by Lucas Thorn
“The foreigner? The one who kissed your hand?”
“Yes. He visited me when I was sick. He even spoke to my mother just before she threw out the flowers. He was also a man of botany, Inspector. A man with great interest in native flowers. He brought plenty of soil from his homeland so he could grow rare and beautiful flowers which only grew in the mountains of Transylvania. I believe he hoped to present them to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. One of the nurses told me he hadn’t been seen since the night I was supposed to have died.” She smiled at Abberline. A smile which made his insides squirm and nearly propelled him onto his knees at her feet. “I liked him, you know. The foreigner. And although I could tell he was much interested in Mina, I fancied he might have carried me away if I weren’t already engaged. Forgive me, Inspector. It was an innocent fantasy which made me smile, and I had not yet been married when I gave it the briefest of thoughts. Not much makes me smile anymore. But, he was charming. And Arthur liked him, too.”
“Two men,” he said slowly. “And your mother. Three murders.”
“Four, if you count myself. Which I don’t, of course.”
“And you know for sure Van Helsing has close contact with the Queen?”
Westenra cleared his throat. “Sir Harold told us he was a man most welcome to Her Majesty’s court.”
“That makes it difficult,” he said. “Tricky.”
“But you don’t sound frightened by it,” Lucy said. “You sound very bold, Inspector.”
“Perhaps I am motivated by your own bravery, Miss Westenra. I can’t comprehend the depth of the horrors you have faced. But that you have emerged as you are is both a miracle and testament to the strength of your mind. I admire that greatly.”
“I admit to being lucky,” she said. “The nurse forgot to lock my door. I ran. That’s all. I kept running. Hiding in the day. Creeping at night.”
He shivered at the thought of her on the wild country roads. Frightened out of her wits. It was amazing she was so calm.
But Westenra was right to feel doubtful about Abberline’s success in bringing the men to justice. More than once had he seen men in high places avoid lawful punishment for outrageous crimes.
Then something occurred to him.
Firstly, that Miss Westenra, while not nobility, was the daughter of a wealthy and well-respected man. Secondly, that the foreigner had mentioned a gift to the Queen.
“You really believe they killed him? The foreigner?”
“I have no doubt in my mind. John Seward’s jealousy was enough reason. But I told you Van Helsing would torture the poor inmates. He was obsessed with finding some mythical clue inside them which might explain why some people were different to others. No doubt he would find the foreigner’s body of great interest to his research.”
“Was he, perhaps, someone of means? Do you know what I’m trying to ask?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. Bright. “He was from a line of Kings, he told me. Very well respected in Transylvania. A noble man, with a noble title. His family name still holds power in some corners of Europe, he said. He’d come to England to make himself known to the Crown. He wished to make formal alliances once again.”
“Then, he had a title?”
“Oh, most definitely. John scoffed at him for it, of course.”
His heart beat a little faster.
A foreign man murdered on English soil was hardly newsworthy with half the population already wanting to lynch every foreigner they could find. But a foreign Lord? That might be enough for Van Helsing to lose any privilege Her Majesty might have given him.
“His name, Lucy. What was his name?”
“Dracula.” The smile curled wider. “Count Dracula.”
“Strange name.”
“He was a strange man.”
“I’m sure,” he said. Nodded as Westenra offered to fill his glass. “You didn’t see them kill anyone, though, did you? I mean, could you say you witnessed them in the act?”
“No. I didn’t see them kill.”
“Oh.” Not quite disappointed.
“But I did see one of the bodies.” She closed her eyes. Kept perfectly still. “I’ve tried to forget about it, Inspector. But I know it’s terribly important, so I’ll do my best.”
“I must say, Miss Westenra, as a policeman, I’ve not had many better interviews. I admit to expecting something a bit more…”
She watched him flail before finishing; “Hysterical?”
“As you say. But, in my line of work it’s very common.”
“My father didn’t raise me to be weak-willed.” She showed the old man an affectionate smile. “He ran a tannery when I was a little girl. I wasn’t old enough to not be curious.”
“You remember that?” Westenra shook his head. “So long ago.”
“All the same, this was quite different. And I can’t say I lost the shock of it until I was home.”
“You should have seen her, Inspector. I couldn’t believe it was her when I opened the door. She looked a fright.”
Lucy watched the policeman sip before speaking again; “I saw the body of a girl. She was about fourteen years old. With blonde hair. Soft skin. I remember thinking she was a servant.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I thought I recognised her. It was hard to be sure, because they’d done things to her face. But when I first saw her, I thought it must be Count Dracula’s little servant. I can’t recall her name, unfortunately. But she was a local girl, so it shouldn’t be terribly hard to find out who she was?”
“I should think so. At least to confirm the identity of any missing girls.”
“I’m sure it won’t be difficult, if I am right. But the more I think about it, the more certain I am that it was her. If they had to murder the Count, then it makes sense they’d want to keep his servant quiet, too. Especially if she saw something. Maybe saw them arrive? Perhaps they might blame him for her disappearance? I know some of the villagers were superstitious in Whitby. They thought him an odd man, and that sometimes means different things in the countryside. I don’t mean to say they’re simple. Just that they can believe in outlandish tales very easily.”
