Penny Dreadful Adventures: Mysteries of London 2: The Mysteries of London (Exposing the Truth)

by Hall, Ian

  And there I had it, yet another part of the puzzle that did nothing but broaden my range of questions.

  Auld Claithes an’ Porridge

  I stepped out of the office before eight, determined to organize the next trip better than my first. And yes, I was going back. The first sojourn south had merely whetted my appetite for the truth, and I knew I had to work like a dervish to get my official work done before Friday.

  Alexander Mair, my grandfather on my mother’s side, after whom I was named, had a saying that he used when he came home from one of his travels. He would retire his travelling gear to an old chest and don clothes from his bedroom drawers. ‘Auld claithes an’ porridge’, he would announce on his entrance to the family room, indicating his vacation’s end, his acceptance of a return to modest fare, and an announcement of a ‘back to work’ attitude. As I wolfed my own porridge that morning, I truly understood my grandfather’s maxim for the first time, and it almost brought tears to my eyes as I bathed in the memory.

  The first port of call was to my publisher. I needed a second pair of eyes, and since Reggie already knew the basics of the plot, and he’d proved his worth on more than one occasion, he was my first choice. Once I’d got Lloyd’s permission to steal him away permanently, we got a cab to my outfitters, where I bought a new set of clothes for the boy. I might add that the shopkeeper was as irritable about having Reggie inside the shop as Reggie was being there, but after half an hour we left with a bundle wrapped in brown paper and string.

  I didn’t quite know how to handle the next part, but knew someone who would. I headed back to the office, left Reggie outside on watch, and confronted Thackeray. “I need him washed.” I came straight to the point.

  The look she gave me led me to no doubt she distrusted my intentions to the boy. “Whatever for?”

  “He’s now in my employ,” I shook my head slightly. “He’s running messages to Lloyds, Edward Reynolds and more, and it looks bad on us if he turns up at their door looking like a ragamuffin. I have a whole new set of clothes for him, and he needs washed before he puts them on.”

  “Leave it to me.” Thackeray nodded her head once with a firmly set jaw. “I had boys once, I know how to handle that situation.”

  “You have sons?” The question was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

  “I do,” she set both fists at her waist and I could tell she was trying to hold back her emotions with a show of strength. “Both grown up, both in the Army, have been for ten years or so.”

  “Do you ever see them?”

  “Not as much as I like, but both will call here when they’re home, and trust me that only happens once every few years.”

  I placed the clothes on the table, patted Thackeray on the shoulder, and joined Reggie outside.

  “Okay, Reggie,” I began slowly. “If you’re to join me next weekend, there’s a few changes have to be made.” He listened intently to me, and nodded as I spoke. “We’re going to teach you to ride, because you sure-as-damn can’t ride behind me; that was very uncomfortable. But first we’ve got to get you into your new clothes. Now, I’ve came to an agreement with Mister Lloyd that you now work for me and me only. To begin our new arrangement, you go inside and do exactly what Thackeray tells you to, alright?”

  “Yes sir,” he looked quite eager to begin his new employ, although I’d have bet a shilling he wouldn’t be so cocky if he knew what was in store.

  So Reggie went inside to see Thackeray, and I went upstairs to my office to greet my new manuscript.

  To my horror, the first chapter was only 1500 words long, but it did include a long conversation between Varney and Flora. Now knowing the man personally, I fluffed out his language, and soon the piece was 300 words longer, just inside the short limit for a single edition.

  The second chapter held over 4000 words, and it took most of the day to get it down to acceptable 3000. I now knew Admiral Bell from my trip to Chessington, and could not help seeing him in the manuscript. I felt closer to the story than ever before, and leave both chapters (in my eyes the best so far) below for your eyes.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE DREADFUL MISTAKE

  THE TERRIFIC INTERVIEW IN THE CHAMBER

  THE ATTACK OF THE VAMPYRE

  The footstep which Flora, upon the close of the tale she had been reading, heard approaching her apartment, came rapidly along the corridor.

