by Dacre Stoker
Bathory deemed that Cotford and his subordinates should live at least a while longer. This was not because she felt pity, or compassion, for she did not possess the ability for such feelings: She was the perfect carnivore. But she would put aside her bloodlust, this night, in favor of the game. Let’s give my new pawns another piece of the puzzle.
Bathory used her gold-tipped walking stick to tap the ceiling of the carriage after she climbed in. The driverless carriage dashed out of Hampstead Cemetery and headed south to Whitechapel.
Kristan was exhausted. Her feet were blistered from walking Commercial Street all night. The newspapers she had stuffed into her shoes for warmth had become soggy and were falling apart, carrying the odor of rotted fish. As Kristan hobbled her way to her dilapidated lodgings on Devonshire Square, she heard horses approaching. She wanted to ignore them, but her financial situation did not grant her such luxuries. She forced a smile and turned to see a black carriage appearing through the thick, night fog. Something was not right. Carriages did not simply drive themselves. She noticed that the black carriage was richly adorned with gold fixtures. A new thought crept into her head. This was the age of invention. The wealthy always had the best and newest toys. A driverless black carriage was probably a cross between a motorcar and a hansom. Focused on the approaching gold, Kristan became excited. She had already had five customers that night, but their small fees would hardly pay for her next day’s meals. This carriage could be carrying a potential well-to-do customer. If she entertained correctly, she could charge enough to pay her rent for a month. This must be her lucky night.
The carriage slowed to a stop inches away from her tattered shoes. She waited for the carriage door to open and reveal a handsome gentleman. The upholstered carriage would serve her bottom much better than the cold cobblestones of an alleyway. After a few moments, Kristan realized this gent wanted her to work for it. She licked her lips in hopes of moistening them enough to hide the cracks caused by the March wind. She adjusted her blouse to prop up her large bosom, her selling assets, sashayed as flamboyantly as her disintegrating footwear would allow toward the coach, and gave the ornate carriage door a dainty knock.
“Looking for someone, guv’nor?”
No response. This one was playing hard-to-get. “A’llo? Anybody ’ome?”
Kristan took a step back as a black-gloved hand wearing a ruby ring pushed back the bloodred curtain, reached out, and offered a Spanish gold doubloon. Kristan smiled greedily and snatched the coin.
“Now you’re talkin’ me language, luv.”
The coach door opened slowly. A black-gloved index finger gestured for Kristan to climb inside. At this price, the gentleman could do anything he wanted with her. Being a good businesswoman, Kristan knew a gentleman in this part of town willing to pay this much money was looking for something special. Even if it hurt, she’d play along. If she was lucky, perhaps he would become a regular.
Kristan deftly placed the coin down her blouse in the most alluring way she could and took the black-gloved hand in hers.
The gloved hand closed the door. Her customer’s face was finally revealed. Kristan was shocked to see not a gentleman but a beautiful, blue-eyed, raven-haired woman elegantly wrapped in a man’s coat and tails. Kristan was glad she would avoid another ravaging poke and still make a fee. She became aroused at the thought of this beautiful woman soothing her most private aches.
Bathory’s carriage raced along the Lower Thames near the Tower of London. The six black mares’ nostrils flared with hot breath. The carriage bounced and rattled as it swept over the cobbles.
The mares braced to a quick stop, their heads snapping back and their knees locking as if an invisible rein had been pulled. It was the dead of night in the center of the city, an hour before dawn. There was no one on the street. There would be no witnesses. The carriage door swung slowly open. As if it were no heavier than a small sack of dirty rags, Bathory hurled Kristan’s bloodied body into the River Thames.
Kristan’s throat had been torn away and her face was locked, mouth agape, in an expression of abject horror. Her bodice had been torn open, revealing her breasts, and her knickers were down around her ankles. Bathory would spare this tasty child of God no humility in death. Bathory then booted Kristan’s bag onto the street, spilling its contents: some coins, a handkerchief, and a rosary. She laughed at the sight. Another hypocrite. The prostitute’s body floated away on the current of the river. Her dead eyes stared up to the heavens. Bathory could never understand how wretched people like this whore could still find any love for God. What had God done for them? Bathory’s black-gloved hand tossed the gold coin into the water beside the body and smiled as Kristan and her gold sank below the black waves of the Thames.