“I grew up in a little town on the coast,” he said. Tried a smile. “I understand.”
Lucy closed her eyes. Was silent for a moment, then began; “I heard her the night before. She begged them not to do it. Begged to be set free. Swore she’d tell nothing to anyone. And she wept for such a long time. After a while, I think they gave her some sort of drug, because she went very quiet. Some time around midnight, she let out a horrible cry. I shall remember that sound until the end of my days, Inspector. It was the cry of someone who’d been hurt so terribly that there’s no doubt they were facing the end of their life. I didn’t dare move for ages afterward. Didn’t dare breathe, I tell you. I was so afraid they would hear I was awake and come for me. But I listened. The noises I heard were unspeakable. I imagined the most evil of things was being done to her, but I don’t believe I could have imagined anything as remotely terrifying as the reality of what she suffered. Then, later, they came out with her on a trolley. They left her in front of my cell. I thought it was to mock me.”
“Mock you?”
“Yes.” She looked down again. At her feet. Felt a trickle of excitement in her belly. “They knew I couldn’t stand the sight of blood. And there was so much of it. He’d been with her for hours.”
“The German?”
She opened her mouth, and a strangled noise emerged until she put a hand over her lips and looked down again.
Westenra stepped up beside her chair. Stopped short of putting a hand on her shoulder. “Lucy? Perhaps we should stop…”
“It’s alright.” She lifted herself. Sucked a breath as though steeling herself. “I can go on. It must be told. She shouldn’t have died for nothing. Her story should be told. That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it, Inspector?”
“I hope so,” he said. And felt the glimmer of rage ins
ide his brain return. Like a speck of light, it seemed to flare under her gaze. Filling him with the most insatiable hatred toward Van Helsing and the Doctor. “I sincerely believe so.”
“Do you ever wonder what madness is, Inspector?”
The question took him by surprise. “It’s not for me to say. Although, lately, I admit it’s a question I’ve begun to ponder upon more often. In my line of work, it’s a natural thing to think about.”
“I suppose it would be. You must see things which would drive a normal person quite mad.”
“Sometimes,” he said. He opened his mouth but closed it before he could speak. Shook his head to clear visions of torn and mutilated bodies. Some things shouldn’t be shared with a lady, he thought.
Even one who’d seen horrors herself.
“When I saw the girl, there was a moment when I felt like there was a bowl of fireflies in my head. And they were going off. One after the other. Pop. Pop. Pop. And with each light extinguished, a piece of me was taken away. Stripped, if you like. Leaving only a frightened creature with no mind of its own. I must have screamed for hours. I remember tearing at the wall, trying to get out. To get away. A part of me must have known I couldn’t dig through solid stone, but still I tried. It is an empty thing to go mad. Because I’m sure that’s what happened to me. I went mad. But, I told myself later that any normal person would lose at least a small part of their sanity. Some things just shouldn’t be seen. And when I saw what Van Helsing had done to that poor girl, I knew there was evil in the world. Not the kind of evil you read about in books. But pure evil. Malicious and spiteful. I’d felt only pity for myself until that night. I’d cried and cried for my own sake. All my fears. All my sorrows. They’d been selfish. But after that, I cried for them. The girls he butchered. Yes. That’s the right word. Butchered.”
“God,” Westenra breathed. Shivering, he looked away.
To the doorway, as though expecting Van Helsing to leap from the shadows in the hall. A monstrous being of shadow and steel, flinging crucifixes and flowers before slashing with knives.
His fists hung limp at his sides.
“God wasn’t there,” Lucy said. “I gave up praying on the third day. Although it could have been earlier or much later. I couldn’t know for sure how quickly time passed. John kept giving me things to make me sleep, and the window was blocked so very little light came in. It was hard to mark the passage of time.”
“It was two weeks, Inspector,” Westenra said. “Since we held the funeral. Two weeks almost to the day before she showed up at my door.”
“I might still be there, Inspector. I might still be curled up on the bed. But it was her body which made me so desperate. A girl whose name I never knew and might possibly never know. I wish I could tell her how her suffering would never be forgotten. How it woke me from the frightened child I was and into the desperate woman I came to be. You see, I’m certain that’s what they planned for me in the end. I have no doubt of it. Van Helsing showed me some of his devices. Tools, he called them. Vital to his experiments. Ghastly things from Medieval times. Saws. Clamps and screws. Strange surgical devices. Long iron nails.” Pause. “Knives. Lots of knives.”
“Knives?” Abberline raised an eyebrow. Felt a jolt in his belly. “What kind of knives?”
“Different kinds,” she said. “He used them on the others. He took great delight in it. I heard him. Grunting like a pig. A monstrously bloated pig. He enjoyed hurting her. Truly enjoyed it. Revelled in it. I don’t think John enjoyed it as much, but he did assist. They worked together.”
“What did they do to the body? Afterward? Did they bury it?”
“I don’t believe so. There’s a crematorium, Inspector.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. I’m afraid I’m not much help after all. They could claim I made it all up, couldn’t they?”
