The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi

by Mark Hodder

  “No, Constable, keep to your sentry duty. I don’t expect to be gone for long.”

  He boarded the vehicle. “The Royal Venetia Hotel, please.”

  The murk made it slow going, enfolding the city in such gloom that gas lamps remained lit, hovering dimly like chains of tiny depleted suns. It took an hour to reach the Strand. The thoroughfare had returned to its normal state; the huge sewer tunnel was covered over and a new road surface laid. Bazalgette’s workmen were now at Aldgate, digging their way ever closer to the East End—the “Cauldron”—and its teeming hordes of villains and beggars.

  Grumbles ushered Burton into his brother’s presence.

  The minister of mediumistic affairs was in his red dressing gown and customary position. There was a cup of tea and a stack of documents on the table beside his armchair. He was holding a sheaf of papers, which he put down as Burton entered. “You look as if you’ve been trampled by a herd of cattle. It’s a considerable improvement over when I last saw you.”

  “Thank you. I have a vague recollection of you being at the hospital. Is that what it takes to get you out of your chair—your brother nearly being blown to kingdom come?”

  “No. It takes an order from His Majesty King George the Fifth, who was concerned at the possible loss of a valuable resource.”

  “Then I apologise for inconveniencing you.”

  “Accepted. Where have you been?”

  “In Anglesey.”

  “The Royal Charter? It’s all over the newspapers. What has that to do with the affair? Sit.”

  Burton neither sat nor answered the question, but instead asked one of his own. “What do you want?”

  Edward took a police file from the table. “Countess Sabina. Dead. Your report is unsatisfactory, to say the least. Chief Commissioner Mayne is not happy. Neither am I. Explain.”

  “I answer to the king, not to you, and the report will make more sense when included with the rest of the case files.”

  “Then give them to me.”

  “They aren’t written. The investigation is ongoing.”

  “Damnation, Dick! What the hell happened to her? You realise that, by your choice of words in this account, you’ve made of yourself—as far as the police are concerned—the principal suspect?”

  “I didn’t kill the countess, Edward.”

  The minister sighed, threw the file to the floor, and selected another, which he held out to his brother. “I know. Read this.”

  The explorer stepped forward, took the cardboard folder, and opened it. The document within was adorned with the Bethlem Royal Hospital letterhead and had been written by Doctor Monroe.

  REPORT: PATIENT 466. LAURENCE OLIPHANT.

  Wednesday, 26th October 1859.

  I set this down in detail, for the case is the most extraordinary I have ever encountered.

  At seven o’clock yesterday evening, Nurse Bracegirdle informed me that Laurence Oliphant had something of the utmost importance to impart. Having informed the nurse that I would see the patient in the morning, I was told that Oliphant was “extremely persistent and liable to have one of his violent fits” if I did not attend him immediately. Knowing Bracegirdle’s judgement to be sound, I consented to the request and went to Oliphant’s room, where I found him to be considerably unsettled, though perfectly rational in speech.

  He said to me, “Thank you for coming, Doctor Monroe, and thank you, too, for providing me with lodgings these weeks past. I am grateful, but must inform you that the time for my departure is upon us.”

  “What has occasioned it, sir?” I asked, careful to humour him while neither endorsing nor contradicting his statement.

  “Why, simply that I am restored to health and have much work ahead of me,” he said. “I must leave here at once, this very minute, in order to fulfill my obligations.”

  Upon enquiring as to the nature of these obligations, I was told, “They are of a confidential nature. I am bound to secrecy. But come, you can see with your own eyes that I am perfectly sound in body and mind. I have no wish to further impose upon you.”

  “It is no imposition,” I said, “and I cannot release you without knowing your intentions.”

  “Will you not simply trust that my presence is required elsewhere? Your duty is not to me, Doctor Monroe, but to he whom I obey.”

  The instant he made this statement, Oliphant flinched and bit his lip. He looked at me with a furtive expression on his face, then suddenly dropped to his knees and held his hands out imploringly.