Who said you can’t take it with you?
“Yours for the finding, Inspector Cotford,” Bathory mused.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Quincey’s blood boiled as he raced along Bonhay Road. Why had his parents kept their past from him? Why had his father not trusted him? Why did his father have to die? Why had his mother betrayed her friends? His mind swirled as he ran through the rain. He heard the familiar whistle of the train pulling out of St. David’s station. There was no time to purchase a ticket. For his own sanity, he needed to get away from Exeter as quickly as possible, and the next train wasn’t due for another three hours. Without thinking, Quincey dashed along the tracks as the train picked up speed, and jumped onto the back of the rear carriage. Rain made the metal slippery, and Quincey lost his footing. He fumbled for a dangling chain, and held on for dear life as the train picked up speed. Clenching his teeth, he pulled himself upright and stood there, heart thumping. When he was finally safe on the train, he turned to see Exeter fading in the distance, knowing this would be the last time he set foot in his hometown. With his father dead and all trust in his mother gone, there was nothing left for him there.
As the train continued up the line toward London, Quincey found a seat in one of the carriages where it was comfortable and tranquil; but his mind would not quiet. How much of Stoker’s book was actually true? Could the un-dead really walk the earth? It seemed preposterous. The letter from his mother claimed that monsters did exist; this monster had killed his father and torn his family apart. Quincey felt in himself a growing thirst for revenge. But how could he fight such evil? He was faced by an adversary who, centuries ago, had commanded vast armies. Remorseless and brutal, this monster had the power of devils on his side. Quincey was alone, and feeling overwhelmed. The only others who knew the truth about what Quincey was facing was the brave band of heroes. Their bond had been broken long ago; and now most of them were dead. But perhaps there was one he could still turn to. Mina had kept a complete dossier about his exploits. He was a hero who had served alongside Quincey P. Morris in the French Foreign Legion. The fighting skills of that elite unit were legendary. He had fought in the Siege of Tuyen Quang against the Empire of China; escaped from cannibals in the Marquesas; and guarded the empress of Korea from Japanese assassins. Moreover, he had faced Prince Dracula in battle and survived. Yes, thought Quincey. I will go to see him. I will go to see Arthur Holmwood.
The sun was setting by the time the hansom cab raced up to the front entrance gate of the home of Arthur Holmwood, also known as Lord Godalming. Quincey leapt out and tossed coins up to the driver.
He gaped up at the stately mansion. It was at least three times larger than the Harker house in Exeter. What a puzzle this Holmwood was. A man of such means could certainly have enjoyed the privileges of wealth. The fact that he had instead risked his life time and again made Quincey admire Holmwood before even meeting him. He was surely a man to be reckoned with, and just the help Quincey would need.
Stoker’s novel made no mention of how the band of heroes had come together. Quincey had learned of their long bonds from Mina’s carefully kept records and journals. Jack, Arthur, and his namesake, Quincey P. Morris, had all attended the elite Huguenot boarding school outsi
de London as boys. Jack was a Catholic, but his father, a prominent physician, had not wanted his son to be limited by attending a parochial school. Instead, he had sent Jack to the Protestant private school to mingle with a higher class of British society. There, Jack had met Arthur, and they had become close friends.
Quincey P. Morris’s father, Brutus, was a wealthy rancher in Texas. When America’s Civil War broke out in 1861, Texas had reserved the right not to secede from the Union, as well as not to join the Confederacy. To that end, an embassy had been opened in London, and Brutus Morris had been named by Texas as the ambassador. As befitting a man of such stature, Brutus had sent his son to the same elite private school that Jack and Arthur attended. It was Quincey P. Morris’s great regret that he had been too young to have fought in the American Civil War. This regret eventually sent him back home to fight in the wars against the Indians and to help tame the Wild West. Arthur had been inspired by Morris’s heroics on America’s Great Plains and had been moved to join him on his next adventure, enlisting in the Foreign Legion. Jack Seward could not be persuaded to join them, choosing instead to pursue his own glory in science, enrolling in the prestigious Vrije University of Holland as student and graduate assistant to Professor Abraham Van Helsing.
