by Dacre Stoker
Mina could not imagine her heart enduring more pain this week. Seeing the look of disgust and anger in her son’s eyes was more than she could bear. Now she understood how Jonathan had felt when Quincey’s anger was directed at him. Her only crime was sheltering her son, and now that very act had driven him away, perhaps into the very danger she and Jonathan tried so hard to protect him from.
She gripped the small gold cross around her neck and wondered, Could my dark prince know the secret I had hidden from him all these years? Is his anger with me so great that he finally decided to enact his revenge . . . on me and all whom I love?
CHAPTER XXII.
“Dixitque Deus fiat lux et facta est lux. And said God let there be light, and light was made.” It was the beginning of God’s creation of the universe.
The old man traveled in a hansom through the London night. He frowned at Liverpool Street. Gone were the beautiful gas lampposts with their romantic, flickering flames; in their place were the new arc-light columns, their illumination harsh and intense. No longer could a lonely traveler look up to the stars for guidance. The poison of electric light obliterated the stars from view. Man had created light and cut himself off from the heavens. The old man took small comfort from the fact that he would not be around much longer to witness the downfall of his species. He had only one task left in his life, and had almost exhausted his energy in merely making the journey from Amsterdam.
He had forgotten how much he hated the weather in England. The rain made his joints ache, and he could feel the cold dampness in his bones. The voyage from Amsterdam had taken longer than expected. There had been a time when he could embark on this journey several times a month. Now his inability to move at a quick pace caused him to miss his train in Antwerp and he had had to wait a full day before the next one departed for France. His spirit was still strong, but he cursed his frail body.
The hansom cab pulled up to the familiar, redbrick Great Eastern Hotel. As with many things, it, too, had been altered since he’d last set foot in London. The quaint, genteel hotel had taken over the adjoining building and expanded into it.
As he paid the carriage driver his sixpence, something strange caught his attention. Across the street, there was a bank of street lamps that had gone dark. It was a common occurrence now, but gas flames never used to go out. So much for man’s technological advancement.
A suspicious-looking young fellow in a bowler hat lurked under the dark lamppost, pretending to read a newspaper as he stared at the new-comer.
Using his cane to steady himself, the old man trudged slowly to the front door, happy that at least the rain had stopped. He drank in the sights, smells, and sounds of his surroundings. He had history here.
While the porters carried his trunk and carpetbags, the doorman offered to take his arm. The old man refused. He would not let age hamper him any more than it already had. Carefully, he moved step by step across the rain-slicked marble-and-onyx-tiled floor toward the front desk. Once there, he wheezed, “I have a reservation for a room.”
The concierge smiled and opened the large black ledger. “Certainly, and your name, sir?”
The old man made no reply, preoccupied by the sensation that he was still being watched. He turned toward the front doors and spied the young man in the bowler hat peering in at him through the glass. In the instant in which the two men made eye contact, a look of panic crossed the young man’s face and he receded into the night.
Why was this young man following him? No doubt he was one of the demon’s minions.
It had finally stopped raining by the time Cotford and Lee entered the Highgate Cemetery through the Swains Lane entrance. The London night fog was rolling in. Cotford’s electric torch illuminated the map, looking for Egyptian Avenue. The torchlight swept over the path, dominated by two huge obelisks decorated with papyrus and lotus leaves. The two men continued through the gate. The leafless trees, reaching out to the crescent moon like skeletal fingers, showered them with raindrops set free by the wind. Graceful stone angels, weeping carved figures, and statues of women carrying torches glowed in the moonlight. Stone faces peered through clusters of overgrown grass, ivy, and bramble.
It all reminded Cotford of his childhood. His mother used to tell old Irish folktales of banshees, leprechauns, changelings, and Caoineadh, the Lady of Death.