  “Can you not understand? I am not my own master! You have no conception of what you do by keeping me here, or, God help you, of whom you wrong. I entreat you, let me go! Let me go! I am no lunatic swayed by ungovernable emotions! I am sane! Sane! Sane!”

  “Mr. Oliphant,” I said sternly, “by your passion and your own actions, you cause me to doubt the veracity of that assertion. No more of this. Off your knees, now.”

  Reluctantly, he rose, and slumped onto his bed.

  “Then I am lost,” he whispered.

  “Not at all, sir,” I assured him. “You are well cared for, and I give you my word that I am working assiduously to understand and cure the delusions that plague you.”

  “Delusions!” he said, with a laugh. “Oh, you fool. It is on you now, sir. It is on you.”

  He fell into a sullen silence and I departed, instructing Nurse Bracegirdle and Sister Camberwick to make regular checks on him.

  Not long after, a terrific storm got up, its wind, rain, and thunder so violent that sleep was impossible. I was still wide awake and clothed when, at 2 a.m., I was again summoned to room 466 by Nurse Bracegirdle, who informed me that Oliphant was suffering a serious fit. I went immediately to the patient and found him tearing apart his appalling “cloak of rats.”

  “Irrelevant! Irrelevant!” he screamed. “What a fool I am to think he would require this filth! Besides, I am superseded! He doesn’t need me any more, Doctor Monroe. You have seen to that. I am useless to him locked away as I am. You have killed me, sir! Killed me just as surely as if you strangled me with your own hands!”

  His eyes blazed and he showed his teeth and backed away as two of my staff entered bearing a strait waistcoat. “No! No! Not that! Would you now have me unable to defend myself? He’ll come for me, Monroe. I know too much, and I am a medium, which means he can touch me even in this damnable place. In the name of God, leave my arms free that I may at least trace a protective sigil.”

  “The restraint is for your own good,” I said.

  He shrieked and thrashed but my two men, with help from Bracegirdle and me, were able to hold him down while Sister Camberwick applied a syringe to his neck. The sedative took immediate effect, and the strait waistcoat was put upon him and secured. When this task was done, he was left sitting passively on the edge of the bed. He quite suddenly looked up at me and whispered, “The storm heralds his arrival. He is here. God have mercy on my blighted soul, I am done.”

  Nurse Bracegirdle and Sister Camberwick will corroborate what happened next. I thank the Lord that I did not witness it alone, for had I done so, I would be forced to question my own sanity.

  Oliphant blinked, and in that split-second, his eyes became completely black; I refer not only to the pupils, but to the whites as well. In a deep and unfamiliar voice, which sounded uncannily like many voices in absolute harmony, he said, “I expect to be fully occupied for some considerable time, Doctor Monroe, but I shall not forget your interference. In due course, there will be a reckoning.”

  The patient’s head then twisted through a complete revolution, his neck popping, and he dropped to the floor, dead.

  With my hand on the Holy Bible, I swear that all I have set down here is true.

  The minister of mediumistic affairs reached for his cup of tea and took a sip. “The countess and Oliphant died in the same manner.”

  “They did,” Burton confirmed.

  “And do these deaths relate to the abductions?”

 
“I believe so.”

  “Explain.”

  Burton took a cheroot from his pocket, lit it, observed his brother’s expression of disgust, and maliciously blew smoke in the fat man’s direction. He then went through the case, explaining it point by point, until—before he’d finished—Edward held up a hand to stop him and said, “Enough! One absurdity after another! Gad! As a child you always had your head buried in the Arabian Nights, and now—”

  Burton strode forward and stood looming over his brother. “The title of the book,” he snarled, “is A Thousand Nights and a Night, and this madness we’re caught up in is not from its pages. You bloody fool, Edward. You think I don’t know what’s passing through that Machiavellian brain of yours? You’re terrified that El Yezdi has abandoned you. You’re quivering in your boots at the prospect of losing your political influence. You feel yourself powerless and you fear that, if Perdurabo can reach out and kill mediums, then you—being one—might drop dead at any moment. You’re such a self-obsessed bastard that you’re completely oblivious to your one great advantage.”