  "It is Henry, returned to conduct me to an interview with Charles's uncle," she said. "I wonder, now, what manner of man he is. He should in some respect resemble Charles; and if he do so, I shall bestow upon him some affection for that alone."

  Tap -- tap came upon the chamber door.

  Flora was not at all alarmed now, as she had been when Henry brought her the manuscript. From some strange action of the nervous system, she felt quite confident, and resolved to brave everything. But then she felt quite sure that it was Henry, and before the knocking had taken her by surprise.

  "Come in," she said, in a cheerful voice. "Come in."

  The door opened with wonderful swiftness -- a figure stepped into the room, and then closed it as rapidly, and stood against it. Flora tried to scream, but her tongue refused its office; a confused whirl of sensations passed through her brain -- she trembled, and an icy coldness came over her. It was Sir Francis Varney, the vampyre!

  He had drawn up his tall, gaunt frame to its full height, and crossed his arms upon his breast; there was a hideous smile upon his sallow countenance, and his voice was deep and sepulchral, as he said, --

  "Flora Bannerworth, hear that which I have to say, and hear it calmly. You need have nothing to fear. Make an alarm -- scream, or shout for help, and, by the hell beneath us, you are lost!"

  There was a death-like, cold, passionless manner about the utterance of these words, as if they were spoken mechanically, and came from no human lips.

  Flora heard them, and yet scarcely comprehended them; she stepped slowly back till she reached a chair, and there she held for support. The only part of the address of Varney that thoroughly reached her ears, was that if she gave any alarm some dreadful consequences were to ensue. But it was not on account of these words that she really gave no alarm; it was because she was utterly unable to do so.

  "Answer me," said Varney. "Promise that you will hear that which I have to say. In so promising you commit yourself to no evil, and you shall hear that which shall give you much peace."

  It was in vain she tried to speak; her lips moved, but she uttered no sound.

  "You are terrified," said Varney, "and yet I know not why. I do not come to do you harm, although harm have you done me. Girl, I come to rescue you from a thraldom of the soul under which you now labour."

  There was a pause of some moments' duration, and then, faintly, Flora managed to say, --

  "Help! help! Oh, help me, Heaven!"

  Varney made a gesture of impatience, as he said, --

  "Heaven works no special matters now. Flora Bannerworth, if you have as much intellect as your nobility and beauty would warrant the world in supposing, you will listen to me."

  "I -- I hear," said Flora, as she still, dragging the chair with her, increased the distance between them.

  "'Tis well. You are now more composed."

  She fixed her eyes upon the face of Varney with a shudder. There could be no mistake. It was the same which, with the strange, glassy looking eyes, had glared upon her on that awful night of the storm, when she was visited by the vampyre. And Varney returned that gaze unflinchingly. There was a hideous and strange contortion of his face now as he said, --

  "You are beautiful. The most cunning statuary might well model some rare work of art from those rounded limbs, that were surely made to bewitch the gazer. Your skin rivals the driven snow -- what a face of loveliness, and what a form of enchantment."

  She did not speak, but a thought came across her mind, which at once crimsoned her cheek -- she knew she had fainted on the first visit of the vampyre, and now h
e, with a hideous reverence, praised beauties which he might have cast his demonic eyes over at such a time.

  "You understand me," he said. "Well, let that pass. I am something allied to humanity yet."

  "Speak your errand," gasped Flora, "or come what may, I scream for help to those who will not be slow to render it."

  "I know it."

  "You know I will scream?"

  "No; you will hear me. I know they would not be slow to render help to you, but you will not call for it; I will present to you no necessity."

  "Say on -- say on."

  "You perceive I do not attempt to approach you; my errand is one of peace."

  "Peace from you! Horrible being, if you be really what even now my appalled imagination shrinks from naming you, would not even to you absolute annihilation be a blessing?"

  "Peace, peace. I came not here to talk on such a subject. I must be brief, Flora Bannerworth, for time presses. I do not hate you. Wherefore should I? You are young, and you are beautiful, and you bear a name which should command, and does command, some portion of my best regard."

