I could have left London at that point. I should have left. Yet I decided to remain, this time a victim of my own greed.
* * *
32
Nosferatu
ANNIE HOWARD'S EMPTY grave was my proof that the vampire coven was growing in number. Finding the fledglings' nest would be a difficult proposition, yet the sinister children of the original nosferatu would have to be stopped. It would require more resources—watchers, listeners, informants, and more money to pay them, the funds administered by the sole professional vampire hunter on Mr. Disraeli's committee. In the meantime, the killings were migrating toward the East End. That posed difficulties. I hardly need to explain to Inspector Witherspoon that the police are regarded as the enemy in the London slums. I could not have guessed that a vampire—yes, a real vampire—was about to be apprehended, and not by Scotland Yard or the Special Committee but by a group of superstitious old Irish women waving crucifixes.
Unbidden, the waiter delivered another glass of wine, which was excellent timing for I was reaching the part of my story that made my throat feel distinctly tight and dry, though my discomfort was certainly nothing like what the vampire's victims experienced. By then Witherspoon and Bernard were leaning forward on their elbows, their attention completely focused on my story.
Her name was Kate Woolf, I told them. She was not unlike countless other poor wretches one finds in Whitechapel—a prostitute, a habitué of the opium dens. She was caught in the act of killing an unfortunate girl named Mary Katharine McGuinn, happened upon while her teeth were still buried deep in poor Mary Katharine's throat. The women who discovered this stark tableau, Irish Catholics, like most of the people on that particular street, heard a ruckus and went to investigate, though God knows it must be dangerous to stick your nose into other people's business in Whitechapel. They arrived at the same time as a policeman, followed him up the stairs, and watched in horror as the vampire tossed the officer aside like a dirty bed sheet. The vampire then directed her attention to the women in the doorway, who were so stunned by the scene that it had not occurred to them to do the obvious thing—turn and run for their lives. The vampire, her face smeared with Mary Katharine's blood, began to advance on the women. Fortunately, they'd heard a thing or two of the nosferatu legend and brandished the crosses they wore around their necks to ward off the monster. The vampire hissed like a serpent, they said, and cowered behind the bedstead, terrified at the sight of their crucifixes.
Word arrived at my hotel that a vampire had been captured and taken to jail. It did not occur to me that Kate Woolf actually was a vampire. I imagined her nothing more than a pathetic madwoman whose delusions had led her to bite through the neck of an unfortunate urchin. London was on the verge of panic, the fear in the air so thick you could almost feel it. Little wonder it would push some unstable wretch over the brink.
The vampire was taken to a secret government prison called the Vicarage, I said, and drew a scowl from Witherspoon at my having mentioned the place in front of Bernard, thereby making it slightly less secret. As I traveled to the Vicarage, I considered whether I would be able to turn this new development to my advantage, or if it would make it necessary for Dr. Van Helsing to vanish into thin air. I was the first of Mr. Disraeli's committee to arrive at the prison. I was about to descend the dank well to the subterranean entrance when the figure of a woman appeared at the bottom of the stairs. I had no reason to think anything of it. Given what I'd been told about the Vicarage, I believed it to be virtually escape-proof. And yet in that instant, as my heart fluttered dangerously and my breath caught in my throat, I realized the deranged-looking creature was Kate Woolf, the supposed vampire.
She came up the stairs toward me, her eyes locked on mine. I am not a brave man, but I was not especially frightened. Even if she was a murderous madwoman, she was unarmed and seemingly not powerful enough physically to overwhelm me. I may not look very presupposing, but I am bred from hardy stock and as capable as most men of defending myself. I carried a razor in my pocket, since the neighborhood where Dr. Van Helsing's hotel was located was anything but safe after dark and not much better during daylight hours.
I had a number of options. I could stand aside and let Kate Woolf pass, thus avoiding or at least delaying possible complications resulting from me having to deal with her in front of the committee. Or I could apprehend her, playing the hero. It did not occur to me to try to destroy her the first chance I got—to slash her throat with my razor or push her down the long flight of stone stairs.
