by Lydia Kang
“I need this. I do,” she said, as if convincing an invisible companion in the room.
The medicine pooled under her tongue, burning her mouth in the way that it always did. The alcohol absorbed quickly and warmed her cheeks. As she lay in bed, her heart pounded ever so slightly harder. But it was the opium—the sweet, sickly, bitter opium—that lifted the sad fog, numbed it into submission, turning her body into a soupy morass of contentment.
Opium, she thought vaguely as she drifted away. And absinthe. I must learn more about these marvelous wonders.
Something buzzed in her dreams. A bee, maybe.
No, it was a voice.
“Miss Tillie. It’s almost three o’clock in the afternoon. You must wake.”
“Mmm.”
Tillie rolled over in her bed, felt something cold and hard against her cheek.
A bottle. She’d fallen asleep next to her opium.
“I’m up, Ada. I’m up.”
She blinked sleepily, noting the slant of afternoon sunlight through her window. Oh, how creaky her bones felt. Like she’d been buried under a glacier for the last ten hours. She pushed herself to her side, then up. Her clavicle felt terribly stiff, her bladder terribly full. She quickly hid the bottle away in her vanity drawer, hoping Ada hadn’t seen it. Her notebook was in there. She opened it up, reading Ian’s last few penciled notes.
Where was Lucy when she died? What does Betty know?
And then:
What is your favorite sandwich?
Why are gooses geese, but mooses aren’t meese?
Tillie giggled and put the notebook away.
Ada helped her get ready but was oddly silent the whole time. Usually she chatted about the cook or the news or, lately, John O’Toole. Today, not so much. Pierre did not greet them with his German-tinged French colloquialisms. The butler looked pale and rather dyspeptic today. Her mother and grandmother were eating a late luncheon in the conservatory, by the small central fountain and the wall of pink and scarlet roses. A tray of steaming tea sat on a rosewood table. Waiting for Tillie was a plate of lobster salad and pea soup. Her mother looked ashen, though her grandmother seemed unperturbed, busy sipping her cup of tea.
Tillie backed up into the hallway and grabbed Ada’s sleeve.
“Ada. What is going on?” she whispered. “Everyone looks like Lucy died all over again.”
“Oh, Miss Tillie.” She went whiter and then motioned for her to come into the kitchen. They went back to the servants’ area beyond their library and double salons. The cook and her two assistants were crowded over a page of the Tribune. As soon as Tillie entered, they backed away as if the paper were made of acid.
“You’ll find out soon enough. Here.” Ada pointed to an article at the bottom of the page.
Tillie pulled it close with her free hand and read the small headline.
Second Vampire-like Killing in Central Park
CHAPTER 9
But he cannot flourish without this diet, he eat not as others . . . He throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect . . . he has the strength of many of his hand.
—Van Helsing
Second Vampire-like Killing in Central Park
June 26, 1899 (Special)—Albert Weber, aged thirteen, was found dead near the southern end of the Museum of Natural History yesterday morning by museum groundkeepers. Like a similar incident on June 8 the body was found with puncture wounds to the neck and seemingly drained of blood. No blood or weapon was found nearby. An emptied bottle of absinthe was again found at the scene.
The boy’s mother states that he was in good health, having recovered from a bout of cholera one month ago. Police are collecting information on the boy, as he had been missing since the prior afternoon around 3:00 p.m. Information may be submitted directly to Det. Herman Porter, Twenty-First Ward Pct.
Tillie read the article with trembling fingers.
“Just like Lucy,” she whispered, her throat dry. “Just like Lucy. The absinthe. The wounds on the neck. Oh mercy, I wish I had my Dracula book!”
“What happened to your book?” Ada whispered back.
“Oh,” Tillie said. She ought to be more careful about her words. “I . . . lost it.”
“I’ll look for it. I’m sure it’s in your room somewhere. In the meantime, your mother and grandmother are waiting.” Ada’s hands were balled together in front of her apron. “They’ve been upset all day but won’t speak of it.”
What must she do? There were too many questions, too many thoughts fighting for precedence in her mind.