  "There is a portrait," said Flora, "in this house."

  "No more -- no more. I know what you would say."

  "It is yours."

  "The house, and all within, I covet," he said, uneasily. "Let that suffice. I have quarrelled with your brother -- I have quarrelled with one who just now fancies he loves you."

  "Charles Holland loves me truly."

  "It does not suit me now to dispute that point with you. I have the means of knowing more of the secrets of the human heart than common men. I tell you, Flora Bannerworth, that he who talks to you of love, loves you not but with the fleeting fancy of a boy; and there is one who hides deep in his heart a world of passion, one who has never spoken to you of love, and yet who loves you with a love as afar surpassing the evanescent fancy of this boy Holland, as does the mighty ocean the most placid lake that ever basked in idleness beneath a summer's sun."

  There was a wonderful fascination in the manner now of Varney. His voice sounded like music itself. His words flowed from his tongue, each gently and properly accented, with all the charm of eloquence.

  Despite her trembling horror of that man -- despite her fearful opinion, which might be said to amount to a conviction of what he really was, Flora felt an irresistible wish to hear him speak on. Ay, despite, too, the ungrateful theme to her heart which he had now chosen as the subject of his discourse, she felt her fear of him gradually dissipating, and now when he made a pause, she said, --

  "You are much mistaken. On the constancy and truth of Charles Holland, I would stake my life."

  "No doubt, no doubt."

  "Have you spoken now that which you had to say?"

  "No, no. I tell you I covet this place, I would purchase it, but having with your bad-tempered brothers quarrelled, they will hold no further converse with me."

  "And well they may refuse."

  "Be that as it may, sweet lady, I come to you to be my mediator. In the shadows of the future I can see many events which are to come."

  "Indeed."

  "It is so. Borrowing some wisdom from the past, and some from resources I would not detail to you, I know that if I have inflicted much misery upon you, I can spare you much more. Your brother or your lover will challenge me."

  "Oh, no, no."

  "I say such will happen, and I can kill either. My skill as well as my strength is superhuman."

  "Mercy! mercy!" gasped Flora.

  "I will spare either or both on a condition."

  "What fearful condition?"

  "It is not a fearful one. Your terrors go far beyond the fact. All I wish, maiden, of you is to induce these imperious brothers of yours to sell or let the Hall to me."

  "Is that all?"

  "It is. I ask no more, and, in return, I promise you not only that I will not fight with them, but that you shall never see me again. Rest securely, maiden, you will be undisturbed by me."

  "Oh, God! that were indeed an assurance worth the striving for," said Flora.

  "It is one you may have. But -- "

  "Oh, I knew -- my heart told me there was yet some fearful condition to come."

  "You are wrong again. I only ask of you that you keep this meeting a secret."

  "No, no, no -- I cannot."

  "Nay, what so easy?"

  "I will not; I have no secrets from those I love."

  "Indeed, you will find soon the expediency of a few at least; but if you will not, I cannot urge it longer. Do as your wayward woman's nature prompts you."

  There was a slight, but a very slight, tone of aggravation in these words, and the manner in which they were uttered.

  As he spoke, he moved from the door towards the window, which opened into a kitchen garden. Flora shrunk as far from him as possible, and for a few minutes they regarded each other in silence.

  "Young blood," said Varney, "mantles in your veins."

  She shuddered with terror.

  "Be mindful of the condition I have proposed to you. I covet Bannerworth Hall."

  "I -- I hear."

  "And I must have it. I will have it, although my path to it be through a sea of blood. You understand me, maiden? Repeat what has passed between us or not, as you please. I say, beware of me, if you keep not the condition I have proposed."

  "Heaven knows that this place is becoming daily more hateful to us all," said Flora.

  "Indeed!"

  "You well might know so much. It is no sacrifice to urge it now. I will urge my brothers."

  "Thanks -- a thousand thanks. You many not live to regret having made a friend of Varney -- "

  "The vampyre!" said Flora.

