by J. S. Barnes
‘What will you do?’ I asked. ‘You sound so… determined.’
‘I mean to go to England, Maurice. To return home and there to busy myself with work of the most important kind. With labours of redemption.’
‘How…?’
‘I intend to enter the political sphere. Already, as it happens, a place for me stands ready. For as Lord Stanhope’s only heir, I am entitled to take up my hereditary position in the Council of Athelstan.’
‘The Council of…’
‘Athelstan.’
‘But… I thought that was merely a ceremonial body. A relic of older times.’
‘Oh it is. At least for now. Still, it will be enough to give me that purpose for which I have so long been seeking. And my question to you, my dear fellow traveller, my comrade-in-arms, is this: will you come with me? Will you stand beside me and lend me your experience, your wisdom and your knowledge? Will you be my aide, my factotum, my conscience and my guide?’
I was about to reply, to give him the only answer of which I was capable and to swear that I would not leave him, when I saw a line of crimson creeping down his face, dirty, trickling red slime emerging from beneath his bandaged eye. I gestured helplessly.
‘Gabriel…’
The young man smiled, dabbed his finger in the scarlet and, most strangely, placed that finger in his mouth. ‘Oh, but there is nothing to be concerned about, Maurice. The doctors have assured me that some leakage at this stage is still perfectly usual. Besides, a great truth has lately been revealed to me.’
‘And what…’ I stammered. ‘What is that?’
‘Why, Maurice, haven’t you heard?’ His smile widened still further. ‘The blood is the life.’
PART TWO
THE SHADOW GROWS
POSTCARD* FROM RUBY PARLOW TO CHIEF INSPECTOR MARTIN PARLOW
1 December
Dad,
I do hope this card reaches you. I prayed and sought guidance and thought it best to send it. Mum has been taken badly ill and I have come home from the factory to care for her. I think she has not long left. She is full of sadness and regret. She is as king for you. I think you should come home again. I know you have many duties in the city but if you do not come now I fancy you shall regret it.
Still, and for always, your loyal daughter,
Ruby
* The front of this card depicts the wreck of an old fishing boat upon the beach at Wildfold. The shattered remnants of its hull, looking something like a giant’s ribcage, have been left to moulder on the sands.
FROM THE DIARY OF ARNOLD SALTER
1 December. I believe I have found my story or, to be more accurate, that my story has found me.
It was late, almost midnight, but I had yet to go to bed. Sleep holds little interest for me nowadays.
Awake, I was reading through a great variety of newspapers and magazines, hopping from one to the other without ever finding much to engage my attention or delay my eye.
How diminished are the journals of the present era and how far away seem the glory days. Take the Strand Magazine, Punch or Taylor’s Almanac – pale shadows every one of what they used to be.
Then the doorbell rang and I was startled. I was already on my feet and making to answer the summons when it rang again, briskly and impatiently. Mrs Everson had long ago retired for the night.
For the third time the bell rang. I reached the door and heaved it open. There was a young man – or young enough – standing on my threshold with a shining bald head and a sly demeanour. I disliked him at once but I paid the emotion no mind. No man could have enjoyed a career like mine had he resolved to do business only with individuals of whom he approved. I often used to say that no reporter should be frightened of supping with a long spoon.
‘Yes?’ I said. ‘What is the meaning of your calling so late?’
He smiled simperingly. ‘My name is Dr Leon Wakefield.’
I gave him a small, tight shake of my head. ‘Never heard of you.’
‘Wakefield,’ he said again, ‘the alienist.’
I spoke the next words slowly. ‘I do not recognise that name.’
‘Well. That’s as may be. But we have a mutual friend, I think. The noble lord?’
I paused and breathed in slowly. ‘Ah.’
‘And I have… information,’ he said with care, ‘about a certain former patient. Her story may well be of interest to you.’
I glared at the man. He looked unblinkingly back.
‘We are on the same side, Mr Salter,’ he said, ‘no matter the public faces that we wear. In private and behind closed doors, I assure you: we are on the same side.’
‘We are part of… the Tanglemere Faction.’ This new-minted phrase came easy to my lips.
‘Yes,’ said Wakefield. ‘Yes, Mr Salter, I like the ring of that.’
‘Then you had better come in.’
The head-doctor walked inside. We sat together in my study and, surrounded by all the sad flotsam of contemporary journalism, he told me the story that will at last restore me to my proper place.
TELEGRAM FROM ARNOLD SALTER TO CECIL CARNEHAN, DEPUTY EDITOR OF THE PALL MALL GAZETTE
2 December
Scandal uncovered. Public interest clear. Prominent nobleman at heart of mucky business. Full story to follow.
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL
2 December. It has been a while indeed since I last endeavoured to keep a diary of any sort. In truth, little since those old blood-soaked days has warranted such expansive treatment, my life of late being spent largely in rural seclusion and divided, in approximately equal parts, according to my responsibilities as a country solicitor, affectionate father and dedicated husband. Recently, however, matters have seemed to shift and we are once again caught up in the current of events: the decline of Abraham Van Helsing, the arrival of Miss Sarah-Ann Dowell and the sad fraying of our little circle.