By then she was several stairs below me, near enough for me to see a weird fire burning in her eyes. I pulled my left hand out of my coat pocket, brandishing a crucifix, while my right hand remained around the razor in case things got out of hand. She stopped abruptly and threw her hands up as if to guard herself from the power of the cross, which had been used earlier to subdue her in her irrationality. But then she began to laugh and dropped her arms. It was the coldest, most unnerving laughter I have ever heard.
"The idea that crucifixes have power over a vampire is an old wives' tale," she said to me, advancing to the next step. "But then you know that, don't you, Dr. Van Helsing?"
She knew I was a charlatan. This woman, a product of the gutters of London's vilest slums, had needed only one look at me to see through my illusion and denounce me as a mountebank.
I knew at that moment I was not dealing with an ordinary lunatic. I tried to pull the razor from my pocket but my body refused to obey my mind's commands. Mentally, I felt nothing to indicate I had been mesmerized, but that must have been what happened, for I was completely paralyzed. I couldn't move a muscle.
The vampire came up the remaining stairs and walked around me on the landing, looking me up and down as if she were trying to decide whether my blood was worth drinking. Sweat began to trickle down the back of my neck—a cold sweat of terror. The ship I had taken from New York was in a gale off Newfoundland that had most of us on our knees, sick and praying, certain we were going to die. But that was nothing compared to the fear I felt as the vampire looked me over, thinking about what she was going to do with me.
"It's passing strange how your mind can play tricks on you," she said. "I believed I could not bear the sight of a crucifix. That is what I had been told, so that is what I believed. And yet, as you can see, I am well enough. Look at this. See what I took off one of my jailers?"
There was a silver chain around her neck. She pulled it from her bosom to display for me the crucifix suspended from it.
"It's all a fraud, like you, Dr. Van Helsing. You're not really who you pretend to be."
My mind raced through everything that had happened in London since I'd walked into one hotel as Mr. Raphael and come out as Dr. Van Helsing. I thought of the places I'd been, the taverns where I'd bought whiskey, the people I'd met, the prostitutes I'd patronized. I had not run into her anywhere, I was quite certain. The only way she could know my name was if she could look into my mind and read my thoughts. It was at this point that she began to laugh again, all the confirmation I needed that she knew my private thoughts as well as I did myself. As she laughed, I saw the teeth descend from her upper jaw, fangs she would use to drain me of blood and leave my lifeless corpse lying outside the Vicarage for the others to discover. I told myself it would be no more than I deserved for the disreputable life I'd lived.
At the exact moment that I had that thought, the vampire stopped laughing.
"You aren't completely disreputable, are you?" she asked.
I was unable to respond, but of course I wanted to agree—to make her know that I was not without my redeeming qualities, that I loved beauty and worshiped art and had lived a life of crime as a means of financing my taste for travel and collecting.
"Perhaps you are capable of understanding the same is true of me," the vampire said. "None of us are completely evil or, I hope, beyond redemption, be we mortal or vampire. If I should ever happen to fall into the authority's hands again—which
I sincerely doubt—I hope you will show me the same mercy I am about to show you."
I squeezed my eyes shut as she came to me, but I realized in the next instant that she was brushing by me, leaving me unmolested and alive. The vampire had recognized that we were both sinners, as we all are, and had graced me with her mercy.
In another minute or two I regained the use of my limbs. I went down to see if I could do anything for the guards. I was surprised to find them alive. They were in a sort of waking sleep, but they came out of it quickly enough when I spoke to them. I did not tell the others about my encounter with the vampire. After hearing what the guards had to say, I thought my own experience would add little to what we now knew about the vampire's powers. Besides, it would hardly do to admit that the eminent vampire hunter had proven helpless to defend himself against a fledgling nosferatu.
