"Chief Inspector! Chief Inspector!"
"Why the bloody racket. Grimes?"
"It's the vampire, sir," the young policeman said, out of breath from running. "She's escaped."
* * *
15
The Vicarage
JANUARY 13, 1880. At breakfast with the Special Committee, Palmer and Blackley related the details of the latest murder, including the autopsy (at least I'm getting used to seeing these), and the still-unexplained postmortem healing of the victim's neck wounds. I suggested we resume our efforts at the jail, to see what we could learn about the so-called vampire and her escape. After another round of coffee we were off.
Following her capture the night before, Kate Woolf had been taken to a secret prison near the Admiralty called the Vicarage, in honor of its first tenant, a priest accused of conspiring to overthrow the government and reinstate Catholicism as the state religion. The prison was originally part of an ancient fortification, now the basement of an innocuous government building where "clarks," as they are called here, pore over their ledgers. Access to the Vicarage was through a barred door at the end of a narrow, sunless alley behind the building. A flight of steep stone stairs led down into an almost medieval dungeon. The prison office occupied an antechamber at the bottom of the stairs. Just past the office was a heavily barred door, through which I could see a long, dim corridor lit with flickering gas jets extending into the distance. Metal rings where prisoners were once shackled by their wrists still hung from the walls.
The prison warden invited us to be seated and sent for the jailer who had been in charge at the time of Woolf's escape. After a brief wait, punctuated with the sound of metal doors being unlocked, opened, then closed and secured again, the guard stood before us. His name was Dennis Hammer—pronounced with a long vowel. The time he'd spent working in the unhealthy dungeon had been as hard on him as it no doubt was on the prisoners. Hammer was perhaps forty, though he looked a good deal older. His complexion was pasty from the lack of sun, and his big body had gone soft through lack of exercise, although I do not doubt he had the strength requisite for the job. His nerves were evidently raw from the previous night's experience: I detected the hint of whiskey on him.
No one had ever escaped the Vicarage, the warden observed.
Hammer stood with his head bowed, looking at the floor. He sagged visibly as his humiliation deepened.
"Let's have it then," the warden said. "Tell them how it happened."
The story Hammer told us was, from a purely objective standpoint, too fantastic to be believed, though he obviously was convinced he spoke the truth. In simple, straightforward language, absent the melodramatic embellishment Van Helsing would have given the tale. Hammer reported that Kate Woolf had been brought to the Vicarage in chains at eight the previous evening and had been duly registered—no doubt in the secret prison's secret registry. Woolf was taken to Cell 27 in Corridor B, shackled to the wall, and locked neatly in. There was nothing in the room besides a cot, a slops jar, and a pitcher of water.
About an hour later, Hammer said, he started to hear "something uncommon strange" coming from the cells—the sound of a woman singing. At first he ignored it and continued his game of solitaire. The guests at the Vicarage were subject to all manner of unusual behavior, which Hammer said he had trained himself to mostly ignore. However, after a time the "weird singing" began to have an effect on him.
"I can't rightly explain it, but it was as if I was dreaming. I swear on my soul I did not fall asleep, and yet it was like I was dreaming. The music somehow done it to me. Most uncommon strange, it was."
The next thing Hammer knew, he was standing in Corridor B outside Cell 27. The door was open. The shackles that had chained Kate Woolf to the wall were empty. She was gone.
"You let her bloody go?" Lord Shaftbury almost shouted.
"I can't say, sir," Hammer answered, hanging his head even lower, which was hardly possible.
"You must not hold this guard responsible," Van Helsing said.
"I bloody well can!" the warden exploded.
"You must not. The responsibility is not his. The vampire is to blame. They have mesmeric powers. It is part of what makes them so dangerous. She put him in a hypnotic trance with her singing."
"The guard was hypnotized?" Reverend Clarkson asked Blackley. He seemed to grow more befuddled by the instant. "Is that possible?"
"I suppose it is, Reverend," the physician answered.
