Quincey Morris, Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  Not that I was tempted to do the same toward the professor, but the idea did make me smile.

  As they would probably still be fighting until sunup, I decided I'd best go looking for a safe place to bunk for the day.

  * * *

  I awoke, unperforated by wooden stakes, but chilled to the bone. I had to force myself to stretch the warmth of movement into my arms and legs. My chosen shelter was an empty house bearing a worn "To Let" sign propped in a dusty window. No fire had been lighted inside for years, and the winter air had done a good day's work on my inert body. A hotel would have been more comfortable, but too much a risk. If Van Helsing had gotten Jack to change his mind, or struck off on his own, he'd scour every inn, hostel, and pub for miles around trying to find me.

  As before at Ring, I picked the attic over the basement, though I'd checked out the latter. It possessed a stale, moldy reek that reminded me of Dracula's burial vaults. Not wanting that clinging to my clothes, I went for the higher ground. The small dormer windows here were so begrimed with soot as to make midnight of noon, so I was very safe from the sun.

  The town was more active at this earlier hour, but showing signs of slowing down for the night. No one marked my materialization outside the house or my stroll up the high street to the telegraph office. There I ascertained that a number of messages had been delivered to Seward's asylum that day. With no twinge of guilt I extended my influence over the clerk to inquire on the nature of their contents, but he knew nothing, and the man who had taken them down had already gone home.

  I could guess that Bertrice had likely sent some reply or other to Jack and, hopefully, me. Knowing her devotion to Art she might have come up to see him. She could even be here. That gave a lift to my spirits. They had not been in the best of form while I lay in the cold attic waiting for the dawn. I had much to worry over what would be happening with my friends during the day. Thoughts of Bertrice were cheering, but I was concerned that she would be aggravated with me for absenting myself. True, I had been dragged off for an excellent reason, but she might not see it that way. When a man's been with a woman as we had been together, she's like to take it very amiss when he doesn't make a point to see her again as soon as possible.

  With this in mind I hurried along the lane toward the asylum, passing no one, meeting no one. The miles went under me quick enough, even at the last where I had to go by Carfax Abbey. The decaying old pile still seemed to emanate an evil atmosphere. All in my head, of course, all dark memories. Dracula's presence was long gone, if not the boxes of Transylvanian earth we'd sterilized. Those were still scattered about, ownerless at the present time. It occurred to me that I could make use of such a huge cache of soil. I had a very adequate supply of my own, but more might be handy. Dracula was unlikely to return for them.

  I'd easily rejected Carfax as a resting place. If he took it into his head to hunt me down, Van Helsing would certainly look there first. The same went for all the outbuildings surrounding the asylum. They might have been more convenient to me in terms of travel, but too dangerous to my health. When one is so absolutely helpless for so many long hours, one has a perfect right to be particular about accommodations.

  I marched just a little more quickly, eager to find out how Jack had fared and to see if Art was feeling better.

  The asylum was beginning to settle for the night. Lights showed in the patients' wing, but not many. Their waking hours were regulated by the sun, as many of them were not to be trusted with candles. Everything seemed normal, or as normal as could be expected for such a place. Still, I wasn't about to ring the front bell without a little scouting around as someone had been doing a passel of extra work that day.

  Every blessed window on the whole of the building had had a cross whitewashed onto it from the inside.

  Each door had likewise been embellished on the outside and was wreathed with strings of garlic.

  I had no doubt that holy water had been sprinkled everywhere.

  This did not bode well.

  It took only a moment to slip up to the window of Jack's study and sieve inside. The chamber was empty. I sniffed. The air was still and stale, except for the taint of garlic from the window frames, and no fire burned in the grate. The unswept ashes there were at least two days old.

  That wasn't right. Jack was a dogged worker. Even in the midst of the worst of all our troubles with Dracula he'd be in here scratching away on patient histories, or speaking reports into that phonograph machine that was his pride. It wasn't like him to be away. Maybe he'd taken Art back to Ring, but if so, then he'd left no note here for me to find.

  I went next to Van Helsing's rooms, listening outside a moment, but no one was there either. Going in—it was unlocked—I found ample signs of recent occupancy, but not the professor himself. It was a liberty, but I searched through his desk, rooting out a journal. I recognized dates and time notations at intervals on the closely written pages but nothing else as it was all in Dutch.

  The latest entry was for this morning at ten o'clock. He had a strong hand, but spiky to the point of illegibility, as though he'd been in a hurry. He'd had time for only a few paragraphs. From them I picked out Jack's and Art's names, and then mine. I felt suddenly uncomfortable, wondering what he'd written about us. The last line was just a few words beginning with "Gott," which I did know, and ending on three exclamation points. It was short enough that I could guess it translated as "God help us!!!" or something like that.

  So . . . at that hour of the morning he was still in a fearful, hell-raising conniption fit about me. Jack hadn't turned him around. Damnation.

  Next, I visited Art's room. Also empty. This was unsettling, but I quelled my worry with the hope that he'd simply gone home. The staff here would know for sure; I had to isolate one of them and ask a few quick questions.