I suppose that this last occurrence ought not to form too great a source of surprise. Our party was always an unlikely convocation, a group which could scarcely have had less in common: a Dutch professor, a young medical man, an English lord, an American hunter and, of course, Mina and I. That the bonds endured for as long as they did is perhaps unlikely enough and the present state of dislocation ought to have been expected.
Life, after all, tends towards decay. Everything, in the end, falls apart.
But I should stir myself from such fruitless thoughts in which, Mina tells me, I allow myself too often to become entangled.
She has a way of looking at me, when she says such things, composed of puzzlement, concern and, I think, a lingering disappointment.
Today, I had no choice but to broach a sensitive topic with young Quincey. Miss Dowell has been with us now for several weeks and, besides proving herself to be a diligent and attentive nurse to the Professor, is also a most engaging and attractive addition to the household. To Quincey, of course, a boy on the road to manhood, she is simply a thoroughly winsome young woman who has appeared in our home without warning.
His reaction to her is typical enough in a boy of his age, though I am given to understand that he has exceeded the boundaries of good taste and decorum in his conduct. She has spoken to Mina of her profound discomfort while in his company. Of course, we cannot permit any guest of ours, let alone one who is such a boon, to feel any anxiety in the time that she is with us. And so, meaning both to chastise and to explain, I took Quincey on a walk this afternoon, on our usual circuit about the borders of the village.
We were a little uneasy in each other’s company. I have been somewhat distracted lately and he is swiftly growing up. At first we spoke of sundry things – of the weather, of that initial tranche of schoolwork which he has received by post from his theology master, the Reverend Ogden, and, at his instigation and, I thought, somewhat unexpectedly, of the child who will next year be born to the Godalmings. There was also a good deal of silence between us and our conversation was rather unsatisfactory. It is not an easy t
hing to be father to a boy such as he, who seems always to be struggling with some internal conflict.
Only when our house came back into sight did I find it within myself to say: ‘Quincey, I have been meaning to ask you about a matter which concerns Miss Dowell.’
I think he knew that of which I was about to speak, for, at the mention of her name, he flushed scarlet. ‘Yes, Father?’
‘You like her?’
He nodded.
‘You admire the work that she has done on behalf of the Professor? And you admire certain of her personal qualities? Am I correct?’
He bowed his head and quickened his pace. ‘Yes, Father.’
‘I understand that entirely. Yet there are times, my boy, when one can be too frank in one’s admiration and too candid in expressing appreciation.’
‘Father? What do you mean?’
‘I mean by way of looks and glances, you see, and of, well, of lingering too closely to the object of one’s affection… of haunting her. Do you understand me, Quincey?’
He darted a look at me of odd collusion. ‘I do, Father. Yes, of course.’
‘Well then. Let us say no more about it and let us consider the matter closed.’
‘Yes, Father. Of course.’
We walked on until, unaccountably nervous, I added: ‘She is very pretty, I know.’
‘She is, Father.’
‘But the world is full of pretty women and, some day, when you are a man, you shall make one of them your own and call her your bride.’
My son did not look up at me but gazed down at the rutted path for so long, and with such intensity, that it was as though he were mesmerised by it. When he spoke again I had the most curious sensation that it was not my son speaking to me at all, but rather another personage altogether. ‘Oh, there shall not be one bride,’ he murmured. ‘But many.’
The effect was most strange. I sometimes wonder whether alcohol numbs my imagination (Jack, no doubt, would say that this is my hidden intention) or whether it serves simply to inflame it.
All that I said to my boy, however, was: ‘Quincey? Whatever do you mean by that?’
He did not reply, but rather, like a very much younger child, he took to his heels and fled back towards the house, pell-mell and helter-skelter.
The incident struck an ominous note. To Mina, for the present, I have elected to say nothing at all. She is already most concerned and I should not wish to vex her further. Instead, I have vouchsafed my thoughts to this journal in the hope that patience and perseverance may deliver us all from our present troubles and bring us, in time, to some brighter future.
NOTE FROM CECIL CARNEHAN TO ARNOLD SALTER
3 December
Dear Arnold,
Many thanks indeed for your story concerning Lord G—. I agree that the public interest is quite clear and that it will prove to be of considerable interest to our readers. We shall run the piece on the fourth and your payment will follow shortly thereafter.
Although your talent is as sharp as ever it was, I fear that there is no call at the present time for your notion of more discursive articles in which opinion is propounded. No appetite for it so far as I can see. Should this change, you will be my first port of call.
Yours, most sincerely,
Carnehan
LETTER FROM SARAH-ANN DOWELL TO THOM CAWLEY
3 December
Dear Thom,
This is the third letter as I have written you and still I have received no reply.
Let me know just as soon as you can that all is well with you, dear Thom, and that you have not fallen again into your old difficulties. The more I think of it (and I think of it often) I do believe I am meant to keep you on the path of virtue. This is not to say, my darling boy, that it will not be a path filled also with merriment and fun. Write to me and smooth away the worst of my fears.