Blackley shot me a private look, as if expecting me to attempt to debunk the latest claims. All I could do was shrug. I had nothing to say. I had no alternate explanation. For all I knew, the guard had been hypnotized by Kate Woolf's strange singing. Although I have refused to attribute these phenomenon to supernatural agencies, I'll be damned if I can explain what's going on.
We dutifully trooped through a series of locked gates and filed down the dark, dank corridor to inspect Cell 27. The padlock on the shackles and the door lock were closely examined and tested. Each worked as intended. It was difficult to imagine how anyone could escape from this inhumane and depressing prison, cruelly designed to defeat the spirit as well as the body.
As we returned to the prison office, a policeman burst in and announced that the body of a charwoman had been discovered nearby, drained of her blood like the others. Most likely that, too, was the work of the vampire Kate Woolf.
Blast it all, I've done it myself: I've described Woolf as a "vampire," and without experiencing the usual inner sneer that comes with condescending to the preposterous, the superstitious, the absurd.
It seems the hysteria has claimed its latest victim—me.
* * *
16
A Game of Chess
JANUARY14, 1880 (2:00 a.m.). The eyes, the hands, the mind—what have they seen? What have they done? What does it mean?
This question I must resolve to answer above all else, dear God: What does it mean?
I can scarcely believe what I have witnessed tonight. And yet I must. Confronted with the horrible, the impossible, the incredible, the unbelievable, I must coldly and calmly believe.
But dispassionate logic seems beyond me at the moment. The full weight of this awful truth only hit me after I had returned here to my hotel room, a stiff glass of whiskey in front of me. I picked up my pen to write this entry and my hand began to shake. My hand began to shake! I've ridden into a hail of Rebel bullets and cannonballs. I've been chased by Indians, attacked by grizzly bears, and tossed and torn by a hurricane off the Dry Tortugas. But never before now have I been so unnerved as to see my hand shake.
Thank God I did not panic earlier, or I would be dead.
At this moment I feel closer to madness than I could have imagined possible. I must draw from my deepest reserves and confront the matter squarely and honestly. I am not the first man to make a discovery that sets his universe on its head. Science must be based on objectivity. Expectations, experiences, and preconceived notions must never be allowed to pollute one's observations—or the dreaded conclusion to which they inevitably lead.
I must write this down, one step at a time, exactly as it unfolded, in careful detail, while the events are as fresh as a new wound.
The Special Committee reconvened at Downing Street late in the afternoon, as the winter darkness began to gather the light from the corners and alleys in the old city. Shaftbury opened the session with a report on the vampire who had been captured and escaped, but Disraeli cut him short. He already knew the details from his informants—probably one of them was Blackley, who had said one or two things to indicate he and Disraeli were thick as thieves.
The Prime Minister was not pleased with the committee's lack of progress.
"This simply will not do," Disraeli said. "London grows more agitated by the day. There would be an angry mob outside at this moment, if fear of the monster did not keep people off the streets. The anarchists and other misguided Utopians will take this grim situation as an opportunity. The time has com
e for us to do something right. We cannot fail Her Majesty."
He gave us a look, as if wondering if we were going to fail him.
"I am open to your suggestions. I pray to God you have some."
"We should search for Kate Woolf," I said. "She is our one solid lead. I suggest concentrating on the East End. She's familiar with the territory and the people. It'll be easiest for her to blend in."
"Vampires tend to be creatures of habit," Van Helsing said. "I agree with Professor Cotswold."
"We could deploy a force of policemen in civilian clothing throughout the neighborhood, armed with whistles to signal for help at the first sign of trouble," young Captain Lucian said.
"My men are already spreading out through the neighborhood," C.I. Palmer said. "But I do like the Captain's way of thinking."
"Then make it happen," Disraeli said a bit crossly.
"The men must be well-armed with revolvers, stakes, hammers—whatever it takes to kill the monster," Shaftbury said. "We cannot take any chances. Any vampire we apprehend must be summarily executed."
"No!"
