by J. S. Barnes
When I was at school there were boys whom I often outstripped who now take home a fortune from jobs in the City or on Harley Street, who fill their days with agreeable, profitable labours in order to spend their evenings with suppers at their clubs or at games of whist with their neighbours. I am grateful that their fate is never to be mine. Rather, my time is spent in service to society. I flatter myself that I have a higher vocation than they, a destiny which will lead me to be remembered and appreciated after their memories have gone to dust.
On such days as this, these thoughts are a comfort. The morning began, as it so often does, with the delivery of a report marked for my attention. I read it as soon as I arrived and found it to be an unsuitable accompaniment to my tea. The report concerns the present state of relations between the three main criminal gangs of London – the Sweetmen, the Pigtails and the Giddis Boys – who would seem to be growing distinctly fractious.
I am told that there is no obvious reason for this degeneration in their behaviour. None has displayed any desire to extend their realm or to diversify their trades. Nonetheless, the truce (unofficial in nature though long observed) does seem to be fraying.
It appears that there was some sort of struggle last night in Clerkenwell between representatives of all three clans. By the time our officers arrived upon the scene, the villains had taken to their heels. Only one arrest was made – that of a thuggish and surly young lad affiliated to the Giddis mob by the name of Thomas Cawley. He is but a minnow in that criminal shoal though we will hold him for as long as we can. He may be able to provide us with some information as to the cause of this unrest.
On reading these things, one of my headaches started up immediately and proceeded to worsen over the course of the morning. By lunchtime, having attended to a good deal of outstanding paperwork and after having chaired meetings of the CTOP, the Vigilance Committee and the Metropolitan Advisory Group upon the question of Combating the Rise of Civilian Munitions, it had become all but intolerable. I supped but found no relief and I was about to summon a sergeant and ask him to prepare a pot of what we refer to as our ‘Blue Brew’ when into my office marched the author of the report which had started all the trouble: Chief Inspector Martin Parlow.
He is a short, wiry man, thick-necked and full-featured, nearing retirement and running to fat. He is not educated but he has a certain innate cunning which looks at times like wisdom, allied to a beagle’s determination to run his quarry to ground. It is these traits which have made him ideal for our profession. By his side stood a considerably younger man, not yet forty, brawny and, oddly enough, American. He is originally from New York, I think. His name I really felt I ought to know.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure, Chief Inspector?’ I asked, doing my best to sound not testy but gracious. ‘Has this to do with your report?’
‘No, sir,’ said Parlow, ‘it does not.’
He added nothing further. Silence descended. I caught the eye of the broad-shouldered Yankee but he looked back at me just as impassively.
‘Well? Why have you come to me unbidden?’
‘It is my wife, sir,’ said Parlow. ‘I fear she has been taken powerful ill.’
‘Dear me. I did not even know that you were married, Chief Inspector. How is it then that I have not, so far as I am able to recall, had the pleasure of making her acquaintance at any of our Ladies’ Days or Yuletide balls?’
Parlow looked stern. ‘She doesn’t live in London, sir, but in a little place on the Norfolk coast. A town called Wildfold. My work has kept me from her, and from my daughter too. Their lives are their own to be lived.’
Evidently, the poor fellow has long been estranged and so lives quite separately, doubtless sending back home each month a portion of his salary. Such cases are, sadly, far from uncommon. I nodded once to indicate both worldly comprehension and manly sympathy.
‘I fear, sir, that she may not be long for this world. I have not been an ideal husband, Lord knows that, yet I would be with her at the end.’
‘Are you asking for a leave of absence upon compassionate grounds?’
‘Yes, sir. I am, sir. I’ve never asked for such a thing before and I dare say I’ll never do so again, but it was my daughter, you see, who’s called me and I must not say no.’
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘you must go immediately. We shall make arrangements for your absence. How long do you suppose…?’