Things go on here the same as before. The old man is fighting every day to keep his hold on life. It is a humbling thing to see and he seems fearful determined but I know there is but one way the struggle will end.
Something odd happened yesterday evening. I passed the son of the family in the corridor and he stopped and said that he wanted to say sorry if he had caused me discomfort in his looks and glances. They were meant to be admiring, he said, and never to unsettle me. As he spoke, he went very red and stumbled and stuttered with his words. So much so that I felt almost sorry for him.
I said as I understood but that he must not stare at ladies so. He told me he would do his best to be a better boy from now on. I said we should shake hands but he only blushed still fiercer and would not do as I had asked. He fled soon after back to his room.
It’s like he has two different ways of being. One is a sweet, clumsy youth while the other… In that one there is a knowledge and a hunger which seems so unnatural. Perhaps, darling Thom, you could set my mind at ease? Can’t you tell me all is normal and that I am worrying myself unduly, like the silliest of geese?
But, dear me, what a strange household this is! It seems to seethe with secrets and things left unsaid, like water in a pot just about to boil over. Write soon, my love, I pray you. Write soon!
Your little one,
Sarah-Ann
DR SEWARD’S DIARY
(kept in phonograph)
3 December. I have of late been much occupied, and my mind has been more clouded than it ought to have been, by the making of a single decision.
The book – the journal by the late R.M. Renfield, a man about whom, in spite of my attempts to cure him, I know so very little – is on my desk before me, still unopened since my return from Purfleet. It is a queer thing indeed to see it sitting there as though it is but an innocuous antique, its cover scuffed and damaged, its spine crumbling and cracked. It is an emissary from the past, a voice from history which I had long believed to have been silenced for eternity. It waits.
According to a small voice inside me, I ought not to open the thing at all. This is very probably wise. I have managed so far to obey it. The past is the past, says the voice, and all relics from that unhappy time should be abandoned. Why not throw the book away, without reading it? Why not toss it into the river or give it up to the flames? Let it fall away now or let it slumber. What possible good could come from so strange a visitor from the old century?
Yet another voice, one more strident, more passionate and more seductive than the first, urges me to open it and to read what lies within. What harm can it do? it asks. Surely your curiosity will be sated? Besides, the chances are that the diary will prove to be overly dull, merely the repetitive ravings of a lunatic. Why, I shall most likely glance at the thing only once or twice, before casting it aside for ever.
Open it, Dr Seward. Open it, Jack. Open it. Open it.
FROM THE PALL MALL GAZETTE
4 December
THE SECRET AGONY BEHIND A NOBLEMAN’S SMILE
To hear of great and sustained misfortune is always a cause for regret, yet never more so than when it is applied to a gentleman of noble birth and influence. When the personage in question stands at the very head of the nation’s oldest and most distinguished governing body, then perhaps the sadness extends still further, from a strictly private misery to a matter of national concern.
Such is the case of Lord Arthur Godalming (formerly Arthur Holmwood), who seems to be bedevilled by tragedy, bad luck and women of a fragile sort, to the extent that to the unprejudiced observer it begins to look like misjudgement. The aristocrat has led a life dogged by madness and mortality. He inherited his title and vast estate while still a young man after the premature death of his father. That same year he lost his fiancée, the notoriously flighty Miss Lucy Westenra, in circumstances which some gossips still say remain suspicious.
Four years ago, it seemed that a new chapter had begun when he met and fell in love with a young woman named Caroline Brinkley. Caroline, who is known to her closest intimates as ‘Carrie’, is strikingly beautiful, blonde-haired and charming. Sadl
y this is just a pose. A fragile nature hides behind this alluring mask. Lady Godalming has suffered all her life from maladies of the mind, and she has on occasion seen no alternative but to seek residential care from several leading alienists, including the eccentric and very expensive Dr Seward of Harley Street.
Did Lord Arthur know of his new bride’s mental weakness and moral frailty before they were wed? Or was this kept from him? Was he kept intentionally in the dark? Was this a deliberate subterfuge? The country should be told the truth or fears of a weakening in the bloodline are bound to be widespread. It is a matter of continuing concern. Close friends of the former Miss Brinkley have recently confided that her old troubles have recently resumed and that a new collapse seems probable.
These sadnesses are not only a source of personal grief for the noble lord. For Godalming stands at the head of the Council of Athelstan, an old and mighty cabal, rich in legacy and tradition. It still has considerable influence. Should a man with so many sad distractions truly be permitted to remain in so exalted a position? For the time being, of course, the Council remains a largely ceremonial body. Yet if it were ever to reach out and claim again those special powers which are still its own by right, then would we want a man like Godalming to be at its helm? Or would we prefer another, one whose life seems altogether less tainted? For us, as citizens of the realm and payers of taxes, these are questions which must be answered.
FROM THE PRIVATE DIARY OF AMBROSE QUIRE,
Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis*
4 December. Another day of trials and vexations, all of which are to be expected when one has chosen, as have I, the paths of responsibility and duty over those of enrichment and individual gain.