At the top of the mansion’s front steps, Quincey Harker paused to catch his breath and compose himself. He did not want to meet the great Arthur Holmwood looking like a messenger boy. Standing on the doorstep, it occurred to him that this was where the band of heroes had often met. This is where the plan to rid the world of Dracula’s evil had been hatched. And yet, even with a man like Arthur Holmwood in their midst, they’d failed. Quincey feared this foe he was facing was simply too strong.
He reached for the brass door knocker, but there was none to be found. He looked about, saw a pull rope adjacent to the door, and realized his mistake. Of course, this man would have the finest of luxuries, including a new doorbell.
Quincey pulled the rope and a somber tone rang out. There was no answer. He pulled the rope again; still no answer. He was about to pound on the door when it opened, slightly.
A butler peered out. “May I help you?”
“Quincey Harker here to see . . .” Quincey paused. A man like Arthur Holmwood should be addressed by his proper title. “. . . Lord Godalming. It is a matter of great urgency.”
The butler opened the door another few inches and held up a small silver tray. Quincey was expected to supply a calling card. Fortunately, Basarab had provided some for his young protégé. Quincey searched his coat, eventually finding them stashed in a tattered pocket. The butler raised his eyebrow, as a proper gentleman always carried his cards in a case. “One moment, please,” the man said, and closed the door in Quincey’s face.
Quincey’s leg twitched with apprehension as he waited. He had read so much about Holmwood in the last few days. The exploits in Transylvania were just the tip of the iceberg. Among Mina’s things, Quincey had found information about Arthur’s early life, and also newspaper clippings cut from society pages highlighting Arthur’s life since their battles against Dracula. Though Arthur had become Lord Godalming upon the death of his father, he’d not commonly used the moniker until after returning from Transylvania. Quincey wondered if Arthur had changed his name because he knew Dracula was still alive; but Lord Godalming certainly did not cower in his mansion in fear. He had gone on to become a champion sail racer on the Thames, an expert polo player, and a master duelist. He had frequently defended his honor by pistols and by swords, killing three men and wounding twelve others who had insulted him. Quincey expected no less from the man who risked everything he had for the honor of his great love, Lucy Westenra. A man such as this would surely rise up to battle against the evils brought forth by Dracula’s return.
Quincey had remembered meeting someone referred to as “Uncle Arthur” in his childhood and realized now that it must have been Arthur Holmwood. But this man hadn’t had any contact with the Harkers in almost two decades, for reasons Quincey could only assume were connected to his mother’s betrayal and his father’s drinking. He only hoped that Holmwood would be able to look past their shame and bring himself to trust Quincey because he desperately needed Arthur’s help.
Men such as Lord Godalming were a dying breed. Quincey had read that a friend of Arthur’s father had lost his fortune due to bad investments. Rather than allow his friend to forfeit his lands and wealth, Holmwood had married the man’s daughter. If he had been willing to marry a stranger to help a friend, Quincey hoped Lord Godalming would be equally beneficent in his case.
Quincey was overcome with remorse as he thought of his father. Now he would never have the chance to apologize for the way he had behaved toward him. He now knew that his father had loved him. Jonathan Harker had sacrificed everything for his son, and Quincey was determined to prove he was worthy of that sacrifice.
At long last, the door opened again. The butler stepped out and pronounced, “Lord Godalming will see you now.”
Quincey stepped forward to enter, but the butler stood in his way. Clearing his throat, the butler glanced down at Quincey’s muddy shoes. Caught out once again, Quincey passed the sole of each shoe over the cast-iron boot scraper beside the door.
At last he was ushered into Arthur Holmwood’s study. The butler took Quincey’s coat and left, closing the doors behind him.