‘Two weeks, sir. At least, no more than three. And I thought, with me gone, it would be best to leave my duties in the hands of George here.’
The man by his side stepped forward. ‘Commissioner.’
Of course! I remembered him now – Sub-Divisional Inspector George Dickerson, one of our few immigrants and a man who possesses, in equal measure, brutality and intellect.
‘Ah. Very well, then, Sub-Divisional Inspector. You are fully appraised of this present situation? The pressing matter of unrest amongst the gangs?’
‘I am, Commissioner. And I mean to interrogate young Cawley tonight.’
‘Very good,’ I said. ‘You must keep me abreast of any further developments. You may report directly to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I gave them both a smile which spoke, I hope, of generous finality. ‘Well, gentlemen, if that is all, I have a great deal of other business to detain me today…’
They gave me their thanks and went towards the door. Dickerson left first, no doubt eager to enjoy his new responsibilities. Parlow lingered on the threshold.
‘Commissioner?’
‘Yes, my man?’
He seemed suddenly very distant, his thoughts no doubt in that little coastal town in which his old bride lay dying.
‘What is it?’
He looked confused, almost bewildered. ‘Sorry, sir. But… that is to say… did you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’ I asked, as jolly as I could.
‘I don’t know, sir. I can’t be certain. Yet it seemed to me just then, just for a moment, that I heard, close and clear, the sound of a woman laughing.’
I assured the fellow that I had heard nothing of the sort at all. He apologised, blamed the fanciful thought on his distracted state and left my office. Sorry old duffer. I trust he will settle his affairs satisfactorily in Wildfold and return to us renewed.
* * *
Following the departure of Parlow and Dickerson I busied myself with ledger-work. Shortly after dusk, I summoned my secretary so that we might examine together my forthcoming commitment in the time – dismayingly brief! – which remains before Christmas.
There was some confusion over dates and a number of overlapping functions, meaning that my working day finished with a flurry of petty irritations. My poor underling felt, I am afraid, rather the rough side of my tongue.
I had meant to dine at the club, but somehow my appetite seemed almost entirely to be lacking and so I took a stroll instead. I went into the heart of the metropolis and I spent a pleasant few hours wandering through the great roar and rush of London’s humanity, passing anonymously amongst the throng and bearing witness to the whole of our society, from the highest to the very low. It is important for a man in my position never to become too haughty in his post or to forget those whom he protects: the vulnerable, the weak and the law-abiding of this nation.
As the purest chance would have it, my long walk took me ultimately eastwards and I found myself, at least before I eventually hailed a hansom home, in the lowest and most insalubrious of districts.
Ye gods, the people there! The coarse-looking men. The ugly, grasping children. And the women. The women in particular. All of them painted, shameless and desperate. Ignorant of my identity, they mocked me when they saw me and tried to call me to them. Naturally, I resisted, my visitation of that place being strictly anthropological. They seemed to take my refusal as some manner of dare or challenge and so they became still more forceful in their insinuations and blandishments.
As I turned away from them, I felt their gaz
e upon me still. And it was easy then, oh but it was so very easy, to imagine the looks of gloating in their eyes.
* The Quire diaries came into my possession long after their author’s unfortunate demise. I believe that the Commissioner hoped one day to see their publication, following his retirement. In a fashion, perhaps, I am honouring his wishes.
FROM THE TIMES
6 December
NEWS FROM THE LAND BEYOND THE FOREST
Word has reached us of a startling new discovery in the Roumanian province of Transylvania.
The celebrated naturalist Mr Haskell Lynch has reported that, in the forest which abuts the Carpathian Mountains, he has found what he describes as being an entirely new species of bat, one hitherto unknown to science. The creature is said to be larger and more bold than its cousins as well as being overtly predatory in its habits.
Unable to obtain photographic proof of his findings, Mr Lynch set himself the task of capturing a living specimen. This he has achieved and he is even now returning to England, where it is his intention to present his discovery before a closed panel at an extraordinary meeting of the Club for Curious Scientific Men. This newspaper will, of course, continue to report upon any fresh development in this intriguing story as it unfolds.
JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL
6 December. How strange and difficult life is at present. The whole household seems almost to be holding its collective breath, waiting as one for some imminent turning point.
As the Professor continues his decline, I confess that I cannot bring myself to sit with him for long, so diminished has he become. Miss Dowell remains a beneficial yet occasionally distracting presence. Although as diligent as ever in her ministrations she has in the last few days seemed to me to become rather preoccupied and distant, traits which are quite at odds with her ordinary demeanour. Meanwhile I have busied myself with legal work in order that I might remain profitably occupied during this long period of waiting. Tonight, however, certain other matters, pertaining, I am afraid, to young Quincey, were brought to my attention in the most unexpected manner.
Having dined, the three of us had retired, at Mina’s insistence, to the parlour, there to read for an hour or so and enjoy one another’s company. Mina was in a pensive temper and set about writing her journal entry for the day. I tried my best to look over the draft of a client’s will but the words seemed to swim and grow faint before my eyes until I had no choice but to set it aside. Quincey, being of a lively and inquisitive temperament, had before him the newspaper of the day, through which he was leafing with the furrowed intensity of a boy who is eager to leave behind childish things.
We had remained in this domestic tableau for no more than twenty minutes before my son looked up from that page of The Times which he had been perusing and declared: ‘Father? I think this might interest you.’
Naturally, I expressed some polite curiosity.
He passed me the paper and pointed to the article in question. ‘There. See there.’
The piece was, I dare say, innocuous enough and of interest chiefly to amateur naturalists, yet its effect upon me was palpable and immediate. It was nothing about the details in the story itself so much as the combination of certain words – words of our buried past; words of the last century – which all at once caused me to turn quite white, stumble to my feet and cast the newspaper upon the floor.
‘Why…’ I stuttered. ‘Why have you shown this to me?’
Quincey, surprised, answered: ‘I only thought it a queer thing, Father. Queer and rather grisly too.’
I gazed at him and he looked back, wholly unabashed.
My wife appraised me with concern. ‘Jonathan?’
‘Forgive me, both of you. I do not feel at all well. I must, I fear, retire early tonight.’
I turned and fled from that room without waiting for any reply. I left Mina to deal with Quincey and retired to my study where, in order to combat the shock, I poured myself a single glass of brandy. I sat for a while quietly, endeavouring to clear my mind of the detritus of the past and to think of nothing at all, when I heard a soft tap upon the door.
‘Mina?’ I said, sounding, to my own ears, both hoarse and grateful. Yet when the door was opened it was not by the fair hand of my wife but rather by that of another.
‘Forgive me, sir. But I heard such a commotion…’
Miss Sarah-Ann Dowell stood upon the threshold, pale and disconcerted, yet, as ever, seeming almost to project an aura of sweetness and innocence.
‘Oh, it was nothing,’ I said. ‘Really, you ought not to concern yourself.’
Without an invitation, the girl stepped inside and walked several paces nearer. ‘You’ll forgive me for saying so, sir, I hope, but just at the moment this whole house seems to be living on its nerves.’
Her remark took me a little aback. I swallowed and nodded. I think we both knew that her presence in my sanctum was not appropriate, yet I did not send her from me nor did she offer to depart.
‘Mr Harker? The Professor… before he was as he is now. When all of you was young. What was he to you then?’
‘Sarah-Ann… Why would you ask that? Have we not stated that he is a friend of our family?’
‘You have, sir. Yet I know in my heart that there is more to the story than you have ever admitted. And, forgive me, sir, but I think your son knows that too.’
I said nothing.
She went on. ‘The old man, he’s not long for the world. I’ve seen so much of him. So much I’ve even dreamed of him. And I’ve seen fragments, sir, of some impossible story. About you, sir, and your wife. And Dr Seward. And something awful, waiting in the shadows.’