  “Advantage?” Edward croaked. “What advantage?”

  Burton’s mouth twisted into a brutal grin. “That you’re dead, brother. You’re already dead.”

  A moment of silence.

  Edward’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. “What in God’s name are you babbling about?”

  Burton jabbed two fingers, with the cheroot between them, toward the other man’s face. “The first words the Arabian ever spoke to you. ‘This time, you were saved. You’ll recover.’” The explorer allowed that to sink in, then continued, “This time, Edward. This time. The intimation being that, in other versions of history, you weren’t saved. If Perdurabo is so concerned with me—for whatever reason—then in the future he comes from he must have consulted records of my life, which doubtless stated that I had a brother who was killed in 1856. What he doesn’t know is that, thanks to Abdu El Yezdi, in this version of history I have a brother who survived; and one who has influence in every government department. As ludicrous as it may appear—considering your outrageous girth, ingrained inertia, and thoroughly objectionable personality—you, Edward, have been set up as a secret weapon.”

  “Facts are chameleons whose tint

  Varies with every accident:

  Each, prism-like, hath three obvious sides,

  And facets ten or more besides.

  Events are like the sunny light

  On mirrors falling clear and bright

  Through windows of a varied hue,

  Now yellow seen, now red, now blue.”

  —SIR RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON

  On the way home, and for the umpteenth time, Burton tried Brundleweed’s jewellery shop. Closed again. In four days, he would be on his way to New Wardour Castle but still didn’t have the engagement ring. He wrote a request for it to be posted there and slipped the note through the letterbox.

  When he arrived back at Montagu Place, he tipped his hat first at Mr. Grub, then at Constable Krishnamurthy, before stepping into number 14.

  Eliphas Levi had visited the British Library while the explorer was out.

  “Ranft’s De masticatione mortuorum in tumulis and Calmet’s Dissertation on the Vampires of Hungary,” the Frenchman announced, holding up two thick volumes. “Beaucoup d’aide dans la compréhension of the creature we deal with, I think. Much information!”

  Burton blinked in surprise then moved to one of his desks and took up an ancient and crumbling volume. Its title was printed in Sanskrit.

  “The Baital Pachisi,” he said. “A Hindu tale. I’ve been translating it under the title Vikram and the Vampire.”

  “Ah, mais oui!” Levi exclaimed. “I have heard of this story. The Baital is a great bat, non? It inhabit and animate the dead.”

  “Yes. But surely, monsieur, you don’t suggest that Perdurabo is such?”

  “Non. But these legends of the vampire, they are everywhere, in cultures far apart. We must wonder, is there a common basis—a truth at the heart of them? That truth, I think, will tell us how to defeat our enemy.”

  Burton carried the old book over to his armchair, gesturing that Levi should take the seat opposite. The occultist brought with him his two volumes, sat with them on his lap, and began to fill his prodigious pipe.

  “Would you explain?” Burton asked.

  Levi stuck his legs out and rested his feet on the fireplace’s fender. He leaned his head back and puffed for a few moments, then said, “You have, I expect, experience that sensation when the presence of une personne particulière, it drains you, non? You feel exhausted by them, and you want them to go away but they stay and talk and talk and talk until you feel you have no energy left.”

  Burton nodded. “Many such attend the Athenaeum Club.”

  “Fréquemment,” Levi went on, “these people who so fatigue others, they appear to be weak. They are indecisive and their emotions are undisciplined. Mais non! The truth is, their volonté—willpower—it is very strong, for it feed like une sangsue.”

  “A leech?”

  “Oui. You know, the Egyptians of long ago, they think the soul it can be stored in a pot of clay. These pots, you examine them now, you analyse the clay, which have many metals in it, and you will see they are like the Leyden jar.”

  “I’m unfamiliar with that, monsieur. What is it?”

  “Une batterie primitive. It hold and preserve static electricity.”

  “You’re suggesting the soul has an electrical component?”

