Letter from Dr. Victor Mueller to Lord Alfred Sundry, 5th of November 1876
Archivist’s note: Several letters were found hidden in the secret compartment of a desk purchased from Lord Sundry’s estate after his disappearance in 1880. Some letters were written in code, which we quickly deciphered using Babbage’s Difference Engine number 3.
Dear Lord Sundry,
I regret to notify you of Captain Abramoff’s demise. It was beyond my control, I assure you. Please inform the Bishop and offer him my sincere apologies for the delay this will cause.
As you know, it took me years to track Abramoff and months of planning to become part of his crew. I grew to be his friend and confidant and was well situated to abduct him as soon as we reached a port that would be convenient for our purposes.
However, before we reached such a locale, the ship had to pull into an Irish harbour for repairs. He became careless, and after he killed a barmaid his true nature was discovered. He was hunted down and killed by Captain Richard Burton and his men.
This is a setback to be sure, but I am optimistic I can obtain another specimen. Abramoff himself told me there were others of his kind in Romania.
I witnessed one of the men accompanying Burton ward off an attack by Abramoff, which is no small feat. From his signature in the guest book at the local inn, I have ascertained that he is Abraham Stoker. Has not Stoker’s name come up before in our research? Perhaps it is a just a coincidence that Stoker was a member of the hunting party, but it seems unlikely a man with his gifts would have been chosen at random by Burton.
I will investigate Stoker further, as it will be a profitable use of my time until I can secure passage to Romania. There I shall begin my hunt anew.
I give my word to the Black Bishop that I will do my utmost to bag him a live werewolf, unharmed. However, as you know, a hunt like this could take several years. I am fully aware that we are on a strict timetable, and that the door closes on Saint George’s Day, 1880.
I am confident I will be able to fulfil the Bishop’s request long before then.
Sincerely,
Dr. Victor Mueller
Letter from Lucy Mayhew to Florence Balcombe, 22nd of May 1877
Archivist’s note: Victorians would often write letters back and forth throughout the day. For a ha’penny, a child would deliver a letter and sit outside waiting for a reply. In this way, an entire conversation could be conducted almost in real time. The exchange below is here because of the importance of Florence Balcombe and Lucy Mayhew to the Black Bishop events to follow.
My dearest Florence,
It is with trepidation and a heavy heart that I must impart some information I have come across in this past week. As you know, I am not one to listen to or pass along gossip. However, my affection for you is stronger than this aversion and so I must tell you that I have heard from a reliable source that your betrothed’s family is facing calamitous financial difficulties. As such, Oscar may not be able to provide you the lifestyle you deserve.
From what I am told, after Dr. Wilde’s scandal and subsequent death, Lady Wilde’s fortunes have continued to decline. She is now so destitute she is selling off the household silver, furniture and paintings. In fact, a cousin of mine has just purchased a painting by George Whistler for, as he put it, ‘a song’. And from what I gather about town, the Wildes owe every shopkeeper so much they no longer have any credit available to them. I fear your Oscar may be heading to the poorhouse before he heads down the wedding aisle.
I tell you this only for your own good, as I do not want you, my dearest friend, to be dragged down with him. You have always been like an older sister to me and I could not live with myself should this marriage lead to your ruin.
As always, your friend,
Lucy
Letter from Florence Balcombe to Lucy Mayhew, 22nd of May 1877
My dear, dear Lucy,
Thank you for your concern regarding my future happiness with Oscar. I am aware of his financial situation and, while it does cause me some apprehension, I feel our love will overcome such obstacles.
Furthermore, I feel he has great potential to be a good provider through his artistic endeavours. I know that stands to be seen, but I have read his writing and find him to be as brilliant and insightful as he is witty. And while his passion is for more intellectual pursuits, he also has a talent for popular storytelling. Why, just for my amusement, he once conjured the most engrossing supernatural tale you can imagine! At the very least he could make a living as a writer of penny dreadfuls (though I doubt it will come to that).
My father, at first, did not approve and threatened to withhold my dowry. He feared Oscar was no more than a rapscallion trying to get his hands on Father’s military pension. But upon meeting Oscar, Father was as charmed by him as I am and has since given his blessing.
Being my oldest and dearest friend, you know of my dream of being an actress upon the stage. Oscar has written scenes for me and has coached me in my acting. Together I think we can live the lives of vagabond artists, perhaps poor in material possessions but rich in our love and fulfilled by our art.
Again, thank you greatly for looking out for my interests. I am, as always, grateful beyond measure for your friendship.
With love,
Florence
P.S. Who is that gentleman I have seen escorting you about town? He is quite distinguished.
Letter from Lucy Mayhew to Florence Balcombe, 22nd of May 1877
My dearest Florence,
The gentleman you have seen escorting me on occasion is Robert Roosevelt. He is a congressman from America and a recent widower who is in Dublin to attend to trade business. I am showing him the city as a favour to my father.