  If I could find anyone.

  It was the dinner hour, most all of them would be gathered just off the kitchen in their own dining hall. Jack and the other doctors took their meals in a separate area from the nurses, who ate separately from the orderlies, who ate separately from the house servants, who ate separately from Lord knows who else. I'd never known anyone like the English for dividing themselves up into so many groups. They were dedicated zealots to that eccentricity. Not that Americans were much different, with us basing our divisions on how much money a body had, rather than social class, though that was there as well.

  The doctors' dining room was empty and dark. Again, no sign of a fire in the grate, so no one had eaten here.

  With awful suspicion, I yanked on the bell rope. I could hear it in the distance, but no response. With all the stir the professor must have created to get the cross-painting done, more than one person should have come to investigate.

  Nothing and no one. The place was deserted.

  I made my way to the patients' wing. Surely someone would be there. It would be too much a disruption for Van Helsing to move all those wretches. At night only one man usually held vigil in a little alcove in its main hall. He had access to a bell rope and an actual bell stood ready on his table in case there was an emergency with one of the inmates.

  This part of the original country house had been the most altered by the transformation to an asylum. The doors were made of metal with very stout bolts and grillwork fitted over small windows. They gave the long passage a jail-like appearance, very grim, very bleak.

  One such door was the line of demarcation between the two sides of the house, and it was firmly locked. I had no key, but did not need one as I poured through the grid to the other side. Damn, but it was a truly handy talent, if tiring.

  I was perversely relieved to hear the sounds of activity, those being the muted groans and wandering talk of the more restless souls.

  The hall to which their cells opened was dim, but not wholly dark, and partway along was the alcove. The young man on duty there was probably a medical student of some sort to judge by the books stacked before him on his table. He had a lamp to rea
d by and a plate with the remains of his dinner shoved to one side. He pored over one volume so closely that he did not notice me until I was quite close.

  A good thing too. By his startled reaction, he obviously took me for an escapee. However, I managed to stay him as he reached for his bell. It was hard going to get past his burst of fear. My head was fair pinched from the pain of effort, but it was better than physically grappling with him.

  "Just ease yourself, partner, I'm not here to hurt anyone." Just like calming a skittish horse. You talk slow and easy and don't make any sudden moves. Of course, a sugar lump or a piece of carrot always helps for them. "You just settle down so's we can have a little talk."

  I was very thankful that Jack ran a sober establishment. The man's racing heart slowed, and his wide eyes went blank. He sat quiet and freely answered my questions without a hitch.

  Professor Van Helsing was still running the place. He'd given the staff an unexpected holiday, providing they entirely quit the house and grounds for the whole night. It was inconvenient to them and highly mystifying, but he'd slipped them all an extra bit of wages to smooth things over. The fellow before me was the one exception, being the volunteer the professor required to remain behind to look after the inmates. He was paid extra as well, and did not mind having some quiet place to pursue his book-learning. He knew nothing about the crosses and garlic adorning the house. Apparently he was content to let the Dutch doctor have his fads so long as they had the blessing of Dr. Seward, who was apparently indisposed with a digestive upset.

  Van Helsing certainly was ambitious and hopeful, and very misguided. This utterly contradicted what he'd witnessed the night before with my immunity to holy symbols, and made me wonder if he should not be confined to the asylum instead of running it.

  The man had no idea where the professor or Jack Seward were, only that they were in the house.

  "Where's Lord Godalming?"

  "Here," he replied, his voice flat from his trance.

  "Where?"

  "Here."

  "What? In one of these cells?"

  "Yes."

  "Take me to him! Now!"

  He got his ring of keys and led the way. He paused in front of a door with a cloth flap hung inside its window. It could be lifted from the outside by means of a cord sewn into the material that was threaded through the grid. I pulled on the cord and peered in. High up on the wall, beyond the reach of even the tallest of madmen, a dim gaslamp lighted the room.

  The sight meeting my eyes left me too flabbergasted to think straight.

  "Did Professor Van Helsing order this?" I demanded, fighting down a sudden tide of rage.

  "Yes."

  Such unconscionable audacity left me stunned. How dare he?

  Bertrice had said the exact same thing. And she'd not even met him.

  Horrified, I stepped back and directed that the door be instantly unlocked. The man obeyed and I pushed into the cell. There was no other name for such a room. It was about six feet square, and the walls and floor were covered with a very thick, tough canvas padding, meant to keep violent patients from injuring themselves.

  On the floor lay Art Holmwood, bound up tight as a tick, immobile in a strait-waistcoat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I rushed in and began tugging to unbuckle the stiff leather strap that held his arms wrapped around his body.

  Art mumbled, struggling to stir himself.

  "It's Quincey," I said in a low, reassuring tone that I did not feel. In fact, I was mad enough to spit rattlers. "I'll get you out of here, old partner. Don't you worry about a thing."

  "Quincey?" He sounded very weak.

  "What has that devil done to you?" I demanded.

  "Mm . . . ?"

  "Wake up, damn it! Come on!"