The explosiveness of my disagreement startled the others.
"We must make our best assessment of what agents are at play here. Is there really such a thing as a vampire? I can see from your expressions that I am the only one still harboring doubts. But let us assume for the moment that a vampire, or a band of vampires, is responsible for these crimes. We must make sure we understand their strengths and weaknesses, and the nature of so strange a condition. We must learn exactly what a vampire is, how the contagion is spread, how it is best battled. With all due respect to Dr. Van Helsing, do you really want to entrust the future of London—indeed, the future of the entire human species—to a Hungarian folk tale, Mr. Prime Minister? We must exercise scrupulous due diligence. I appeal to you, Mr. Disraeli. The fate of your country, the fate of the world, may well rest in your hands."
Disraeli looked to Van Helsing. The rumpled little man was slumped in a chair, his hands pressed together as if in meditation, index fingers pressed against mouth and chin. Fear was among the emotions reflected in his dark little eyes. The fearless vampire hunter was not, it turned out, beyond being afraid.
"I would advise you in the strongest of terms to allow us to destroy the fiends as we find them."
Disraeli was silent for a moment, brooding over the options.
"You may be right, Dr. Van Helsing," he said at last, "but we must keep the broader picture in mind. I would remind you all of the question Charles Darwin put forth, simple and yet chilling in implication. Is the vampire an aberration, a lethal but confinable disease, or a threat to the existence of humanity?"
"Or is it the judgment of God?" Reverend Clarkson interjected.
"We can only find out through scientific inquiry," I said, still ensnarled in my own way of looking at the world. "We must recapture Woolf and examine her to learn what we can."
"But how will that be possible?" Shaftbury asked. "We already know a vampire can't be held in prison."
"I believe she can be held, even if she does possess the power to hypnotize her captors," I said. "From what I have been able to learn on the fly about autosuggestion, in order to be hypnotized, a subject must be either willing or at the very least unsuspecting."
"I can assure you Hammer was not willing," Palmer said.
"No, but he was unsuspecting. Whatever trick Kate Woolf used to get him to unlock the prison door, I doubt she could do it to him again. Therefore, when we apprehend her, I suggest assigning two or even four guards to stand duty. They must remain together as a group at all times, and, when not otherwise engaged in their duties, they should be instructed to play cards."
"Did you say—what?" Shaftbury sputtered.
But the Prime Minister was already at my defense. "I follow your reasoning perfectly, Professor Cotswold. If the men's minds are occupied, they will not be subject to any subtle, undue influence."
"I say, Cotswold, you are the sly one," Blackley said.
"Rotate the guards every few hours," I said. "The greater the mental fatigue, the greater the risk their minds will become subject to suggestion."
"Have you the men to accommodate this recommendation?" Disraeli asked the policeman. Palmer nodded. "Very well, then. We shall give Professor Cotswold's plan a try."
An East End map was unrolled on a table. Captain Lucian made several useful suggestions about conducting our search. I was gaining a little more appreciation for Lucian, even if he obviously had his eye on the lovely Lady Olivia Moore. That was a battle, I feared, he would lose to the more experienced tactician—me.
Blackley and I paired up, police whistles in our pockets to signal the others should we happen upon anything untoward.
The night was not bad for January, the air just above freezing and lacking the moisture that makes the cold penetrate the bones. The easy breeze was sufficient to keep the coal smoke of innumerable fires from hanging oppressively over the city, but too slight to penetrate my overcoat and scarf. The gaslights illuminated the deserted sidewalks. London had undergone a metamorphosis in the days since my address to the Royal Society. A pall of fear had descended over the city, driving the people indoors when darkness came.
"London will undoubtedly see less than the usual amount of crime tonight," Blackley said. "People who stay home fearing the vampire will avoid having their pockets picked or their empty houses burgled. They won't lose money gambling, contract syphilis from a prostitute, or get hit over the head by a gin-addled thug."