Lucy’s drawer. She must look there. But first, Mama and Grandmama. And she needed to talk to Tom and Dr. Erikkson again.
She went into the conservatory, the bright light shining down through the open windows of the roof. It was warm, but a breeze made it comfortable. The scent of roses was nearly overpowering, and around their little table, the fountain tinkled merrily despite all the dour faces. Elenora sat on her perch, seeming to know she was confined to her place. Tillie sat across from her mother in silence.
“It’s about time you were up.” Her grandmother stirred her tea. Ada poured Tillie a steaming cupful, and her mother attempted to not look stricken and overheated at the same time.
“Did you rest well, Mathilda?”
“Not very. My shoulder still aches something awful.” She tried to eat the lobster salad, but the creamy dressing made her stomach turn. The pea soup resembled a festering pond. “Mama, may I visit Dr. Erikkson again? To see if there is anything else to be done?”
Her mother sighed but did not seem to possess the strength to fight much of anything today. “Very well.”
Tillie drained her teacup, then reached for her toast. “Are you well this afternoon, Grandmama?”
Her grandmother looked up and clawed her Brussels shawl closer over her shoulders. “I would be better if they could close the windows.” Grandmama was perpetually cold, even in summer. If she had her way, she’d close all the conservatory windows, and it would be a sweltering rain forest. She frowned. “You’ve worn that robe de chambre before, Mathilda. We need to order another dozen dresses for her. Victoria, can you not keep up with her wardrobe?”
“But they’re all black,” Tillie said. “Does it matter?”
“If you’re asking that, then your mind is not in the right sphere,” Grandmama said severely. “And you must stop waking up so late.”
Her mother gave her a defeated look. “I’ll send word to the doctor you’ll be by today. And Mathilda—do come straight home afterward. Speak to no one. Stay with Ada at all times. Do you understand?”
“Of course. Is something the matter?”
Her mother’s face constricted. “You must be safe, Mathilda.” She gripped the teacup so hard Tillie feared it might shatter. “Promise me.”
Why did they refuse to speak about it? “All right,” Tillie said faintly. She abandoned her meal and left to get ready for her visit to the doctor—though she had something else to do first. Before she went upstairs, she caught Ada. “I’m to see Dr. Erikkson today. Ready the carriage in half an hour. Oh, and I do think it would be best to bring John a refreshment in the early hours—around three o’clock in the morning. Mother is so frightened for my safety, and so we must keep John happy as an employee. It must be exhausting for him to patrol all night long. I’ll have Cook make more treats for you to bring him.”
Ada brightened. “Very well.” She curtsied and left.
Tillie wasted no time and scurried up the stairs, first to her room, then to Lucy’s. She shut the door, then removed Tobias’s metal tools from her pocket, where she had stowed them. She pulled off her shoulder sling and knelt by the locked side table drawer.
She inserted one of the L-shaped pieces into the keyhole and pushed it upward until she felt a click of the locking lever. Then she inserted a smaller tool and turned it as Tobias had showed her.
But the dead bolt would not move. She adjusted the tools, tried again. Her shoulder needled
her with pain from the tiny bit of use. The drawer refused to unlock.
A knock at the door jolted Tillie, and she nearly dropped her tools.
“Miss Tillie?” Ada. “Are you in there? The carriage is a-waiting.”
“Yes. One moment.” Tillie pocketed her instruments, then pulled out a pair of lace gloves from Lucy’s armoire. She put her arm back into the sling and opened the door. “I wanted to wear Lucy’s gloves. So I could remember her all day today.”
Ada raised her eyebrows. “Of course,” she said doubtfully.
Within half an hour, they arrived at Dr. Erikkson’s small town house. Once again, Mrs. Erikkson opened the door.
“Good afternoon! You are looking a little thin, Miss Pembroke. No doubt from all the melancholy. But I do hope you are eating enough!”
“I am.” Tillie tried to smile. “It’s the black dress. Anyone with a decent constitution looks consumptive in black.”