The next day, a séance was convened at the Prime Minister's residence. He was understandably furious about the vampire's escape. There was a debate over whether any future attempt should be made to capture a vampire, or if they should be exterminated on the spot when apprehended. Lord Shaftbury came down on the side of summary execution, which was greatly opposed by Professor Cotswold. The American paleontologist subscribed to the idiotic notion that vampires were some exotic new species we needed to study scientifically. I knew better. As much as I owed Kate Woolf for sparing my life, I had no choice but to come down on the side of exterminating the creatures, for I understood only too well their formidable powers.
The Special Committee determined to have a dragnet through Whitechapel and the surrounding neighborhoods that night to attempt to find Kate Woolf. I said nothing to the others on the matter, but that plainly spelled the end for Dr. Van Helsing. I couldn't risk Woolf exposing my illusion. Beyond that, I had no desire to meet up with her or any other vampires and lose my life.
* * *
33
Retreat
I RETURNED TO my hotel late that night and entered by a back entrance. In the morning, I bathed and disposed of Van Helsing's despicable rags. I dressed in one of my lovely new English custom-made suits and had a visit from the hotel barber. I dispatched my trunks to Dover and checked out of the hotel. It was time for Dr. Abraham Van Helsing to retreat into the mists of illusion.
I had a hack take me, now Mr. Raphael, to Victoria Station for the trip to Dover, where I would board the ship that would carry me across the English Channel and safely into France. I was alone aboard the train in a first-class coach. A porter tapped on the door and asked if I would mind sharing my compartment. Glancing past the man's shoulder, I said I was quite amenable to company. I never mind traveling with a beautiful young woman. There was something familiar about the woman. I had the sense that I had seen her somewhere in London, though I could not place her face. Or maybe it was an instance of déjà vu, that uncanny sense that you have seen or done something before.
The young lady and I talked about the usual things as the train left Victoria Station and made its way out of the city and into the countryside. The weather, the state of the gardens—the innocent topics of idle social conversation. We got onto the subject of the Gainsboroughs at the National Gallery. She had a delightful knowledge of art. One of her relatives was the subject of one of the artist's better-known paintings, the portrait of Lady… something. I cannot recall the name. Ordinarily, this would strike me as odd, since I have an excellent memory for names.
We had a lively conversation about English and French portraitists. My companion was extremely well-read and cultured. She was charming company. Some beautiful women rely on their looks alone, but my traveling companion had not neglected to cultivate her mind. And, if I dare say so, I believe she found my company pleasant, too. I remember wishing that I were twenty years younger and twice as handsome. It was at about this time—we must have been halfway to Dover—that she asked if I wasn't the distinguished Abraham Van Helsing. I don't think Mr. Disraeli himself would have recognized me—shaved, barbered, dressed in decent clothing—but somehow she did. Alarm bells should have been peeling in my head, but somehow I was not bothered in the least.
I admitted it: Yes, Van Helsing and I were one and the same.
She asked me about the London Vampire Panic. Not wanting to worry her, I said that the hysteria was totally out of proportion, but that nevertheless she would be wise to stay away from the city until the authorities had the matter well in hand.
"You have been playing an extremely dangerous game, haven't you?" she said.
By that point I should have been alarmed she recognized me as Van Helsing. I should have been wondering how it was that she seemed to know Van Helsing's existence had been part of a game, an extremely dangerous game, as she'd said. And I should have been heeding the half-formed suspicion that she had followed me into the train car. Instead, I sat there smiling back into her lovely face. If I'd had anything to eat or drink since boarding the train, I would conclude I'd been slipped a narcotic. I was stupidly oblivious to the danger. No, that is not exactly right. It wasn't that I was unaware of the danger the lovely young lady presented to me, but just that I couldn't make myself care that my life was so plainly at hazard.
"There is an element of risk in everything," was my insouciant reply.
"You have not been playing cat-and-mouse with greedy rich men this time."
"I did not understand as much at the beginning, or I never would have begun the illusion."
