by Lydia Kang
It was odd and strange and wonderful when Ian encircled her with his arms and just let her be. After a while, she pulled away.
“It’s going to be dawn in less than an hour, and you have to go,” she said, wiping her nose.
“I know. But maybe . . . it would be better if you read this while I’m here? I wouldn’t want you to be alone.”
She snuffled. Ian removed a handkerchief that had been laundered so many times it seemed almost translucent. She took it gratefully. After one last deep breath, she nodded and untied the diary.
Mina Harker had written in a diary too. She had said in Dracula that she would write “whenever I feel inclined. I do not suppose there will be much of interest to other people; but it is not intended for them.” Just like Lucy had. It felt wrong to read it now. It was not meant for Tillie. But how else could she find out Lucy’s thoughts before she died?
The first entry was from a year ago, so they started close to the last few pages, with an entry dated four days before her death.
June 4, 1899
I am scattered and dizzy. There is no respite, no matter where I turn.
Dr. Erikkson says that I am nearly recovered from the typhus and that I must never go back to the Foundling Hospital. It pains me, as I can nearly see it from the upstairs window. But who will go in my stead? I have asked Dorothy, but she is afraid she will catch diphtheria. And after my own illness, her fear is fixed and hard as stone.
Mama and Grandmama refuse to let me go as well. But the children need more clothes, more healthful food, more sunshine. James agrees with my family; he believes a lady should wait until her children are married off before acquiring a habit of philanthropy. He watches me and checks my behavior when the subject comes up, even in the politest society.
The situation with Betty is no better. The other maids have seen Betty taking items from the house. I lied and said I was unconcerned that my garnet and gold breastpin went missing. I begged them not to tell Mama. They know she took an armful of muslin from the linen closet and charged four pounds of beef loin to our account and never brought it home.
What am I to do? She grows sullen from all the whispers and glances. Betty is dear to me; she knows me and my needs and my despairs better than anyone else. All the others see is a thief.
Tillie stopped reading.
Lucy had been replete with concerns, and Tillie had no idea. She and James always seemed happy together. And Betty had been stealing so much. Why would Lucy have allowed this?
“Let’s read more,” Ian said. His face was one of quiet consternation; he seemed as troubled by Lucy’s writing as Tillie. Tillie turned a few pages farther. It was the last entry, from the very day she’d gone missing.
June 8, 1899
I am to see Dr. Erikkson again. I look forward to the visit. He will say I am all better, and I will challenge Mama and Grandmama about resuming my work.
James has asked to accompany me to the visit, as a husband’s right, even though we are not yet married. He smothers me with his attention. I can scarcely breathe when he is in the room. He has been choosing my gowns; he has been angry about my work at the Foundling Hospital. I thought we might reconcile—I suggested I would halt my visits for a time if we could endow a charity that paid the salary of a new teacher and three new nurses.
And he struck me.
I have never been touched by such violence. Even when Papa whipped me with a switch when I was four years old because I broke a crystal decanter by accident, it was done so with remorse. Papa embraced me and cried after, never using that switch again. After James struck me, his face was terrible, all steel and ice. He said, “A wife that does not obey is worse than a dead wife.” He removed all the money from my reticule, so I cannot purchase even a penny candy.
I died then. I cannot escape this engagement. Mama and Grandmama refuse my pleas. They side with James and think I am too consumed with charity work. It is a pet preoccupation that was due to stop, they say.
And Betty, my solace, is now suspected of stealing two silver spoons. She will end up in the Tombs, and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. Only I know the entirety of what she has taken from our house. Soon, I will have to confess all her betrayals, and in doing so, all of mine for keeping such secrets.
Tillie could hardly breathe. She touched the last sentence, smudging the word secrets ever so slightly. Ian seemed to be staring at the words, too, as if they were pressing themselves into his memory, like thumbprints on clay.
“I didn’t know,” Tillie said. Her hands shook so; she nearly tore the diary. “He struck her? James? I cannot believe it. How could he?”
“It’s not right, but it’s common enough,” Ian said with disgust. He looked at Tillie seriously. “You’d best be careful around him.”
“He’s only ever been a gentleman to me.”
“Some gentleman he is, smacking around his betrothed. Who would you believe?” Ian asked.
“Dracula was not believed to be a monster when Harker first met him. He seemed sophisticated and learned. Almost royal, the way he’s described.” Tillie went silent for a long while. “And what about Betty? We need to talk to her. She could have killed Lucy, couldn’t she? To prevent her firing?”
“That wouldn’t be terribly clever. Lucy was the only reason she was still employed. But Betty seemed to know a lot about Lucy.”
More than I did, Tillie thought with a pang. She scoured her memory of those last days. Why hadn’t she tried harder to notice that Lucy must not have been happy?
“Perhaps James knew about the thievery. Maybe they fought about it.” It made Tillie recoil to think she’d been in such close quarters with James. “Still—if he’d been so angry, why kill her like a vampire?”
