reply but studied me intently. At length, his eyebrows raised as a curious look crossed his face. “You’re not the girl the doctor wanted to marry, are you? No—you can’t be, for she’s dead.”
Dr. Seward looked taken aback by this statement.
“Oh no!” I replied, smiling. “I have a husband of my own, to whom I was married before I ever saw Dr. Seward, or he me. I am Mrs. Harker. I am here visiting Dr. Seward.”
Dr. Seward said quickly: “What makes you think I wanted to marry any one?”
Mr. Renfield snorted contemptuously, “What an asinine question!” Turning back to me, his manner suddenly changed, as quickly as the shifting of a wind, to a tone of courtesy and respect. “When a man is so loved and honoured as our host is, Mrs. Harker, everything regarding him is of interest in our little community.” He added that Dr. Seward was loved not only by his household and friends, but also by his patients, despite—or perhaps because of—their precarious mental equilibrium. He then went on to make some lengthy, erudite, and philosophical observations about the inmates at the asylum, and about the state of the world we lived in.
Whatever I had expected from Mr. Renfield, it was not this. His speech and manners were so much those of a polished gentleman that he appeared for all the world to be perfectly sane. It seemed impossible to believe that he had been eating up spiders and flies not five minutes before I entered the room. Dr. Seward seemed equally astonished; he stood in silence, looking at me as if I had some rare gift or power.
“If Dr. Seward’s patients love him,” I said, “it is with good reason, for he is a very kind and thoughtful individual, and has their best interests at heart.”
“That may be true for the others,” Mr. Renfield said
emphatically, “but not for me. The doctor does not like me, and he has gotten in my way.”
“How so?” I asked.
“He thinks that I have a strange belief—and perhaps I did. I used to think that by consuming a multitude of live things, no matter how low in the scale of creation, one might indefinitely prolong life. At times, I have held the belief so strongly that I tried to take human life, for the purpose of strengthening my vital powers by the assimilation of that person’s blood—relying, of course, upon the Scriptural phrase, ‘For the blood is the life.’ Though the vendor of a certain nostrum—Clarke’s ‘World Famous Blood Purifier,’ to be precise—has now turned that truism into a marketing slogan, which has vulgarised it to the very point of contempt. Don’t you agree?”
I nodded, familiar with the product to which he referred, and still taken aback by his genteel and lucid manner. The content of his discourse, however, depicted his psychosis, and I hoped to take full advantage of this. “Mr. Renfield. You said Dr. Seward has gotten in your way. Were you referring to the times when you tried to escape from this institution, and he brought you back?”
“Yes, and the fact that he won’t give me a cat.”
Knowing the patient’s predilection for consuming live creatures, I ignored this disturbing comment, and went on: “I understand that you ran to the property next door. Can you tell me why that is?”
