"Your concern is well-founded, but I think you greatly overestimate our population. We are only a handful. I had not thought we would become many, but then I do not think on grand scales, like Lord Shaftbury. You are right, sir: A congress of vampires would be powerful enough to usurp the control of entire nations, even of the world, although I am not sure whether it would be best to do this openly or to stay behind the scenes, pulling the strings of mortal puppets. I suppose it depends on what kind of vampire we are talking about. If you had the gift, Lord Shaftbury, no doubt you would want to make continents shake and tremble. But if Professor Cotswold were a vampire, he would probably sit back quietly, amassing great knowledge. As for me, I prefer to live for pleasure!"
(P. asks for details about the previous night's vicious crimes.)
"You have a tidy mind, Mr. Palmer," the vampire answers. "I admire that.
"I was walking down the street, fully satisfied. There were footsteps behind me, following me. It was old Bob, the grocer. I could see well enough what was on his mind. As fate would have it, his purposes and mine were neatly joined. You see, he had a taste for a woman, I had a taste for oranges, and it just so happened that old Bob had taken delivery on a barrel of Spanish oranges, which he was expecting to bring a good profit the next day when his vendors took their carts out into the streets. Yes, Professor, I do still require regular food. I allowed him to lead me to the door of his warehouse. And that's when he made his mistake. The fool grabbed me by the arm and attempted to take me by force. He didn't even intend to pay me for the use of my body. I'd had enough of the likes of him to last me a dozen lifetimes. You witnessed the aftermath of my anger.
"I compounded my rashness by leaving old Bob lying in the doorway while I went inside to enjoy an orange. It was delicious! I wish I had one now.
"A policeman happened along and found the grocer. It was just the policeman's bad luck, you see, for there was no way I could let him take me to jail. I did not count on the rest of you being so fast on his heels. You cornered me fair and square, although if I hadn't been trying to make up my mind what to do with the Reverend Clarkson, I would have been long gone. The rest of it, you know.
"Your revolver, Professor Cotswold, caused me considerable discomfort. Do not worry about it unduly. I will bear no malice to you when I am again myself, or toward any of you. You were just doing what you thought you had to do—which is only what I was doing myself.
"Some of you are wondering if I know anything about Dr. Van Helsing's whereabouts. The answer is no. Given the nature of his interests, it is entirely possible that he ran into trouble with another vampire. I do not know. Truly, gentlemen, if I had information about him I would share it with you. I swear to God I have never met the man, much less harmed him.
"Please ask Reverend Clarkson to forgive me for his collapse. I sincerely hope he recovers his health. I will pray for his recovery, and I hope he will be able to find it within him to pray for my redemption.
"That is all I have to say. If you have other questions, ask them now. With all due respect, gentlemen, I doubt I will be here tomorrow to assist further with your inquiries. I apologize in advance for escaping. I promise not to harm my jailers. Indeed, I somehow feel that I am beyond causing lasting harm to anybody ever again. Pray let us leave one another in peace."
(For the details of this foul creature's subsequent immolation and decapitation, see Lord Shaftbury's official report. Respectfully submitted, Algernon Turnor, Personal Secretary to Benjamin Disraeli, Lord Beaconsfield.)
I have been unable to obtain a copy of Shaftbury's report. Given the way things turned out in the end, I have come to doubt one was ever filed.
—Posthumous Blackley
* * *
PART VI
Second Interregnum
* * *
24
Asprey House
The Reverend Christopher Clarkson correspondence. From the private letters of Archibald Campbell Tate, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1868-1883; Lambeth Palace Library, Sealed Collection.
March 12, 1880
Your Grace,
Thank you for inquiring about the state of my health and your warm expression of friendship.
I am pleased to report a fortnight's rest at Asprey House has had a restorative effect. Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper and all-around majordomo here, nurses me with the zeal of a missionary newly sent among savages. The face staring back at me from the looking glass appears less and less like a cadaver as the days pass. Dr. Lattimore has granted me permission to take brief walks.
This evening I strolled as far as the village, where I attended evensong at St. Peter's, a Romanesque chapel predating the Conquest. Reverend Bartley, the vicar in Asprey and a fellow Oxonian, was anxious to hear the news from London, now that Her Majesty has dissolved Parliament. It is fortunate Dr. Blackley is not at Asprey House to hear the anti-Tory barbs that fly forth from the pulpit his family so generously restored. As for me, you know I find it impossible to harbor any ill sentiment toward Mr. Disraeli, having found the Prime Minister an eminently reasonable, capable, and wise leader of men.
I am deeply indebted to the brave Dr. Blackley for the use of Asprey House. It is a charming place. Think of a stone cottage but done up on a grand scale, not quite a manor house but only just. The house sits beside a stream nearly a mile beyond the village. The garden wants for care, but I plan to remedy that with my own two hands, as soon as Dr. Lattimore will permit it. We share a passion for gardening, so I know Your Grace understands the anguish I feel to see this lovely place go to seed.