“I don’t know. He certainly didn’t act like a guilty murderer when we visited the Weber family. You know, I’ll bet the police haven’t done a wink of work since the day after she died. You should bring this diary to them.” He stood but seemed distracted, running his hand through his hair. “What was Betty’s name again?”
“Betty Novak.”
“Right. I should go before the servants wake up.”
“Of course,” Tillie said. She felt like she was in a dream. They left the room, Tillie clutching the diary to her bosom as she walked him out. When she opened the front door, John was rounding the front of the house. He looked pointedly at them both, but as they seemed more upset than physically rumpled, he simply went on walking.
“I never saw you,” he said before rounding the west corner.
“Good thing he’s on your payroll,” Ian said. He walked out the front door and turned around. “Say. I had a good time tonight. All that walking. Next time, I’m taking you to the Thalia Theatre. It’ll be swell.”
Tillie bounced on the balls of her toes—the only part of her feet that didn’t hurt, though the rest of the pain was dull. “You know what I’d rather see? A vampire. A real one. I’m tired of not finding the answers I want.”
“You’re reading too much of that Dracula book.”
“‘We learn from failure, not from success,’” Tillie quoted. “Let’s not stop now. But what will I do with this diary? If I show it to my mother, she might burn it before it leaves the house. The last thing they’d want to see is all of Lucy’s complaints out in the world.” She bit her lip. “I could bring it to the police tomorrow night.”
“Better yet. Give it to me. I’ll bring it to them.”
“You will?”
Ian nodded. “They need to do more. There hasn’t been a single article about who might be the killer. That’s a bad sign. This will get them using those brains again.”
“Shall we meet tomorrow night?” Tillie asked, eagerly.
“Oh. No. I have at least a day’s worth of newspaper sales to make up for the time I’m going to lose sleeping today. How about two nights? We’ll have plenty to talk about by then.”
“Okay. Two nights, then. Where?”
“I have an i
dea. Meet me down the street from here, on Second Avenue. We’ll go from there.”
As they stood there, not sure how best to say their adieus, John rounded the east corner and hissed at them both. “Are you trying to get me fired? Go!”
“I’m going!” Ian hissed back. With that, he opened the gate and ran away into the darkness.
Tillie was down to her last bottle. She savored every dose, every banishment of her pain and sadness with each burning drop. She kept to her room, sleeping and eating little, avoiding Ada when possible (she couldn’t help but remember her and John coupled together). Hazel left a card and promised to call on her, but she refused to see Dorothy or James, feigning illness. She could not bear to speak with them after what she’d read in Lucy’s diary.
It wasn’t until two mornings later that she felt capable of descending the circular staircase. Even then, she held her stomach, feeling somewhat queasy. She had taken a little too much medicine this morning. She would try to eat some dry toast, then go back to bed. But the effect was that she didn’t feel terribly bothered by anything, even the slight nausea.
She had barely stepped into the dining room when the sound of glass shattering reverberated down the hallway. Her mother stood next to the banquette of eggs, toast, steaming ham, jellies, and a mound of golden butter. Broken glass littered the floor by her feet, and her grandmother had her fists balled on the table.
“What’s the matter?” Tillie exclaimed, rushing into the room.
Her mother was white as the table linen and looked at Tillie as if she were made of nothing more than fog and ash. Her grandmother had found her voice. She picked up a newspaper from the table and shook it at her.
“Mathilda! How could you speak with such a person? How could you make up such . . . lies? Such rubbish?”
“What do you mean?” She walked forward, and Grandmama thrust the paper in her face. Tillie batted it down, shook it out, and laid it on the table.
“Here,” her mother said in a wavering voice, pointing at an article at the top of the page.
“Vampire” Victim Lucille Pembroke Feared for Her Life
Servant Lies Uncovered in Diary
Fiancé James Cutter Now Person of Interest
Police Investigation Continues with Renewed Vigor
By Ian Metzger
Tillie reeled back as if bitten.
“Do you know this Ian Metzger?” her grandmother said in a tone so lethal the servants backed out of the dining room promptly.
“What diary is this? There’s no such thing. It’s lies!” her mother cried out, tears now splashing onto the paper. “There is no such thing!” she repeated, as if convincing herself.
Tillie opened her mouth, but no words would come. Her stomach lurched, and she put her hand to her mouth and rushed out of the room, making it only five feet before she vomited her medicine all over the marble floor.
“Vampire” Victim Lucille Pembroke Feared for Her Life
Servant Lies Uncovered in Diary
Fiancé James Cutter Now Person of Interest
Police Investigation Continues with Renewed Vigor
By Ian Metzger
New details regarding the June 8 murder of Lucille “Lucy” Pembroke—a young heiress set to marry into one of New York’s oldest families in an event anticipated as the fin de siècle event on Millionaire’s Row—reveal that her death is even more complicated than previously thought. Her fiancé, James Cutter, whose family is one of the oldest and wealthiest of Astor’s Four Hundred, is now a prime suspect.