“So it seems.” Her cheeks had a way of being pink and shiny, like an iced cake. “Come. Dr. Erikkson is with my son, but I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
The small foyer was much dimmer than the sunlit day. An oval silhouette was mounted above a scratched table—it looked just like a little boy.
“Oh. Is that Tom?” Tillie asked.
“Ah, no. That is Tom’s elder brother, Edgar. He died of scarlet fever before Tom was born. His poor father did everything he could to revive him, but to no avail. It’s a terrible thing to see one’s child die young.” Mrs. Erikkson’s eyes watered, and she tentatively reached out to pat Tillie’s good shoulder. “How your mother must feel. I can understand.”
Tillie wanted to say, Mama won’t speak of Lucy anymore, and Grandmama hasn’t shed a tear. If they did, this might be easier. Come to think of it, Tillie hadn’t cried over Lucy either. It was amazing how grief could be so greedy as to take away everything, even tears.
“It must be difficult, having Tom ill as well.”
“It is. One day, he’s crippled by headaches. Another, his digestion is off. He has rashes, and his balance is terrible. His hands and feet burn like they’re in the fire. No matter what we cook, we can’t coax his appetite. He’s pale as a ghost.”
“Oh, poor Tom! Is he well enough for a visit today? I would love to say hello.”
“Of course. I’ll check to see if he can take a visitor, but he’s been quite weak all day.” She ushered them into the examination room, ducked out, and closed the door.
Ada took out yarn and a crochet needle from her pocket and busied herself by the window as Tillie perused the enormous bookcase. A thin book caught her eye: Alcohol, Tobacco, and Opium, and Their Effects on the Human System, by Thomas R. Baker.
She pulled it off the shelf, placed it on a table, and licked her fingertip to turn the pages.
Opium
Opium is the dried juice of a species of poppy which is cultivated in China and India. Morphine is one of its many alkaloids, and laudanum and paregoric are prepared from it. It forms the soothing constituent of various patent medicines, such as soothing syrups, pain killers, liniment, cholera mixtures, etc.
She scanned the page, her finger landing on opium’s effects.
Sleep. Pain relief. The text read, “It is, therefore, a valuable medicine.”
“Of course it is,” Tillie said.
It, however, stimulates the brain, and in large doses induces a dreamy, unnatural condition, in which the judgment is warped and the imagination becomes extremely vivid. Even after the victim becomes able to direct his mind properly he is still under the opium influence, for there has been created in him the desire for more of the drug. The craving must be satisfied even at the expense of all self-control, and thus a habit is acquired, and the person becomes a slave to it.
Tillie shook her head. “I have a broken bone,” she said to nobody, because Ada wasn’t listening. On the next page, she perked at the sight of a familiar word.
Other Narcotics
Absinthe, a liquid containing (besides alcohol, water, etc.) oil of wormwood, which is obtained from the tops and leaves of a plant called absinthe or wormwood, Indian Hemp, the dried tops of a plant, Haschish, a preparation from Indian Hemp, and Chloral, are narcotics which will produce serious effects upon the system, and should be used only on the advice of a physician.
Oh. She’d had no idea absinthe was a narcotic. It made sense, given how she’d felt like she was floating after one small glass. Perhaps Lucy had been given too much. She might have been unable to defend herself, nay, even scream, when she was attacked.
The door opened, and Tillie quickly replaced the slim book on the shelf.
“Reading again, are we? You’ve a curious mind,” Dr. Erikkson said. He did not seem charmed by the notion. “Now let’s see how that clavicle is doing.”
The doctor pulled closed the curtain on the window even farther so that the lit fire provided the only light, and he had her sit down on the chaise. He carefully palpated the bone and tested her range of motion, noting when she winced.
“Excellent, excellent. You can wear the sling for only six hours a day and stretch the shoulder twice a day.”
“I think the laudanum really helped to heal it,” Tillie said.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Mama doesn’t think I should use it. She doesn’t see how it helps me sleep and keeps the muscles—how did you say? Relaxed, so they let the bone heal better?”
“Yes. It’s a fact. But the bone has already come together, so it’s doubtful you’ll need the medicine much longer.”