“Well.” He tucked his bottom lip under his teeth for a moment. Thoughtful. “They could claim you were there for mental reasons. That what you saw were delusions. Figments of an overactive imagination caused by stress.”
“Pah!” Westenra let out a growl. “How dare they! What reasonable person would believe that when they held a blasted funeral for her and everything?”
“That’s certainly something they’d have to answer. They’d need to explain why they faked your death. That alone should be enough to convince anyone their intentions weren’t honourable.”
“No,” she said. “They weren’t honourable in the least.”
“It’s difficult, of course, to prove murder without a body. But abduction? That in itself is a serious crime. Of course, the gossip has been bad enough this far. Are you sure…?”
“I would like to see them brought to justice, Inspector. I don’t care what it does to my reputation. Already the whole of London thinks I’m either a victim or a whore. Or both.”
“Lucy,” Westenra gasped. “Don’t say such a thing.”
“No, father. It’s true. But I don’t care. I know what happened. I was there. And I need you to know, Inspector, that I don’t care for myself. But the girl! Her eyes. Even dead, her eyes showed such agony. I couldn’t bear to think of these men getting away with that. They ripped her open like a fish, and cared nothing for her cries.” She pressed her palms against her ears. “Her scream. I can still hear her crying out. I’ve never heard anything so sorrowful. It breaks my heart. It pierces my soul.”
“Dear Lord,” Abberline said. Soft. His mind frozen on a single unlikely thought. “Lucy. I am sorry to ask this. More sorry than I can say. But I need to know. The wounds. You saw the body. But did you… see them? See them clearly, I mean?”
“Inspector!” Westenra put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder as she began to shake. “Such a thing-”
“Father, it’s alright. It’s alright.” She looked up at Abberline. Brow knotted and face pale. So pale, he thought. Whiter than any plate he’d ever seen. “Yes, Inspector. I saw them. And no matter how much time passes, I know I’ll never get the image of them out of my mind.”
“And again, Miss Westenra, I must impose more than you might bear. Could you describe them? Please? I would never ask this of you if I had a choice, but it’s vitally important. Perhaps more than anything else you’ve told me this night.”
She nodded.
Numb, he thought. She must be numb with the trauma of her experience.
But her voice oozed like honey into the world; “He cut her many times. You have to understand there was a lot of blood.”
“I understand,” he said. Voice taut. “It must have been dreadful.”
Westenra stared at his daughter. Mouth open. Eyes wide in shock.
“Then, as far as I could tell, he cut her throat. Very deep. I could see bone.” She shuddered. Clutched armrests tight. So tight her fingers looked ready to bite into the cushioned wood. Rocking slightly. So slightly. Eyes glazing over as he thought her sinking into memory. “There were cuts on her legs. Her thigh. Right here. But they were light. Nothing deep. Most of the blood came from here. Her belly. There were so many cuts there. And one big one. From here, almost all the way up. She was… ripped open.”
“Enough,” Westenra croaked. Slammed the last of his brandy in one gulp. “Enough.”
“When he came out of the room, he was wiping his hands on her dress. A piece of it, which he’d cut free. He had a jar tucked here. Under his arm, Inspector.”
“A jar?”
“Yes. And inside the jar, he had something. Some piece of her body he no doubt wanted to keep. Like a hunting trophy.”
“Enough!” Westenra’s strangled voice squeaked loose and he turned to the liquor cabinet again.
The Inspector’s dry lips moved. “Did you know what it was?”
“No. I’m afraid not. I was educated, of course, but there’s a difference between the diagrams in books and recognising the real thing, isn’t there? But it was something he thought of as important. Important enough that he ripped her open and searched until he
found it. A piece from inside her.”
“Please,” Westenra moaned. “For all that is good in the world, please stop this. Inspector, don’t you have enough? Can’t you bring these monsters to trial? Surely you have heard enough?”
Abberline found himself looking down at his own hands.
They were gripping the cane so tight his knuckles looked ready to split through the skin.
He drew moisture into his mouth and let his tongue slowly wet his lips. Studied the girl again. Her eyes were staring straight back at him. For a moment, they looked like frozen chips of ice. Then they were swinging away from him and he felt a brief spark of loss.
He found himself, irrationally, wanting her to look at him again.
“I don’t know what I can do as a policeman,” he said. Amazed himself to find his voice was steady even as his mind glittered and pulsed with rage. “But I swear to you that, as a man, I shall see them brought to justice. One way, or another.”
CHAPTER TEN
Lucy danced.
Danced on the breath of thick trains of fog which crept through London’s winding streets. She danced above the head of a coachman, who looked up and saw nothing but a flicker of white as she passed.
She danced across rooftops, sometimes letting her toes touch hot chimney stacks or skate down moist shingles.
Across the squalid and cramped houses which wrestled each other for every square foot of alley or lane. Dead ends and disused courtyards. Foul and wretched burrows within warrens of dark streets. The stinking filth of workshops.
Rot of garbage and effluent.
Whitechapel. A pure name for a seedy bed of desperate need as people struggled to better their lives in a deceptive war to survive.
Inside their houses and on the streets, she could see them all. Feel the damp flow of blood through tired veins. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Maybe more.
Stale blood made sluggish with despair.