by Lydia Kang
“Father won’t allow it” came the muffled voice.
“I can leave, if you like,” Tillie said.
“Ow! Confound this knife—it bit me again!” came a howl from the kitchen.
“Oh dear. The maid is ruining herself washing the dishes. I’ll be back in a moment,” Mrs. Erikkson said. She rushed out of the room and down the hall, where she could be heard muttering, “Don’t hold the sharp edge when it’s soapy, Beatrice. How many times do I have to tell you? I’ll get a bandage.”
There was a chair near the bed, and Tillie sat down. “Your maid may get rabies from your silverware,” she said.
No response.
“I . . . just wanted to say hello.”
Still no response.
“May I ask you a question?”
The lump on the bed twitched. “My bowels are twisted up, and I’ve got headaches and spinal spasms and arthritis in twenty-two joints, and I’m half-blind from fevers. Are you satisfied?”
“I wasn’t going to ask you what ailed you,” Tillie said haughtily. “It’s poor manners. You were so much happier when I last saw you.”
“I’m not a performing monkey. I cannot be happy when it’s convenient to other people. I’m ill.”
“I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well.” Tillie sighed. There was no way she could ask him about Lucy. It was too selfish to expect him to help when he suffered so. “I’ll let you be, then. Good afternoon, Mr. Erikkson. I do hope you feel better.”
She stood and went to the door. Mrs. Erikkson was now discussing liniments for a burn. That maid was awfully accident prone.
“Wait!” Tom said.
Tillie turned around. Tom had suddenly sat up in bed. He was thin as ever, with those dark-purplish shadows under his eyes. His eyes opened wider with recognition.
“Oh! It is you. I thought Mother was playing a trick, trying to get me to wake up.” He sat, Turkish-style, with his blankets still piled around him. “Is it about the weather? Please don’t speak about the weather. It’s dreadfully boring.” He coughed a few times.
“No. I came to ask about my sister.” Tillie sat back down on the chair. She took a steady breath, steeling herself to speak without trembling. “Lucy. She’s the one that died in the park, with the . . .” She touched her neck. “It looked like she had been bitten by a vampire. You said you saw her that day.”
“I did. She was with her maid. They had a row.”
“About what?” Tillie leaned in.
Tom opened his mouth and paused for a beat before he spoke. “Will you dance with me?”
Tillie furrowed her eyebrows. “They argued about dancing?”
“No. Will you dance with me? And then I’ll answer your question.”
Tillie blushed. What a forward question, and how utterly inappropriate. He was still in his nightshirt. And his mother was no longer in the room. Ada would come looking for her if she dawdled for long.
“I know it’s a terribly strange question, but you see, I’m dying a slow death, though Mother refuses to believe this. I’ve never been out of my house since I was six years old. I don’t want to die without experiencing a few things that other people do.”
“Oh.”
“It’s a mercy dance. For a dying man.”
“I don’t think that—”
“What would you do? What would you ask for, if you knew you would die soon?” he asked in earnest.
What would she do? Find Lucy’s killer. That was first in her mind. And Tom wouldn’t give her more information until she danced with him.
But as Tom stared at her expectantly, Tillie thought of her life and what she’d done. And she thought of Lucy and what she would never do. What would Lucy want? Marriage, children? Her own house and servants to command? Lucy had never spoken of those things with longing. But she’d enjoyed going to help the children at the Foundling Hospital. Bringing baskets of goods, asking for donations for a new water pump or a supply of new frocks for the girls’ wing. But that was Lucy, and Lucy had never been given the opportunity to answer Tom’s question.
What did Tillie want?
“I would like . . . to know more. About the world,” Tillie said. “More than I can learn where I am.”
“A college education!” Tom said.
“More than that.” A degree wasn’t quite enough. “To look beyond what I can see. To know more than what people know. How things work. The truths behind secrets.” She clenched a fist, unable to say more. She wanted the world to open up all its treasures, to reveal the whats and whys and hows. And something else. “I’d want to know more about my father.”