When Cotford was not quite a man, tuberculosis and influenza had swept through Ireland. In Cotford’s village, the elders said it was the work of the Devil. Patients couldn’t breathe at night because, they claimed, it felt as if a great weight was on their chests. The superstitious physician stated it was evidence of a vampire sitting on their torso, sucking their blood. Rumors and panic spread faster than the plague itself. Cotford could vividly remember the night the townsfolk dug up his brother’s grave. Cotford was horrified when the priest claimed that, since his brother was the first to die of the plague, he must be the vampire infecting the others in the village. The priest had rammed an iron stake through his brother’s body. Cotford, young and naïve, became a believer when his brother’s dead body audibly moaned. Blood poured from his brother’s mouth, eyes, and ears. The priest proclaimed the village saved. But five more people died, and Cotford’s faith wavered.
Years later, Cotford’s experience as a police officer showed him the truth of what had happened that night. Fermenting gases in a body cause it to bloat as it decomposes. When punctured, as with an iron stake or a police surgeon’s scalpel, these gases are forced up over the corpse’s vocal cords and through the mouth, forcing the jaw to open and a “moan” to escape. Once the gases are released, the body collapses in on itself, forcing blood out of every orifice. Cotford’s brother had never been a vampire, just a victim of superstition and ignorance, bless his poor soul.
It was fear that had stopped Cotford’s parents from keeping his brother’s grave sacred. Fear of the unknown. Uneducated people feared what they did not understand, allowing superstition to flourish. Of course, after the death of his brother, Cotford learned that all those tales of folklore had been rubbish. It was this revelation that had caused him to turn his back on his home and seek an education in London. He had taken comfort in science, for it could explain the mysteries that haunted men. The supernatural preyed on fears. Through science, he would never be fooled again.
Cotford stopped cold. He heard something move in the graveyard. The moon slid behind the clouds, plunging the cemetery into darkness. Cotford raised his hand to signal to Lee, who also froze. Cotford strained to listen. A rustling came from his left. He aimed his electric torchlight. The specter of a ghostly, white horse caught in the light glared back at him.
Cotford heard Lee betray himself with a sharp intake of air. He looked up at the towering sergeant. He did not expect a man of his stature to be so affected.
“It’s only a statue,” Cotford said.
“I didn’t see it, is all. Could have knocked my head on that stone horseshoe.”
Cotford frowned back at the colossal statue. The moss growing on the horse’s stone face gave it a scowling look. Cotford recognized it as the tomb of the famous coachman James Selby. The statue loomed over the other headstones, holding a whip and an inverted set of horseshoes.
After walking through the labyrinth of catacombs and tombstones, Lee and Cotford sidestepped a freshly dug grave waiting for its head-stone. Finally, they came upon a mausoleum nestled among glowing white yew trees. The tomb was overrun by ivy that covered it like a spi derweb. Lee brushed away the dead leaves and branches covering the engraved name.
WESTENRA.
Lee sighed. “Are you certain you wish to go through with this?”
Cotford nodded; there was no other way. He lacked sufficient evidence to obtain a proper court order from the magistrate. He took a sip from his flask for warmth.
“You’re asking me to help you commit a crime.”
“This is no whim, Sergeant Lee.” Cotford drew one of Jack Seward’s leather-bound journals from his
overcoat. “I have found proof that the Ripper committed a murder twenty-five years ago that we were unaware of until now. The testimony of Dr. Jack Seward, written by his own hand.”
From a premarked page, Cotford read aloud by the light of the electric torch:It was Arthur, her betrothed, who screamed in agony as he plunged the iron stake into her loving heart. With that first blow of the mallet, the creature that had once been the fair Lucy shrieked like a tortured Siren. My God the blood! The horror! How I wept. Arthur loved Lucy beyond all others, yet that did not prevent him from striking the deathblow! How oft I have played the scene again in my mind; if I supposedly loved Lucy more than he, why did I not stay Arthur’s hand? Yet I fared no better, for it was I who cut her beautiful head from her body. . . . Over the years I’ve told myself again and again, we were cleansing her soul. If that were true, why can I not get the sounds of her screams out of my mind? Or forget the horrible sight as Professor Van Helsing lifted his surgical saw and began severing Lucy’s limbs from her body . . . ?