We paused for Blackley to light a cheroot. He squinted up at me through the smoke and flame of his match. "Since vampires have an undoubted moralizing effect upon society, perhaps you would like to import one or two to America when you return," he said.
I declined the offer.
We continued on our way, each consumed for a time by private thoughts. We walked briskly, our breath shooting out silver plumes in the cold air, our eyes alert and ever moving. As we traveled deeper into the East End, we gradually began to see a few more people. Though deserted by the city's overpopulated standard, people loitered here and there, going to and from the public houses, compelled by habit and addiction to engage in those practices that neither panic nor plague could discourage.
A woman stepped out of a doorway as if materializing from the shadows. Her face was garish with paint. She was aged beyond her years, the reward for hard living. The leer on her lips did not extend as far as her eyes, which even in the reflection of the gaslight were dark and hopeless, her existence but a simulacrum of life.
" 'Ello, gents," she said. "Care for a bit of flash?"
"Not tonight, love," Blackley said.
The whore returned to her station, where we could hear her talking to herself, questioning our manhood.
"She had better hope Lucian does not come this way. He would horsewhip her for such impudence."
"You're joking, of course," I said.
"Yes, but he does have quite a temper. I attribute it to his upbringing in Scotland's cold, Presbyterian climate. Do you know he once killed a man in a duel?"
"In London?"
"We are more civilized than that, if only just. It happened in Africa, when he was there with his regiment. Something to do with a girl, I believe."
"Usually is," I said, thinking of Lady Olivia Moore.
"A word to the wise for you, old man," Blackley said with a sidelong glance. He was thinking about Olivia, too, and the interest in her I shared with Captain Lucian.
"I can take care of myself," I said.
"I was rather thinking of young Lucian's continued well-being," Blackley said with a wink. "I'm rather fond of the lad. He is so very earnest."
We paused just then outside a building where a hackney was disgorging two upper-class Englishmen who were much the worse for drink. They stumbled up the stone stairs and pounded on the door framed by two gaslights. A window in the door opened. Whoever was inside evidently judged them suitable for admission
, for the door opened and they disappeared inside.
"This is the last decent place to warm ourselves before the neighborhood turns for the worst," Blackley said. "Come in and I will buy you a whiskey."
I said I thought we should stay on the street.
"We won't be shirking our duty by paying a visit to the Hellfire Club. There is a chance, a rather small chance, we'll find Kate Woolf inside. It is the best brothel in London."
Blackley rapped on the door with his silver-headed cane, and the door was swung open wide by the doorman—a boxer, judging from his flattened nose and disfigured ears. It seemed the good doctor was not entirely unknown to the Hellfire's habitues. Indeed, an angelic figure separated herself from the crowd near the cloak room and flew to Blackley's arms, her jeweled wrists glittering brightly against his black silk cape.
"Mon cherie!" the Contessa Saint-Simon breathed into his ear.
She was even more ravishing than at Lord Shaftbury's ball. What she was doing in this lowly—if elegantly appointed—place was beyond me.
"Contessa, may I present Professor Dr. James Cotswold of Harvard University in the United States?"
"Enchanted," I said, bowing over the lady's hand.
"Lord Shaftbury has told me all about you, Professor," she said with a little laugh that could have come from a music box.
"I wish I could report the same, Contessa Saint-Simon. It is easy to understand why he keeps you a secret from other men."
"Flattery will get you everywhere, monsieur. Tell me cherie," she said to Blackley, "did you come here looking for the vampire?"
I looked to Blackley, who, after glancing around to confirm that we were not being overheard, confessed as much.
"We are looking for a vampire who was, before her monstrous change, a flash girl named Kate Woolf. She was not of the caliber of your establishment, of course, but we thought it would be wise to be sure the premises are secure."
Your establishment? Contessa Saint-Simon was the Hellfire Club's proprietress? For a moment I was completely nonplussed. Hadn't I just seen her dancing with the Prince of Wales? And wasn't she Lord Shaftbury's mistress?
The London Vampire Panic Page 10