“What happened to your father?”
Tillie hesitated again. She was so used to being told not to speak of him, but her mother and grandmother were not in the room.
“He died when I was a child. My mother refuses to speak of him.”
“Why?” Tom sat up straighter, and his eyes sparkled a bit.
“He was a scholar working to debunk the resurgence in the practice of phrenology. He grew ill one day and died very suddenly. A heart attack, I believe. I was only a child. He adored my mother, and she him, but now she won’t speak of him.”
“He sounds wonderful.”
“He was poor. An unforgivable sin! I believe my mother married him for love. And that was unforgivable, too, perhaps.” She covered her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve said too much.”
“No, indeed. You have your desires, and they are perfectly acceptable. And I would like to have one dance, once in my life, with a lady who wasn’t my mother.”
“You’ve danced with your mother?” Tillie asked, smiling.
“She’s offered, and I’ve declined. I’ve waited for a more suitable partner.”
“Very well. For a dying man—though to be honest, you don’t look quite there.”
Tom grinned as he scrambled from the bed. His face was so thin his eyes looked unusually large in his face, like a boy who’d taken up a man’s body but hadn’t quite adjusted to his lodgings yet.
“Believe me, I’m not rushing anything.” Tom held out his arms. Beneath his nightshirt he wore soft wool trousers, as if he’d been inclined to get up and about but then failed halfway through the effort. His feet were bony and bare.
“There’s no music,” she noted, as he put his hand on her waist near her bound arm and held her good hand. He smelled strongly of camphor.
“I guess we can pretend there’s a waltz playing. That’s another thing I’d like to do someday. Hear music that doesn’t come from an Edison phonograph.”
Soon, they were gently waltzing in a tiny circle within his sickroom, in silence. Tom’s hand in hers seemed to tremble, and his steps were staggered and unsure. It didn’t take long before he was perspiring and a little short of breath. Tillie stopped dancing.
“I fear you’ll exhaust yourself, Mr. Erikkson.”
“Oh. Please call me Tom.” He let go of her, rather slowly, and returned to his bed. “That was lovely. I can’t thank you enough. Sometimes, books are not adequate to keep my imagination going. A person needs to really live to feel alive sometimes.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Otherwise, we’re all just in our little jail cells.” He looked at her meaningfully.
Was he insinuating that Tillie wasn’t truly living or free? She shook her head. “You’ve got your name written on my dance card, so to speak. Can you answer my question now?”
“Of course.” He untangled his blankets, gently laying them over his legs. “Your sister and her maid were waiting for Father, for he was busy with another patient, you see. Anyway, they were arguing, quite loudly.”
“Lucy and Betty? About what, may I ask?”
“Your sister said she wanted to go to the museum alone, and the maid refused. She said something about not sneaking about, like other times.’”
“Other times? What other times?” Tillie asked.
“I don’t know. And then your sister said something about
stealing, and the maid grew angry again. Mother came in to offer them some tea, and that was the end of it.”
Of course. Betty had been stealing, or so the gossip went. Perhaps Lucy had been chiding her for it, and Betty had grown angry, followed her, and killed her. But why kill Lucy in such an odd way?
Tillie stood up. She needed to find Betty. Or take an ax to the side table of Lucy’s room, if she couldn’t pick the lock after all. Something was hidden in that drawer; she knew it.
“Thank you, Tom. This was very helpful.” She paused, then added, “Thank you for listening to me. About my father.”
He nodded, and she went to the door. At the edge of the table were no less than three large brown bottles of laudanum and a polished brown box with brass hinges and clasp. She pointed at the bottles. “We share something in common. I take this medicine too.”
“As does the worse half of New York,” Tom said. “But the morphine injections are better. It works ever so much faster, and the nausea is far less.”
“Really? It sounds painful.”