I do find him charming for an American, and he has spoken of his fondness for me. However, I must put such gossip in its place, as there is nothing but friendship between us. The death of his wife is too fresh in his heart, and his stay in Dublin is but brief as he is off to London soon.
Though, as fate would have it, my Aunt Agatha has invited me to stay with her in London, so perhaps I shall see him while I am there.
As always, your friend,
Lucy
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 17th of December 1877
5:03 a.m.
I had another dream last night, about that terrible weekend in Greystones. Though it has been over a year since I last was stricken with my ‘second sight’, I am in constant apprehension it will return.
The dream would be a nightmare for any decent person. I am a wolf lost in pure, primal violence. I tear into flesh, lapping up blood and taking joy in the scream of my victim. I wake up laughing and euphoric, which quickly turns to shame as I return to myself.
The words of the werewolf still ring in my ears. “What are you?” It is a good question.
Since my ‘awakening’ at Greystones, I find it ever more difficult to keep to the righteous path and have fallen to the darker things in life. I have been carousing with the other clerks far too frequently, and now I find myself going to the theatre almost nightly. I have convinced myself theatre is ultimately good as most, if not all, plays have a moral message at their centre. However, this preoccupation with frivolity is causing my duties to suffer, and if I aspire to rise above Petty Sessions Clerk Inspector I would do well to focus on more sober, industrious pursuits.
My recent activities also leave me with no time for writing my poetry or stories. A letter came the other day from Walt Whitman in America. He continues to encourage my writing, for which I am humbly grateful, though I fear I will disappoint my mentor with my feeble attempts at art.
Instead, I spend my nights writing theatre reviews for the Dublin Mail (for which I receive no payment, not even the cost of a ticket), and – too infrequently – working on my manual of petty sessions clerk duties, which I have already promised to a publishe
r. The editor grows impatient and I fear that I may lose that interest if I do not finish it soon.
And yet tonight nothing could keep me away from the theatre, as the great Henry Irving will be performing Hamlet. I eagerly await Irving’s every visit to Dublin and I shall spend the day in anticipation of tonight’s performance.
11:06 p.m.
Mr. Irving’s Hamlet fulfilled my every expectation. I was mesmerised by his performance, as was the rest of the audience. When he takes the stage, the limelight seems to ignite a fire in him. His presence and command of the dialogue are stunning. Shakespeare’s words are brought to life like I have never seen before and I feel as though I have been offered a glimpse into Hamlet’s soul.
I have been greatly impressed by Mr. Irving before, but his Hamlet surpasses any of his previous roles. He is not a robust or handsome man; he has sharp features and a thin frame, and appeared frail, despite his young age (in his forties, I would think). However, once the words started to flow out of him, he projected the strength and vitality of a man twice his size.
I find myself inspired. Dare I dream of casting off the daily grind of the clerk’s life and working in the theatre one day myself? Not as an actor, surely, but perhaps as a director or writer. To help bring stories to life for enraptured audiences – what an adventure that would be!
Likely this is nought but a foolish dream, which will be forgotten tomorrow as I attend to my usual duties.
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 20th of December 1877
12:13 p.m.
Just as I have given notice to the Dublin Mail that I will no longer be available to write reviews, the theatre life comes knocking on my very door. Henry Irving himself, having read my favourable review of his performance, has invited me to take dinner with him at the Shelbourne Hotel!
He writes, I have read many reviews, both praising and condemning my performances, and I have to say, Mr. Stoker, you alone have articulated the realism I try to bring to acting.
I am beside myself with pride, which I know cometh before a fall, yet I cannot say no to meeting such an enormous talent. I have sent a reply that I accept his invitation. Now, as I write this, my hand shakes. I am anxious about our dinner conversation. What could I possibly say that would interest such a man of the world? I think back to my dinner with Richard Burton, where I fear I almost put him to sleep with my banality.
As I fret about this I fall further behind in my duties, writing and social obligations. Christmas is but days away and I have not yet shopped for gifts for my family or friends. Nervous anticipation preoccupies my mind and I cannot sleep.
Letter from Dr. (William) Thornley Stoker to Bram Stoker, 27th of December 1877
Dear brother,
Thanks once again for the oranges, very delicious. My cook is candying the peels as I write this.
I enjoyed seeing you at Christmas dinner and am sorry I was called away so suddenly. I would have loved to hear more about your adventures in the theatre. But such is the life of a local doctor.
A harrowing Christmas night that was for my young patient. She was found unconscious just off Baggot Street. Her throat had been punctured and she had lost much blood; however, we were able to save her and she is doing well. We gave her a blood transfusion. A new technique is making them much more successful, as she can attest to. The new theory is that there are different types of blood distributed among the population and matching up the right type from person to person is the key to success.
The poor thing cannot recollect who attacked her. It was gruesome – she had been stabbed in the throat with an ice pick or awl. Who would do such a thing? The streets of Dublin are becoming increasingly unsafe. Too many foreigners about if you ask me.
But enough of this dark subject. Happy New Year, brother, and I hope all is well with you.