“Enough!” Lee cried.
“Perhaps, but know my zeal is born of a terrible guilt from which I pray you are spared. Lucy Westenra’s death certificate states that she died of a rare blood disease. The physician who signed her death certificate was a Dr. Langella, the same man who only weeks before had signed Holmwood’s marriage license. Rather convenient, wouldn’t you say? As the journal clearly indicates, Lucy did not die quietly in her bed.”
“What if this journal contains merely the drug-induced ravings of a madman?”
“Don’t be a fool, Lee. After everything we have learned, you know it to be true. If we turn our backs on what we know and allow another woman to fall under the Ripper’s blade . . .” Cotford paused and set his jaw. “It will be our souls who must answer for it.”
Lee looked at his mentor for a long moment. He could not deny the logic. Gesturing to the aging tomb, he said softly, “May God forgive us if we’re wrong.”
“And protect us if we’re right.”
It took the full effort of both men to force open the iron door. The hinges screeched like wailing banshees. When the door struck the stone wall, the bang was louder than thunder.
Rats squealed and scurried away from the electric torch’s beam. Cotford and Sergeant Lee pushed the stone sarcophagus lid aside. The stench of death was far worse than anything they had experienced in the morgue.
Lee coughed, an arm bent across his face to ward off the odor. “How could these old remains still give off such a terrible stench?” A dreadful thought came to him. “Perhaps there’s been a new addition.”
“That tomb door hasn’t been opened in decades,” Cotford said.
The sergeant nodded; Cotford was right. But it didn’t explain how the pall of death could still be so powerful. And fresh.
He hoped it was a dead animal.
Cotford aimed his light into the open tomb. Inside the sarcophagus were the mutilated, skeletal remains of a female. The skull, with flowing red hair, had clearly been severed from her body. The mouth was stuffed with dried flowers, the limbs severed and crossed. An iron stake was still embedded in her skeletal chest. Dried blood stains were still visible beside the corpse. Cotford looked upon the ravaged remains of Lucy Westenra, and his mind was instantly flooded by the memories of those five bloodied prostitutes found in Whitechapel. All had been mutilated in much the same way. Clearly, the Ripper had reached a new low with Lucy. He had moved beyond prostitutes to women of means, murdered her in a place where no one heard her scream, and dealt the final blow with an iron stake. That was pure Van Helsing. He felt at once justified and sickened to the core.
“Madmen!”
“Murderers!” Lee added.
Cotford could see on Lee’s face the same hunger for justice that he himself had suffered all these years.
“Sergeant Lee, I want every inch of this crime scene photographed and the remains taken to the morgue. Use only the subordinates you trust. Our superiors cannot yet get wind of what we’re about. Wake that old fart, the surgeon, and have him do a full autopsy. Make sure he’s finished and gone before first light, so as not to arouse suspicion. See to it that his report finds its way to my desk the instant it is complete.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cotford cocked his head. He raised a finger to his lips, signaling Lee to silence.
From outside, they heard someone running toward the tomb.
Cotford, as usual, was without a pistol. Perhaps he should have put his pride aside this night and taken one with him. He turned off his light as the footsteps approached. With his billy club in hand, Lee positioned himself next to the open doorway. Cotford held the heavy electric torch at the ready.
The footsteps drew nearer. Just as the moon peered through the clouds, a dark figure appeared in the doorway. The silhouette indicated he was wearing a bowler hat. Cotford switched on his electric torch. The beam of light blinded the intruder, catching him off guard.
Before Cotford struck, Lee cried out, “Constable Price! What the hell are you doing here out of uniform?”
Price removed his bowler hat, placed it under his arm, and came to attention. “You told me to be inconspicuous. Did I do wrong, sir?”
Cotford recognized Constable Price as the eager youngster who had run into the Red Lion, looking for him.
“Sergeant Lee,” Price said, flushed and out of breath. “You wanted me to inform you . . . when the man in the photo . . . checked into the Great Eastern Hotel.”