“Oh no. Just a tiny prick under the skin. I’m used to it now. Father says it’s a gift of the gods. Or at least, Asclepius.”
Tillie didn’t know who Asclepius was. Perhaps a chemist. Once she’d closed Tom’s door behind her, she pulled out her small notebook from her sleeve, leaned it upon her wrist, and wrote, Asclepius—who is this?
She left with Ada, but not before Mrs. Erikkson plied her with a baked bun studded with raisins—she looked pale, Mrs. Erikkson said, and the food would do her good. But on the way home, Tillie forgot about the morsel.
There was a second person dead, after all. Something must be done.
Perhaps she should make a visit to Albert Weber’s family. She wondered how they might respond to a call just after midnight.
CHAPTER 10
How good and thoughtful he is; the world seems full of good men—even if there are monsters in it.
—Mina Harker
Tillie went straight to her bedroom, dosed herself, and took to her bed. She refused the requests to attend dinner. Her mother visited, murmuring that she hoped this behavior wouldn’t become a habit. Tillie waved her off. What she wanted was time to think—and some time to unthink everything.
A passage from Dracula played in her mind like a phonograph, over and over again. She whispered passages like a prayer, as the knot of wretched suffering in her body uncoiled like a drunken serpent.
The vampire live on, and cannot die by mere passing of the time; he can flourish when that he can fatten on the blood of the living . . .
He can even grow younger . . .
He throws no shadow; he make in the mirror no reflect . . .
He can transform himself to wolf . . . he can be as bat . . .
He can come in mist . . . on moonlight rays as elemental dust . . .
He can see in the dark . . .
He can do all these things, yet he is not free.
Tillie sighed and turned over in her bed. A vampire was shackled, it seemed, to the lusts and needs of his body. Tillie, too, felt her world as a closed casket, always around her, always constricting her. But unlike Count Dracula, she could enter a house without an invitation (rude as it might be). She could move about during the day, her power not extinguished at the rise of the sun.
She thought about how other people were tethered to their homes. Tom and Dr. Erikkson. And now Tillie.
“Oh,” she said faintly, before yawning. “If the murders happen during daylight, then it can’t possibly be a vampire. And anyone who cannot stand the sight of a crucifix . . . or a branch of wild rose . . .”
As unconsciousness closed about her, she thought to herself, I ought to start wearing a cross. Just in case.
Tillie woke up around midnight, creaky and aching. It was nearly time for Ada to bring their watchman some delicacies. But she had no reason to leave tonight. She wouldn’t meet Ian for several more days. And she had no idea how to find out where Albert Weber’s family lived or even where Betty was.
A sudden intake of breath accompanied an idea: Of course.
She put on a linen robe and descended the stairs. The whole house was darkened, but Tillie was growing accustomed to the nighttime. At least at night, she felt freer. But what life was that? One where she had freedom only at night? It was more vampirish than human.
The door near the rear of the house was cracked open; she pushed it open farther. Sure enough, there was Ada sharing a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits. John’s hand went to Ada’s waist, pulling her close, as his other hand brushed crumbs off her lips. Ada giggled and pushed him away.
Lately the words of Bram Stoker were constantly on her mind. Van Helsing had championed the virtues of humanity, saying, “We have on our side power of combination—a power denied to the vampire kind; we have resources of science; we are free to act and think; and . . . so far as our powers extend, they are unfettered, and we are free to use them.”
Tillie’s instinct was to stay hidden, watch, observe. Find the answers on her own. But she needed more than her own limitations could provide. She needed to embrace her power. She needed to act like a Pembroke, not a Tillie.
“Do this for Lucy,” she said to herself. She took a breath of encouragement and pushed the door open with a thump. John and Ada jumped apart, and Ada ran to her.
“Miss! Do you need something? I was just . . . I was just bringing John something to eat, like you suggested. And coffee.”