Miss Pembroke went missing on June 8, and her slain body was found one day later by the south wall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Information gathered from Miss Pembroke’s own sister, Mathilda Pembroke, reveals that the late Miss Pembroke had recently quarreled with her fiancé. The World has in its possession the diary of Lucy Pembroke, verified by the author of this article, who procured it from the bedchamber of Miss Pembroke with the assistance of her sister.
Passages include such damaging phrases as “He has been angry” and “He smothers me” and this particular admission: “He struck me.” Perhaps the reader might consider that a husband has a right to strike his wife—or a fiancé, his betrothed. What is most remarkable is the timing of these posthumous words of Miss Pembroke: They were written the same day she was murdered.
Furthermore, details revealed in the diary show that a maid who attended Miss Pembroke had been suspected of lying and stealing. Surely this is a detail that begs more investigation. Could it, too, be related to the angry fiancé? It ought not be dismissed.
The death of Miss Pembroke is particularly confounding to the police of the Twenty-First Ward and of other precincts throughout the city. The recent death of a young boy, Albert Weber, tells us that this murderer has struck at least twice. It is a vicious truth that New York kills its own at a voracious rate, and the morgue and police have difficulty keeping up with the vast number of people who go missing or die under circumstances that are never fully brought to light. However, in the case of Miss Pembroke and Albert Weber, both murdered by exsanguination, both with apparent “vampire bites” to the neck, both brutally robbed of life, we should not be so complacent.
The wealthy may have the privilege that many do not have, but in this case, Lucy Pembroke’s death cries out for justice. James Cutter’s involvement in the turmoil surrounding the last hours of Lucy Pembroke’s life must be investigated further. As this article goes to press, we have been informed that the police will begin an in-depth investigation into Mr. Cutter and his whereabouts at the time of Miss Pembroke’s disappearance and murder.
Let us all remember the terrifying vision of a beautiful heiress, much beloved by her family and friends, drained of her blood while wearing her fine lilac silk dress. This innocent maiden was left to rot in the dim shadows of Central Park. Was it the work of a vampire or of a powerful and furious fiancé wishing to make the death appear more macabre than a simple domestic dispute? Answers must be had.
Let us allow Miss Pembroke to speak for herself.
“After James struck me, his face was terrible, all steel and ice. He said, ‘A wife that does not obey is worse than a dead wife . . .’ I died then. I cannot escape this engagement.”
And die she did. But not in vain.
We, the public, will demand the truth.
CHAPTER 13
Therefore, I, on my part, give up here the certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!
—Mina Harker
Tillie wiped her mouth, still coughing. Sick was running down the sateen of her bodice. The nausea roiled worse than before. She had two immediate thoughts.
I just vomited up the medicine. I need to go drink more before I feel even worse. But there is hardly any left. I am loath to bother Dorothy and Hazel about my needs. How shall I get more—and soon?
Her second thought was, Oh, Ian. How could you?
“I need to go upstairs,” Tillie muttered, heading for the staircase.
Her grandmother stepped up to Tillie, her foot stepping right through the pool of sick on the marble floor. She grabbed Tillie’s wrist, hard.
“You will sit down, Mathilda, and you will tell us why this—this—person—knows about the family. It’s written that they have documentation. It says that the World has possession of her personal writings. Lucy had no such documents!”
Tillie could feel the bruise forming on her wrist. She was too weak to pull away from her grandmother and dropped down to sit on the bottom stair. Ada and the other maids were rushing to clean up the sick and the mess in the dining room, but her grandmother roared at them.
“Leave us!”
Tillie felt the anger of her voice vibrate the air. Once the servants cleared out of view (no doubt they were listening around the nearest corners), her mother groaned and rubbed her temple.
“Is this the same person who was leaving you messages around the time of the
funeral?” she hissed.
“Yes,” Tillie said miserably.
“Has he been calling here, without our knowledge?”
“No,” Tillie said, glad she didn’t have to lie.
“Then how on earth does he know so much about our family? About James?”
“There was a diary. It was locked in Lucy’s side drawer in her room. I found it.”
Grandmama looked at her with her piercing blue eyes. “You mean . . . what is written in this article, about James, about that maid . . . it’s true?”
Tillie nodded.
“And how did he get this diary?” Grandmama asked.
If she told them she had been leaving the house, she would never be able to leave again, not unless she was shackled to two chaperones or married off to be someone else’s problem. She couldn’t suffer being trapped at home again.
“I sent it to him. We’ve been corresponding,” Tillie lied.
Her mother sucked air through her teeth. “Every message you’ve received from strangers I’ve burned! And you still did this? How could you, Mathilda?”
Tillie could not answer, and the silence coiled around them, ready to whip her whether or not it broke.
“Well. We shall put a stop to that. And we’ll demand that he return Lucy’s papers immediately. Tell me his address. How to contact him,” her mother said. “I’ll fix this.”
“Like you fixed the last disaster in your life? Oh, come, Victoria! You’re about as useful as a drowned cat!” Grandmama pointed a gnarled finger at Tillie. “This is the result of your mistakes. This is your doing.”
“No!” Her mother looked stricken. “She’s frail. In the head, as well as the body. It’s not her fault—”