  I got the strap parted clear and dragged the canvas restraint from him. Beneath he wore the rumpled remains of his evening clothes. He lay like a beached fish, limbs flapping randomly. I helped him sit up. Under a long day's growth of beard he was a dreadful green color, and I feared he'd go sick on me. His coat was missing, along with his shoes. I told the student to go fetch some spirits.

  "That must have been . . ." Art rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  "What must have been?"

  He blinked sleepily.

  "Art?"

  He stared blearily at me, gulping a deep draught of air. "God, my head's bursting. What a sleep I've had. Nightmares too. Dreamt I was shut away in a box like Lucy. Awful stuff."

  "Look around, it's not much better."

  He did, his thoughts making a visible progression over his features. "What in the world . . . ?"

  "Tell me about Van Helsing. What do you remember about last night?"

  "I'm . . . last night?"

  "You had dinner with Jack and Van Helsing."

  "Don't know. My mind's too muzzy. I must have some coffee."

  I grimaced. "All right, then, don't trouble yourself just now. We'll get you out of here first."

  The student returned with a small bottle of brandy and I gave Art a good sample from it. He was having a hard fight to bring himself back, but looked to be winning. After a few moments he was on his feet, swaying a little, but able to walk under his own power. We got him outside and seated at the student's table. Art availed himself of the contents of a carafe of water there. Some of the green cast left his face.

  "God, but I was thirsty." He sounded much more awake.

  "You hungry?"

  "Dear heavens, no!" Some of his old manner had returned, which was a relief. Beyond an expected state of confusion, there was no sign of the collapse such as Jack had described, only the usual ailing from too much drink. "I'm trying to remember. All I can see is the professor's face. He did this. He put me here this morning I think. Had those bullies of his shove me into that coat. Too many to fight. Kept calling for you. Thought you'd come bursting in like that time on the waterfront in Marseilles. . . . How the devil did I get here? Where's Jack?"

  "Someplace in the asylum. Van Helsing took you from Ring last night."

  "I don't remember. God, I was so drunk . . ."

  That explained his "collapse" of last night. Staid and sober as they come, Art could put on a hell of a rip when the mood struck him. A couple of doctors used to the antics of lunatics might think him in need of restraint, but Jack should have known better. This had to be Van Helsing's doing, though why he saw fit to lock Art up and hog-tie him, I couldn't say. "What do you recall?

  "Um . . . dinner. I was too nerved up to eat. Every noise made me think you'd arrived. I wanted to tell them the good news about your being back, but couldn't, so I kept pacing. And drinking. I fear I had more brandy than was good for their peace of mind. Jack kept watching me like I was one of his patients. He knew something was up."

  "What about the professor?"

  "Yes, he had that same look. Asked me if I was anxious about anything for God's sake. He was just a shade too nonchalant for my taste, for I could see he was hanging a lot on my reply. I finally told them that we were to have another guest as a surprise and that I'd promised not to reveal his identity. That held them for awhile, but it irked me that they were still watching. Put the wind up me, I tell you. I thought to shift the subject and asked them about that paper they were writing. They weren't forthcoming, but I kept at it. Jack deferred to the professor, and he said they were putting together the record of our hunt for Dracula, trying to get everything into order."

  "They must have thought talking of it would upset you. Did it?"

  "No more than usual. But while the topic was open they asked me for some details on my side of it, and got me to thinking things out again. Then I started asking about Lucy. I couldn't help myself. I had to know."

  "Know what?"

  "If . . . if I'd murdered her."

  Oh, dear God.

  "Y-you're back, you and she both came back. Why did she have to die again? Were we too swift to judge her?"

  My heart ached for
his anguish. "Art . . ."

  "Quincey, you returned without bringing harm to others, why not Lucy?"

  "We've gone over that. I told you I'm different."

  "But could she not have been rescued from the darkness?"

  I took his hand in both of mine and looked long at him until I knew he was under my influence. My emotions were high; I had to fight to keep myself level so as not to injure his mind. "Art, when she returned she was no longer the Lucy you loved. You know that. We all saw it. Remember your loathing? That thing just wore her form."

  Tears quivered in his eyes. "Yesss . . ."

  "You did right. You are not a murderer. Don't ever think otherwise. There was no other path. Dracula was the one to take her from you. It was by your hand you delivered her soul to God. I know she's with the angels and watching you now. Don't give her cause to grieve by tormenting yourself with doubt."

  He bowed his head. "I'm sorry."

  I let him go, putting a hand on his shoulder. "It's all right, old partner. I know it hurts."

  He recovered some and swiped his sleeve over his eyes. "I wish you'd been there to tell them. You have a way of making it all right. I got very upset, and by then I'd had a lot to drink. I asked Van Helsing if he knew of more than one kind of vampire. He wanted to know why I would ask such a thing, but I wouldn't say. Then he and Jack started speaking over me as though I wasn't there and that made me angry, and I thought the devil with them and went upstairs. Jack followed me. I had some idea I might be able to reach him. I was babbling by then, couldn't seem to stop. My nerves haven't been the best of late. . . ."

  "I'm not holding it against you. You had a lot to look after in too short a time, so be easy about it."