  He advanced towards her a step, and she involuntarily uttered a scream of terror.

  In an instant his hand clasped her waist with the power of an iron vice; she felt his hot breath flushing on her cheek. Her senses reeled, and she found herself sinking. She gathered all her breath and all her energies into one piercing shriek, and then she fell to the floor. There was a sudden crash of broken glass, and then all was still.

  --

  Chapter 21

  THE CONFERENCE BETWEEN THE UNCLE AND NEPHEW, AND THE ALARM

  Meanwhile Charles Holland had taken his uncle by the arm, and led him into a private room.

  "Dear uncle," he said, "be seated, and I will explain everything without reserve."

  "Seated! -- nonsense! I'll walk about," said the admiral. "D -- n me! I've no patience to be seated, and very seldom had or have. Go on now, you young scamp."

  "Well -- well; you abuse me, but I am quite sure, had you been in my situation, you would have acted precisely as I have done."

  "No, I shouldn't."

  "Well, but, uncle -- "

  "Don't think to come over me by calling me uncle. Hark you, Charles -- from this moment I won't be your uncle any more."

  "Very well, sir."

  "It ain't very well. And how dare you, you buccaneer, call me sir, eh? I say, how dare you?"

  "I will call you anything I like."

  "But I won't be called anything I like. You might as well call me at once Morgan the Pirate, for he was called anything he liked. Hilloa, sir! how dare you laugh, eh? I'll teach you to laugh at me. I wish I had you on board ship -- that's all, you young rascal. I'd soon teach you to laugh at your superior officer, I would."

  "Oh, uncle, I did not laugh at you."

  "What did you laugh at, then?"

  "At the joke."

  "Joke. D -- n me, there was no joke at all!"

  "Oh, very good."

  "And it ain't very good."

  Charles knew very well that, this sort of humour, in which was the old admiral, would soon pass away, and then that he would listen to him comfortably enough; so he would not allow the least exhibition of petulance or mere impatience to escape himself, but contented himself by waiting until the ebullition of feeling fairly worked itself out.

  "Well, well," at length
said the old man, "you have dragged me here, into a very small and very dull room, under pretence of having something to tell me, and I have heard nothing yet."

  "Then I will now tell you," said Charles. "I fell in love -- "

  "Bah!"

  "With Flora Bannerworth, abroad; she is not only the most beautiful of created beings -- "

  "Bah!"

  "But her mind is of the highest order of intelligence, honour, candour, and all amiable feelings -- "

  "Bah!"

  "Really, uncle, if you say 'Bah!' to everything, I cannot go on."

  "And what the deuce difference, sir, does it make to you, whether I say 'Bah!' or not?"

  "Well, I love her. She came to England, and, as I could not exist, but was getting ill, and should, no doubt, have died if I had not done so, I came to England."

  "But d -- -e, I want to know about the mermaid."

  "The vampyre, you mean, sir."

  "Well, well, the vampyre."

  "Then, uncle, all I can tell you is, that it is supposed a vampyre came one night and inflicted a wound upon Flora's neck with his teeth, and that he is still endeavouring to renew his horrible existence from the young, pure blood that flows through her veins."

  "The devil he is!"

  "Yes. I am bewildered, I must confess, by the mass of circumstances that have combined to give the affair a horrible truthfulness. Poor Flora is much injured in health and spirits; and when I came home, she, at once, implored me to give her up, and think of her no more, for she could not think of allowing me to unite my fate with hers, under such circumstances."

  "She did?"

  "Such were her words, uncle. She implored me -- she used the word 'implore' -- to fly from her, to leave her to her fate, to endeavour to find happiness with some one else."

  "Well?"

  "But I saw her heart was breaking."

  "What o' that?"

  "Much of that, uncle. I told her that when I deserted her in the hour of misfortune that I hoped Heaven would desert me. I told her that if her happiness was wrecked, to cling yet to me, and that with what power and what strength God had given me, I would stand between her and all ill."