“Did he?” Cotford asked, glad that Lee had taken Price into their confidence. Cotford liked this young man and his unquestioning earnestness.
“Yes, sir. I saw him check in with my own eyes. He’s much older now, but I recognized him.”
Cotford took a sip from his flask, his face broad with a triumphant smirk. “And so it begins.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
Through the thick blanket of fog, Countess Bathory waited for the two policemen and the young man in the bowler hat to exit the mausoleum inscribed with the name: WESTENRA.
She had been observing their actions for several nights. Her interest had been piqued a week earlier as she sat upon the rooftop of the alleyway near Temple Bar, while the pig-shaped inspector attempted to deduce the circumstances surrounding the demise of her beloved Woman in White. She listened with amusement when the other inspector, Huntley, blathered on with his ridiculous summation. It was an insult to her lady. The thought that this Harker, a weakling of a man, could have killed her golden-haired beloved was repulsive. She would have torn Harker to shreds, too, if she had had the chance.
This fat detective, by contrast, was no fool. Not only did he deduce the events that had occurred, but he actually surmised Bathory’s presence at the scene. Since then, she had been watching that one with great interest.
The taller of the two officers addressed the fat one by the name Inspector Cotford. Bathory did not know the name, but she recognized his face. She had seen his portrait in the newspapers years ago, with that cretin, Abberline. Yes, Cotford. I do remember the name. He looked somewhat different now, certainly heavier, and much older. Bathory marveled at how drastically mortal men aged in a mere quarter of a century.
Cotford might have been more astute than others who had crossed her path, but he was far from enlightened. He had been able to find all the pieces of the puzzle, though his narrow mind would not allow him to see the full picture. Bathory had resisted the urge to pounce down on him and bash his skull against the wall. She imagined the look of shock on his face when he saw firsthand how a woman could be more powerful than a man. For centuries, Bathory had been confused by the notion that God created man in his own image. If it were so, then God was weak. Man was so fragile and limited. Without technology, man would be near the bottom of the food chain. Bathory had discovered the truth that even lowly beasts had known for millennia: Man was easy prey, and his blood was like a fine vintage. She wondered if the beasts that had tasted man’s flesh felt the same satisf
action she did. The only human for whom Bathory held any respect was Charles Darwin. Survival of the fittest. Bathory was humanity perfected. Her powers of sight, hearing, smell, and taste were tenfold those of a human, as was her strength. She was blessed with an even more powerful sixth sense, that of the mind. For centuries, man had marveled at magicians who could manipulate objects, read and control minds. For Bathory, it involved no trick or illusion: She could enter a human’s consciousness and force their mind’s eye to see her as a wolf, gargoyle, rat, or mist. Her powers had grown to the point at which she could enter a person’s mind even from hundreds of miles away and have them see what she wished. She had the ability to move at incredible speeds. She could even levitate and move through the skies, soaring on the winds. Man needed a machine to fly. Bathory was indeed the fittest, the next level of human evolution.
Bathory tried to determine whether she should kill Cotford for what he had learned, or make him an unwitting ally. Her first instinct was to kill the three men in the mausoleum now, before they spilled their bile to others. She had killed Jack Seward for less, and this lonely place was a perfect setting for murder. The cemetery was vast, and she was many yards away, but Bathory’s preternatural eyes easily pierced the fog and darkness. The Westenra mausoleum. So, they are digging up the past. Collecting more pieces of the puzzle.
She considered the fate of the fat inspector. This was an obsessed, narrow-minded man. Perhaps his contemporaries thought him as mad as the criminals he pursued. She loved to gamble, but not with cards or money. Life and death were better prizes. It was all so arbitrary anyway, and in this game she had always been the winner. She was ready to wager that Cotford had sworn the policemen with him to secrecy. He was obviously bright, but failure to recognize Seward’s grave next to Lucy’s led her to believe that his thinking was pathetically linear. Could she use Cotford to her own ends? Yes. She would use Cotford to draw the rest of them out. He would bring them to her. Bathory smiled. England wasn’t going to be as dull and dreary as she remembered.