  “Soul, volonté, what is the difference? I think a strong volonté can draw the energy from a weaker, like to drain une batterie, and it is from this that the legend of the vampire begin.” Levi drew on his pipe and deliberated for half a minute before continuing. “Perdurabo, only his volonté pass through history and across reality into our world, but without a body to sustain him, he will die, so he possess this man, John Judge.” Levi turned his pipe and waved its stem at Burton. “Ah! But already there is a volonté in the man, non? His own! And it, Perdurabo cannot drain completely, for it is attach to the body and keep it alive, which Perdurabo, who is not attach, cannot do. He dominate it and keep it quiet, but always struggle, struggle, struggle—John Judge, he want to be free of this parasite. It is very hard for Perdurabo, so he require much energy. He must feed on others like—how did you say? Yes—a leech.”

  Burton gave a low whistle. “He extracted willpower from the Royal Charter’s crew and passengers?”

  “Oui. And this way he keep his own volonté strong. Now, Sir Richard, we are at the heart of the vampire legend, for when his victims have not sufficient volonté remaining, they are like the dead. Dead but not dead. Le terme le plus approprié est ‘strigoi morti’—the un-dead.”

  “As with a Haitian zombie?” Burton asked.

  “Ah, you know of that! Mais non. The zombie, it is but an animated corpse and must be controlled by a bokor—a sorcerer. The un-dead, they have just enough volonté remaining to know one thing—” The Frenchman paused, drew another lungful of smoke, then, with clouds of it billowing from his mouth, said, “That they, too, must feed.”

  “Vampire begets vampire,” Burton murmured.

  “Non, pas exactement. Not exactly! Remember, the vampire original—the nosferatu—it is very powerful; by its nature, it feed on and is sustained by others. Its victims, the strigoi morti, they have not this type of volonté, so they must rise at night—”

  Burton interrupted. “Why at night?”

  “Parce que, it is at night when all is concealed by darkness. The un-dead prefer this; they have an aversion to any stimulation of the senses, for this make them remember what they are not—alive! So they hunt at night, to do to others what was done to them, for they want to live again, you see? And in day, they are like in hibernation, hiding from l’horreur of self-awareness. Also, their prey is more easy to take at night, when sleeping.”

  Burton lit a cheroot, his brows furrowed as he grappled with the concept.
“Can the strigoi morti be restored to proper life if they feed sufficiently on the willpower of others?”

  The occultist shook his head. “Il est terrible. Blind instinct drive them to feed, but they cannot be made strong by volonté, as can the nosferatu. For the strigoi morti, there is only the agony of insatiable hunger, nothing else. It is the worst torture. Mon Dieu! The worst torture!”

  They smoked in silence for five minutes, both lost in thought.

  Burton murmured, “What of fangs and bloodsucking?”

  “Embellissement, monsieur! People in the old times, they say the blood is the life, non? They think when the whole village is weak, it must be that their blood is taken in the night, so they dig up the dead and see the teeth.” Levi pulled his lips back and ran a forefinger over his gums. “This flesh here, it quickly grow small in death and make the teeth look very long, so the people think these are the fangs that suck the blood.”

  Burton stood, went to a desk, and retrieved the logbook of the Royal Charter. He flipped through a few pages, stopped, read, and said, “So the sailor Colin McPhiel was drained of his volonté by Perdurabo, who’d taken possession of John Judge. He became a strigoi morti, and rose at night to feed on others of the crew and passengers. With Perdurabo doing the same, the un-dead would have proliferated, but for the fact that Captain Taylor ordered the corpses thrown overboard each morning.”

  “Exactemente.”

  “The nosferatu, is it also restricted to the night?”

  “In its own body, non. But when it occupy another, the volonté of the host fight hard during the day. This exhaust the parasite. Only at night can he dominate.”

  “And the garlic and mirror, monsieur?”

  “Strong odour, it activate le sens de l’odorat—the sense of smell—which of all the senses is the one most connecting with memory. With strigoi morti, perhaps it wake the remaining volonté a little; perhaps make a bit of awareness; and then open the eye and hold the mirror so it see itself—a reaction of horreur and despair, and we know this corpse is dead but not dead.”