“I see.” Tillie frowned. “But when I take it, I feel better here.” She touched her lower belly. “And I’m less nervous and uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable, where?”
Tillie gestured from her head to her feet. “Everywhere.”
“Ah. You likely had a nervous disorder before the bone break. A common affliction in young women. I see no harm in continuing for a little while longer.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
As he was writing out instructions for more laudanum, she hesitated. But the question of Lucy’s fate begged for answers.
“Dr. Erikkson. If I may. There was another news article about a killing with bites to the neck, just like my poor sister, Lucy.”
“Go on.” His pen continued to scratch the paper.
Tillie tempered her voice. “Do you think vampires exist?”
Dr. Erikkson rolled his eyes. “You are reading too many novels, Miss Pembroke. Try reading Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women instead. They have a steadying effect on delicate constitutions.”
“But do you think vampires are real? I know it’s an odd question, but you’re a man of science. Could it be possible?”
Dr. Erikkson sighed. “Humans need more than just blood to survive. They need a healthful variety of foods. Vegetal, ideally, if you subscribe to Sylvester Graham’s theories. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” Tillie said.
“Well, there are situations where a person would crave certain foods due to a dearth of nutrients in the diet. A lack of salt will cause salt craving. Perhaps a craving might occur, for example, if someone lacked mineral nutrients.” He shook his head. “But to this extreme route—it is unlikely. It would be easier to procure a gallon of cow’s blood from the slaughterhouses, for free, than stalk and kill a person. And eating a good roast beef would supply hematological nutrients in a more . . . socially acceptable . . . fashion. No,” he said, seemingly gathering himself, then heading for the door, “I suspect the killer is not of the human variety, Miss Pembroke. They had better check with the New York Zoological Society. I hear they are gathering all manner of beasts for the park they are building in the Bronx.”
“Of course.”
Dr. Erikkson opened the door and called for his wife. “Mrs. Eppley is to come by soon for her gout. I need to prepare a poultice. Please see Miss Pembroke out, will you?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Erikkson said in clipped, quick words
. “And will you be able to check on Tom afterward?”
The doctor stepped out and shut the door. Tillie heard a few angry phrases—“What did I tell you? Never question me; I’ve told you before”—before the door opened again. Dr. Erikkson was gone, and Mrs. Erikkson looked like a shell of a woman.
“Very well, very well,” she said, as if responding to a question that had never come. “Let me see you out. Thank you for coming.” She blinked rapidly.
“Oh, Mrs. Erikkson. I forgot—I was going to call on your son. He seemed so kind the last time I was here. May I say hello?”
“What? Tom? Oh. Well, my husband does not approve of visitors—he’s afraid Tom will be exhausted from the effort.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw the corridor was quiet and empty. “Well. Just for a moment. You must be very quiet. I’m sure it will brighten his entire week to see you!”
Ada stood to accompany them, but Tillie motioned for her to wait.
“Ada, I’ll be ready in just a few minutes. Mrs. Erikkson will be with me.”
“Very well, Miss.”
Tillie followed Mrs. Erikkson down a narrow hallway. A modest kitchen was located near the back of the house, complete with a maid scrubbing a set of pots with sand. When she heard them walking by, she watched them with twitchy, nervous eyes. Off to the right, Mrs. Erikkson opened a door into what might be a parlor but had been made into a bedroom on the main floor.
It smelled musty—not of dust, but of medicines and camphor that stung the nose. The bed was against a wall, the shades were drawn, and a fireplace was crackling. Pans of water of various sizes sat on the floor, and the carpet was stained with brown splotches. Books rose in unsteady piles across a table that held an empty plate and cup and a bowl of uneaten stew. A large wooden tray contained no less than twenty or thirty bottles of medicine in tidy rows.
“Where is he?” Tillie asked timidly.
“Go away.” A voice sounded from under a lumpy mess of blankets on the bed.
“Now, Tom. It’s a nice lady. The one you met a few weeks ago—Miss Pembroke. She’s come to call on you.”