There was a familiar scent to the room. Quincey realized he had been here before and suddenly he was overcome by a flood of memories. He recognized the burgundy wall fabric, an authentic and very expensive William Morris design. Fine swords, rapiers, and daggers were displayed on the wall. During his years in the theatre, Quincey had held many wooden prop swords, but these were authentic blades. Although there were nicks in a few, none bore any traces of blood.
As a child, he remembered abruptly, he’d reached out to touch one of the swords. But his father had grabbed his hand. You could have cut yourself.
Quincey remembered the hand-carved oak furnishings, the stained glass in the windows, and shelves packed with more books than he could have hoped to read in a lifetime.
There was a portrait, too, he recalled, of a beautiful woman with red hair. Yes, even as a child he recognized the woman in the portrait was the same woman in the photograph that his mother held so dear.
Quincey turned to look above the fireplace, where he remembered the portrait had hung, but it was gone, replaced by a simple landscape painting. “The painting of Lucy . . . ,” he mused aloud to himself.
“The painting you are referring to,” said a voice behind Quincey, “was taken down ten years ago, out of respect for Beth, my wife.”
Arthur Holmwood, Lord Godalming, sat behind a massive mahogany desk. Below a beautiful lamp rested the silver tray bearing Quincey’s calling card.
Quincey was taken aback. Arthur Holmwood had barely changed. He was older than Jonathan, yet anyone who saw them together would have been hard-pressed to believe it. With his thick blond hair, square jaw, and steel blue eyes, it was easy to see why Lucy would have chosen this man above all other possible suitors. Poor Dr. Seward had never stood a chance.
Quincey straightened and cleared his throat. “Good day, Mr. . . . Lord Godalming. Forgive me, I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m sure you did not come here to discuss my décor.”
Quincey was surprised by his brusque tone, but he forged ahead. “I’m Jonathan and Mina Harker’s son. . . .”
“I know who you are, Master Harker. Cognac?”
“No, thank you.” Quincey hoped his refusal to drink would be taken as a sign that he did not share his father’s weakness.
Lord Godalming stood up and crossed the room to a fully stocked bar. He cut an impressive figure, standing at six foot, four inches; his suit was perfectly tailored to a trim, muscular frame. His midsection was as tight as a drum, and his neck was void of the sag most men had at his age. He moved so decorously, it was hard to believe all the adventurous stories Quincey
had read about him. Only a few gray hairs at the temples betrayed Holmwood’s fifty-plus years of life, and these gave him a distinguished air. Arthur took hold of the delicate crystal glass and decanter and turned so that the dim light in the room fell upon him. At once, Quincey noticed two slight flaws: a scar on his right cheek, and a tip of an ear was gone. Quincey wondered what battle had left its trace upon Lord Godalming.
Arthur poured cognac from the crystal carafe into a snifter. “What, pray tell, brings you here, Master Harker?”
“I’m sure you know.”
“I haven’t the faintest notion.”
“My father was murdered last week.”
“Yes, I read that,” replied Arthur, his voice aloof. “Condolences.” He cupped the snifter, letting the warmth of his hand heat the cognac.
Quincey tried to make sense of Holmwood’s cool distance. “Did you also read that Jack Seward was murdered two weeks ago in Paris?” he asked.
Arthur frowned, his face darkening. He shut his eyes. Bringing the snifter to his nose to absorb the aroma, he said nothing.
Quincey raised his voice. “Did you hear me? Jack is—”
“I heard you the first time.” Arthur snapped his eyes open and glared at Quincey, who had the distinct impression that he wanted to kill the messenger. “Jack was an old fool. Stuck his nose into . . . business that should have been left alone.”
“Jack Seward was your friend!”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed and he took a step toward him. “Jack Seward was a morphine addict who lost his fortune, his reputation, his home, and his family!”
Every survival instinct told Quincey to stop now. But he had to stand his ground if he was to earn this man’s respect. He straightened his back and planted his feet. But, just as quickly as it had appeared, Arthur’s anger passed, to be replaced by a deep sadness.