I looked the girl directly in her eyes and saw there only pity and understanding.
‘When will you tell him?’ She stepped closer still. ‘Your boy?’
‘We had wanted…’ I said, each word now difficult to form. ‘We had wanted to spare Quincey the truth.’
The young woman parted her lips. What she may have wished to say must remain unknown, for at that moment, without any warning or having made the sound of any approach, Mina was amongst us, striding from the doorway to my side.
‘Jonathan.’ Her tone was icy. ‘I came to see if you were quite recovered from your… turn.’
‘Quite, thank you,’ I said. ‘Miss Dowell was making the same enquiry.’
‘I see.’ My wife turned to the nursemaid. ‘Thank you, my dear.’
‘Not at all, ma’am.’
‘Well, it is late and we must all be tired. I have sent Quincey to bed. Miss Dowell, you must want to see your patient before sleep. Pray, do not let us detain you.’
‘No, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’
She bobbed a curtsey and left the room. Afterwards, Mina simply gazed at me and made no remark whatever. She is in bed now while I finish my brandy and write these words downstairs. It would be politic not to retire until she is sleeping. For there are, I fancy, awkward conversations ahead for us all and difficult waters indeed to navigate.
MINA HARKER’S JOURNAL
7 December. I find myself this morning feeling almost too cross to write. It is as well, perhaps, that nobody but I shall ever read these words, lest I should appear too easily vexed and fearful of my own shadow.
There was last night the most unappetising scene. Quincey had found something mildly curious in the newspaper which served, I think, to remind Jonathan of the worst excesses of our past. He flew into a kind of whirl of anxiety and, much to our son’s perplexity, fled shortly thereafter from the room.
In this, quite naturally, he has my sympathy. We all saw terrible sights in that dreadful year but none more so than my husband. In the castle in which he was held captive, he bore witness to things that would have driven many another man into the arms of madness. Yet did he endure, altered for ever, certainly, but resolute and sane. Nonetheless, his ordeal lingers on and the world seems full of means by which he might inadvertently be reminded of it.
He ha
s in this continuing struggle both my pity and undying support. This morning, however, he is also the object of my considerable irritation for, going in search of him after I had spent some minutes reassuring Quincey, I found him not in any agonised process of recollection but rather sequestered with Miss Sarah-Ann Dowell.
Both looked abashed when I entered. Jonathan blushed at my discovery. I had always hoped that men would grow less foolish with age. Instead it would seem that their weaknesses become only more deeply entrenched.
He crept into bed late last night, doubtless embarrassed. At breakfast, we exchanged scarcely a word. All shall pass in time but the business adds a most disagreeable garnish to these troubling days.
* * *
Later. As frost thaws gradually in the grudging sunshine of winter, so too have matters between my husband and I settled over the course of this long day.
I am quite certain that Miss Dowell possesses not the frailest sliver of desire for Jonathan and that any fancy upon his part is only fleeting foolishness. Besides, he wears a face of such sorrow and I can stand no more of his brimming near-tearfulness. It has been an unfortunate interlude in a household which already seems to me to be holding its breath. I am quite sure that such an atmosphere cannot be doing Quincey the slightest bit of good. I have suggested to Jonathan that he should be returned to school in time for the last week of term. In this we are in agreement. Our son will spend another two nights with us and will make the journey back on Sunday.
We told him together at supper. Quincey simply bowed his small dark head and said with that intensity which I cannot help but find a little disquieting in one so young: ‘Of course, Mother. If you think that is best.’
‘We do,’ I replied.
Jonathan added, superfluously: ‘You must keep up with your studies, my boy.’
‘Oh.’ Quincey looked perplexed at this and an odd expression passed across his face. ‘Do you know,’ he asked, and it was as though he were thinking the thought at the instant of its speaking: ‘I do not think that schoolwork is to be all that important. Not in the future. Not any more.’