And the Lord God took the man, and put him into the garden of Eden to dress it and keep it. (Genesis 2:15)
The front of the house is partly shaded by three old larches and given over to Granny's bonnets, forget-me-nots, and bluebells. Some Jacob's ladder would be a pleasant addition, I think. A stone wall on the east side of the property runs to the stream. White roses planted along the wall have been sadly neglected but will come back, if paid proper attention. Plum-colored helleborus orientalis planted in the shade would add a welcome bit of color.
I have begun organizing my thoughts on the recent business in London and made some preliminary notes on the London Vampire Panic. Dr. Lattimore has given permission for me to begin devoting an hour each day to writing my report. He suggested I undertake the work in serial installments, like one of Mr. Dickens's novels. He fears my heart still cannot stand the strain of prolonged work. I am not sure his concerns are warranted, but I will, with your indulgence, confine my efforts to the time my physician has allotted me.
It is impossible to know why God lets evil things happen. Rather, we must take refuge in our faith that it is all part of His divine plan.
I promise to record everything I can recollect in my report to you, down to the smallest detail. However, I see by my watch that I have quite used up my allotted hour of labor for today. My timing is good, for a delicious aroma is emanating from the kitchen. I have my appetite back, thanks to the efforts of Mrs. Simpson, who is an excellent cook.
Pray for my health, Your Grace, as I pray for yours, and for the Church and the world. I remain…
Your servant in Christ,
Christopher Clarkson,
Reverend
* * *
25
My Dearest Olivia
The following facsimile, written out in Lucian's copybook, requires no explication.
—Posthumous Blackley
January 15, 1880
My dearest Olivia,
I am writing to suggest in the strongest of terms that you take young Andrew and leave London until the panic gripping the city is ended and public safety is restored.
Your continued skepticism about vampires is understandable but misplaced. Indeed, in the present circumstances it puts you at increased risk. I can confirm to you—in the strictest of confidence—these creatures do exist. I have seen the proof with my own eyes. Not even the most perverse imagination could sketch the outlin
es of these monsters and their horrific powers. It would be safer to lie down in a nest of vipers than remain in London while vampires haunt the night. We have kept it out of the newspapers, but the reign of violence continues to spread, both in geography and the range of victims. Men are being harmed now as well as women. No one is safe. I fear it is only a matter of time before some unfortunate child falls beneath the vampire's lethal shadow.
We will bring these fiends to justice, but until that happens, London is unsafe for you and Andrew.
The thought of something happening to you is simply too much for me to consider. During my visit to Moore House this evening, I did not have the opportunity to fully express my sentiments, but no doubt you have some sense of the depth and intensity of feeling that have taken possession of my heart. Had your policeman not intruded on us, my darling Olivia, I would have asked you a question that is very much on my mind of late…
It is reassuring to know you are being watched over during these dangerous times. Still, a lone policeman would provide but little protection against one of these monsters. For all of these reasons, it is imperative you remove yourself and your brother to someplace safe until the London Vampire Panic is brought to an end.
I would be honored if you would accept the hospitality of my family's home in the Highlands. Kinloch Castle is a rambling old place high on a cliff overlooking Loch Lomond, but my parents succeeded in making the pile quite comfortable. I have taken the liberty of notifying the staff you might do us the favor of visiting.
My current work prevents me from accompanying you, of course, but you would find plenty to occupy you there. You like to read. Kinloch has an enormous library, ranging from musty old tomes—the oldest tower dates to 1100—to my own collection. My mother kept the nursery as it was when I was a child. It would be perfect for Andrew. My old nurse, Margaret Hillard, is still at Kinloch, although I expect you'd want Karol Janos to accompany you. She would be welcome, along with any servants you should choose to take.
You have but to say the word, my beloved, and Kinloch Castle will be a safe harbor to you and Andrew for as long as you care to use it.
With fondest affection,
Captain Charles Lucian
* * *
26
Death
Dr. Samuel Lattimore correspondence. From the private letters of Archibald Campbell Tate, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1868-1883; Lambeth Palace Library, Sealed Collection.
April 17,1880
Your Grace,
I am writing with deepest regrets to inform you Reverend Christopher Clarkson died this morning at Asprey House.
I had called on Reverend Clarkson to listen to his heart and check his pulse and color. We had plans to have luncheon afterward. I promised to then advise him on a rose garden he was hoping to rehabilitate.
Mrs. Simpson admitted me through the main entrance a little after eleven. I accepted her offer of tea, thinking I would let Reverend Clarkson continue his work until midday. I went to the study a little before noon and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I turned the latch—it was unlocked—and found him slumped over the writing table. I knew the moment I saw him he was long beyond my assistance.
I estimate the time of death at a little past ten. I infer this partly from the state of the body and partly from the small progress he had made with his work since going into the room and closing the door at ten. Reverend Clarkson had written only a few lines in the neat script I have come to know and enjoy during these past months. The paper was labeled "London Vampire Panic," evidently the special report he was writing you. Unfortunately, he had knocked over the ink well, rendering the report unreadable. I instructed Mrs. Simpson to burn the paper in the grate, along with the rag she used to clean up the ink.