Tillie tried to keep her voice low yet strong. “Thank you, Ada. I need to speak to John for a moment.”
Ada curtsied, glanced guiltily at John, and skittered inside to the kitchen. Tillie walked over to him.
Pretend you’re Grandmama Josephine. Come, Tillie!
“Excuse my appearance, Mr. O’Toole,” she said steadily. “My illness usually keeps me confined to the house. May I ask . . . how is your new post? Any difficulties with your duties?”
“None, Miss.” He looked straight at Tillie, a flintiness in his eye. He wasn’t afraid of much, this one.
“And are you happy working here?”
“Indeed, I am, as I have said to your grandmother.”
“Excellent. Well, I will be happy to pretend that you’re not taking up the salary we provide so you can break your fasts while on duty.”
John said nothing, just stared.
“I require your assistance regarding my sister’s attack. I need to find two addresses. My family need not know—they have enough to concern themselves with.” She handed him a piece of paper with the names Betty Novak and Albert Weber written neatly. “The other servants say Betty lives near the Brooklyn Bridge, but we don’t know where exactly. And Albert Weber was just in the news. Can you find out where they live?”
He scanned the names. “I can try. I still have friends working at my old precinct. I can ask them.”
“I’d be grateful if you could.”
John took the paper and put it in his pocket. He had a strange look on his face, which made Tillie stop before she went back inside.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
He took a small step closer. “It must be difficult to endure.”
“What must be difficult?”
“Everything.” He studied her with such intensity that Tillie wished to shrink away and run. What did he mean? Lucy’s death? The pain? Being trapped within this house?
Tillie stepped back. “Well. Thank you again.”
She stayed awake much of the night, attempting to unlock Lucy’s table. But still it refused to give up its treasures. All the while, she wondered if she’d made a mistake—if John O’Toole would simply confess all to her grandmother. Then she’d lose Ada, too, her only ally in the house. She couldn’t chance the wait for him to return to her with the addresses. After all, what if Albert Weber and Lucy were not the only ones to die such a death? What if there were more to come?
She had to get out during the daylight hours and in a way that wa
s sanctioned by her family. After an unrefreshing slumber of several morning hours, she awoke with the solution.
“Oh!” she said, sitting up quickly. It was nearly noon, but not too late. She rang the bell, and Ada came quickly. “I need to get ready.”
“For what, Miss?”
“Why, to see James Cutter.”
It turned out Tillie didn’t need to ask for James to visit her. He’d been leaving cards for her while she slept and was due to call on her for an outing the next day. He’d even sent a parcel that morning, unasked for: the accompanying note read, To help speed your healing, a small distraction. A little bird named Ada told me you might enjoy this.
It was a copy of Dracula. Tillie nearly fell off her chaise at the sight of it. Who knew James Cutter, who seemed to do everything properly, who would order a circle to be a more proper square, would gift such a book to Tillie?
That evening, just after midnight, someone knocked on the door. Tillie ignored it. She’d been awake since her afternoon nap and was engrossed in reading Dracula. She had taken to reading it aloud, as every sentence felt washed anew when spoken.
“‘For life be, after all, only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be all that we can rightly depend on. But I’m content, for it’s comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’ quick.’” Tillie licked a finger and turned a page. “Well,” she said. “That’s outright depressing, if I do say so myself.”
The knock came again, and this time Ada cracked the door open.
“Miss Tillie? John has sent you a note.” She handed her a folded note, and Tillie read it with eager eyes.
It was an address for Albert Weber.
37 East 9th Street
4th floor
It was in the heart of Kleindeutschland, near Tompkins Square Park. Tillie flipped the paper over.
“Only this note? Nothing more?” Tillie asked.
“No. Did you expect another?”
“I did. Ada, please tell John that I need the other information. His job depends upon it.” She smiled. “Could you perhaps convince him to try harder? If it takes more time for you to speak to him, I would understand. Three visits a night, with more refreshments?”