Best regards,
Thornley
P.S. I heard from Willie Wilde that his brother Oscar is engaged, and she is a great beauty at that. Glad to hear that wild Wilde boy is settling down.
Letter from Dr. Mueller to Lord Alfred Sundry, 28th of April 1878
Dear Lord Sundry,
I have word that the mummy you purchased from the collector in Cairo has shipped. It is quite a perfect specimen and will be accompanied by its well-preserved organs in clay jars.
See bill of sale for £50. The shipping costs are around £60 and will need to be paid on delivery, which I expect to take no more than eight days.
I hope it serves your purpose and once again offer my apologies for not as yet procuring you a werewolf. I continue the search, as do my agents abroad.
I have returned to Dublin to keep an eye on Mr. Stoker as you requested. You were right to be concerned. Irving is here and up to his old tricks.
Yesterday I covertly followed him and he, in turn, was covertly following Stoker. Curious, is it not? It is even more curious, knowing that Stoker was a member of the party that killed our werewolf. Does Stoker know his true nature, and is he actively trying to thwart your plans?
Count Ruthven arrives in a fortnight and will use his special skills to investigate the matter further.
Sincerely,
Dr. Mueller
Letter from Lord Alfred Sundry to Dr. Mueller, 6th of May 1878
Archivist’s note: On the 2nd of June 1880, the White Worm Society and the Queen’s Guard raided Dr. Mueller’s Edinburgh laboratory, only to find that he had fled the country. This letter was found among his papers left behind.
Dr. Mueller,
It is indeed troubling that Irving is making contact with Stoker at this time. We run the risk of missing our window of opportunity should Irving reveal Stoker’s destiny too soon.
By all means, discreetly investigate Irving and Stoker. I am a bit concerned that Ruthven is tasked with this, however. In the past, he has shown little restraint in his methods. Make it clear to him that the Black Bishop would be most displeased should any harm come to Stoker or if our plans are exposed in any way.
Lord Sundry
From the Journal of Bram Stoker, 1st of June 1878
2:00 a.m.
I scarcely know where to begin this entry, so much has happened tonight. It is the small hours of the morning and, were I sensible, I would go to bed and delay any attempt to record this evening’s events until I’ve rested, when I shall surely be more coherent. But I am certain I shall not be able to sleep. Thoughts are spinning through my brain like dervishes and perhaps by writing them down I can quiet my restless mind.
I attended a party tonight celebrating the engagement of Oscar Wilde to Miss Florence Balcombe. I had heard about the engagement but, knowing Oscar, had assumed that it would end – most likely with an overly dramatic speech from him and tears on the poor girl’s part – long before it reached the stage when caterers would become involved. But people will insist on surprising one, and the appointed hour approached with no last-minute cancellation.
I arrived at the Wilde residence unfashionably on time, as is my habit, try as I might to convince myself that a later entrance would present a more advantageous appearance. Lady Wilde greeted me warmly and pointed me in the direction of Willie and Oscar, who were indulging in glasses of champagne, I am sure not their first of the evening.
“Stoker!” Oscar exclaimed as I approached. “My brother-in-arms. How good of you to come. Werewolves and other creatures of the night will surely fear to menace our guests now that we three mighty hunters are reunited. Ah, if only Captain Burton were here.”
I looked around, alarmed, but nobody was near enough to hear. “Oscar, I wouldn’t for the world miss the opportunity to meet this unfortunate girl you have surely tricked into marrying you. Congratulations, by the way,” I added, shaking his hand before accepting a glass of champagne from a passing waiter.
Oscar grinned. “You are right, Stoker, I see no reason why she would want me, and yet sh
e does. And I shall be eternally grateful for it. To love!”
I couldn’t help but smile as Willie and I joined him in his toast. He seemed so genuinely happy and in love that I would have scarcely recognised him if not for the pomposity.
The evening progressed and more guests packed the house, making it uncomfortably crowded and boisterously noisy. The bride-to-be had not yet made her entrance, which I supposed was customary at these things.
The food and drink flowed copiously. I would not have thought they could afford to host such an event, but Willie had confided in me earlier that his half brother, Henry, had died and left them some money. Up until that point I had no idea there was a half brother Henry. I had heard through others there were two half sisters who were tragically killed in a fire, but not one mention of this brotherly benefactor. I suspected that he, like the sisters, was illegitimate and therefore an embarrassment to the Wilde name.
I mingled with the other guests for some while until I noticed Lady Wilde greeting a familiar figure: Henry Irving! I knew he was back in Dublin, of course, and he and I have already arranged to meet for supper after his Tuesday night performance in Henry V. I was not aware, however, that he knew the Wildes. I made my way over, hoping not to appear over-eager.
I need not have feared for he greeted me with genuine enthusiasm. “Bram!” he cried, clasping my hand. “How good to see you! Lady Wilde told me you’d be here.”
“She said not a word to me,” I said, glancing in her direction. She beamed.
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