While Reverend Clarkson's death came as something of a surprise, it was not entirely unexpected. His heart had mended, but he failed to regain much vigor. During my previous visit, he complained of feeling old and seemed to have trouble recalling certain facts. I also noticed a certain childlike excitement when we took a brief turn around the garden. These last two things are common signs in a failing patient, though I had not expected the end to come so quickly.
At least I can tell you I do not think Reverend Clarkson suffered. Massive heart failure is over very quickly.
Mrs. Simpson and Reverend Bartley, the local vicar, have generously agreed to undertake the funeral arrangements. As Reverend Clarkson had no children and left no relatives that he knew of, I assume it is acceptable to bury him in Asprey. The little medieval church here is very picturesque; it is easy to see why he quickly learned to love it.
My other questions relate to Reverend Clarkson's belongings. I will write his solicitor in Oxford, inform him of the death, and suggest he contact you regarding any final disposition. Due to the nature of Reverend Clarkson's work with the Special Committee, I assume the wisest course is for me to gather up whatever papers and documents I can find and forward them to you. If there are any especially sensitive materials you need me to locate, please be so good as to let me know. If you could advise me of any particulars in this regard, I will do my utmost best to carry out your wishes.
Your obedient servant,
Dr. Samuel Lattimore
* * *
27
Final Disposition
Dr. Samuel Lattimore correspondence, continued.
April 19, 1880
Your Grace,
Reverend Christopher Clarkson was buried today in the churchyard in Asprey. Reverend Bartley officiated. It was a simple ceremony, in accordance with Reverend Clarkson's wishes.
There were only a few people at the funeral: Mrs. Simpson, several elderly parishioners, the parish sexton, me. I made inquiries about the others, as requested. Reverend Bartley assured me that the old people present attended all the funerals. Dr. Blackley was unable to attend due to pressing business in London. He did send some lovely flowers.
I packed Reverend Clarkson's belongings in two wooden crates this morning, accompanied them to the station, and watched them loaded. If the wax seals bearing the "L" of my signet ring remain unbroken, you will know they reached you unmolested.
I also complied with your ex officio directives, extraordinary as they were.
I stayed overnight at Asprey House, so it was easy enough to come downstairs in the early morning hours to examine the body a second time, as per your instructions. I wore the crucifix you sent me outside my shirt. I examined the neck with great care, but found no evidence of wounds. I cut back the skin—I apologize if these details are distasteful—but I found no evidence of subcutaneous injury to the muscle tissue or blood vessels. However, since this sort of wound is reported to heal with unusual speed, even postmortem, I do not know whether my observations reveal anything one way or the other.
While I can neither confirm nor reject the possibility Reverend Clarkson was killed by a vampire, the facts argue that my original diagnosis was correct. Lacking any evidence to the contrary, it is my professional opinion Reverend Clarkson died of coronary thrombosis.
Nevertheless, I did follow the procedure outlined in your letter. I doubt circumstances justified it, but at any rate Reverend Clarkson was beyond being hurt by anything done to his body. Let us pray he is at rest in a better place. After driving the wooden stake through the heart and severing the head from the spine, I sealed the coffin for burial. You have no reason to fear seeing Reverend Clarkson again in this world.
I will leave it to your discretion whether to forward this information to officials in the new Gladstone government. It is my sincere hope this concludes the final chapter to this most disturbing affair.
Your obedient servant,
Dr. Samuel Lattimore
* * *
PART VII
The Illusionist
* * *
28
Paris
THE FOLLOWING WAS taken from George Raphael's account of the London Vampire Panic. Omitted is the main part of his
deposition, which adds little to my framing of the affair's early stages, or to the explication of the middle acts, which I reproduced from Cotswold's journal. (I have never been one to needlessly duplicate efforts!) Raphael throws an important light on his role in the vampire affair—and "role" is the appropriate term. After being interviewed by British and French authorities in Paris, he was detained in quarantine for two weeks to be certain he exhibited none of the vampire's tendencies. The incarceration gave him the opportunity to write a full and accurate account of his activities while in London, for which I paid him 1,000 pounds. After a fortnight in jail, he was allowed to travel to Italy, having been ordered not to return to France or Britain. Of course, George Raphael must be the same Mr. Raphael who fled the Hellfire Club's ersatz vampire attack the night I was there with Bertie and Duncan. I suspect the Contessa's macabre entertainment provided the germ of the idea for Raphael's subsequent felonies. It seems the criminal mind is as infinite in its variety as Shakespeare's Cleopatra. Little wonder the theatrical nature of Raphael's character comes through in his account.
—Posthumous Blackley
My denouement occurred in Paris on an idyllic winter day. No wind was necessary to keep the sky clear of clouds. The temperature was warm enough to make it pleasant for travelers to sit in the square and sketch Notre Dame Cathedral's west facade. The sun, seasonally low in the southern sky, was sliding toward the southwestern horizon and evening, casting sharp shadows on honey-colored stone.
The London Vampire Panic Page 16