"But now you know the danger."
I nodded.
"You could have stayed in London to help."
"I briefly considered it," I said, and I was telling the truth. There was no point trying to deceive her. She would have seen through any lie.
There were several problems with me trying to be of continued service to the committee. To begin with, I had learned all the things that were supposed to be of use in battling a vampire—garlands of garlic, crucifixes, holy water—were useless as weapons. Unfortunately, I hadn't come up with any useful information about what would stop a vampire. I didn't even know for sure whether a stake through the heart would kill one. I presumed it would, but as vampires were extremely powerful and intelligent, there seemed to be very little chance one would lie still while someone pounded a stake through its heart.
The other issue with me remaining in London to help battle the nosferatu was that it would have meant admitting I was a fraud. While I would have, with a very great reluctance, returned the money I'd bilked from Mr. Disraeli, I did not think my further assistance would have been welcome beyond that point. Besides, the powerful take being cheated especially hard. It is not the money as much as being made to look foolish that the high and mighty resent. If I stayed in London and came clean with the truth about what I knew about vampires—and the truth about Van Helsing—the chances were good that I would be the one locked up in the Vicarage.
And, finally, there was the matter of my own safety, and the well-being of anyone remaining in London while vampires still ruled the city at night.
"I do not know how this affair will work itself out," I said, "but I am not sanguine about the authorities being able to stop these creatures."
"That is because there is only one thing that can stop a vampire from killing," the lady said. She paused a beat, then added: "And that is another vampire."
I knew she was right. A human couldn't stop a vampire unless it was in a Hungarian folktale. The creatures were too strong, too cunning.
"I wonder if you would mind doing me a small favor," and she called me by my given surname, an appellation I have not used in many, many years. "I promise you will feel no pain and suffer no lasting harm."
And there it was, the awful truth of it. I was sharing my railroad compartment with a she-vampire, a creature who was utterly unaffected by the sunlight and, for all I knew, any possible defense I could have mounted, including hurling myself from the speeding train as my way of choosing one form of death over another. Still, I somehow knew she did not mean to ha
rm me. I suppose now, looking back on that day, that this could have all been part of a fiendish guile, a way of seducing me into submitting myself to her strange and darkling need. And yet I decided to trust the vampire—an act of the most extreme lunacy.
I said I would be honored to help so lovely a lady in any way I could. I was already loosening my cravat and opening my collar.
I noticed that Inspector Witherspoon had stopped taking notes. He clutched the forgotten pencil in his hand.
One would imagine being bitten by a vampire would be something quite ghastly—like being attacked by a wild animal but all the more horrible because of the awareness and fear of becoming yourself a monster who preys upon the living. And it can be quite like that, I am sure. Consider Kate Woolf, who on at least one occasion turned into a beast as soon as she had become intoxicated from drinking the blood of the living. My experience, however, was entirely different. Indeed, it was pleasurable beyond anything I can describe with mere words. Vampires are creatures of unsuspected and unimaginable sensuality—or at least they can be. I thank God the lovely vampire who kissed my neck before biting it was one of the gentler sisters of that race.
True to her word, she took only a small amount of my blood. There were no discernable aftereffects. I dozed off for a bit. When I awoke, the train was a little out of Dover. My traveling companion had inexplicably vanished. I cannot explain how she could have gotten out of the speeding train without breaking every bone in her body. The only evidence of the wound to my neck were two red spots that were slightly sensitive to the touch. By evening, not even these remained.
I have driven myself nearly mad trying to remember her name or even the features of her lovely face, but the particulars of our time together are lost to me. She did it to me, of course—she reached into my mind and rearranged my memory, protecting herself. The fact that she caused me no lasting harm speaks for itself. It is not necessary for vampires to kill to get the blood they require. I doubt the lady has ever harmed another living being. You certainly cannot say that what she did to me was hurtful. Quite the reverse.
The London Vampire Panic Page 19
