by Lydia Kang
A servant retrieved it immediately. The shining diamond ring, cloudy with its film of butter, was put next to Tillie’s plate. “Your ring, Miss.”
Dorothy stared. Hazel did, too, though not with quite the acid expression on Dorothy’s face, which magnificently transformed into elation.
“Oh! Is that . . . an engagement ring? Tillie? James! Are you—”
“Goodness. It’s nothing but a token. There is no announcement, Dorrie,” Tillie said hastily. This time, it was James’s turn to look dyspeptic.
“Well. Tillie, it’s time we go. Shall we?” He rose, and Tillie blotted her lips. Not knowing what to do with the ring, she put it back on. She wanted to leave so that Dorothy would stop staring agog between her and James.
Before they left, Dorothy secured a promise from Tillie to have tea and, as she whispered, “discuss everything.” Hazel grasped Tillie’s hands in a goodbye.
“Just in case. I know how hard it can be to come by money when everyone is watching you,” she said quietly. “And I know what it feels like to have pain that must be concealed.”
Tillie took her hands away and saw three vials of morphine tied together with a chartreuse ribbon.
“Oh. Do you use opium, too, Hazel?”
Hazel shook her head. “No, I don’t. But if I did, I might never stop.”
CHAPTER 19
What manner of man is this, or what manner of creature is it in the semblance of man?
—Jonathan Harker
James waited by the carriage as Tillie freshened herself and hid her extra vials of morphine upstairs.
In the carriage, he said nothing for a long while. Tillie was grateful for the quiet and actually sighed aloud.
“What is it?” James asked.
“The silence. It’s nice, sometimes.”
James laughed. “I like it too. Sometimes Dorothy’s chatter is welcome and other times . . .” He shrugged, too much of a gentleman to say more. “I feel sorry for her, though.”
“You do? Why?”
“She’s rather desperate to get married.” He looked out the window, where the sun shone on the carriages passing by. They drove past the Hotel Netherland and the Savoy. The park in front of the Plaza was resplendent with green and perfectly round trees, and Central Park disappeared behind them. “Hazel is desperate too.”
“Hazel? I had no idea she was shopping for a beau.”
“Not for her—for Dorothy. They lost a lot of money, the Harrimans, in the stock market a few years ago. I heard Dorothy’s father speaking about it to my father. They may have to let Hazel go if Dorothy’s prospects don’t improve.” He raised his eyebrows. “And what kind of job Hazel would get, I can’t imagine. Being a lady’s companion, even to someone like Dorothy, can’t possibly be as difficult as scrubbing floors or sewing. For not nearly as good pay.”
“Dorothy probably wants to marry you,” Tillie said artlessly.
“Dorothy is a sweet girl,” James murmured, turning to Tillie and smiling. “But she’s not you. She’s not a Pembroke.”
Tillie’s back prickled. She felt like a brand of bestselling bromide on the shelf.
They passed Bryant Park, where the Croton Reservoir was now completely gone and heaps of dust and rubble lay as they began building the foundation to the library. Tillie sighed in pure pleasure.
“Does the sight of rubble make you happy?” James teased.
“A library. An enormous library, bigger than the Lenox Library and the Astor Library combined. It’s wonderful.”
“I’d build you a library to rival that, if I could. A library with every story in it, every book you could imagine. Worlds within worlds.”
“Golly! Wouldn’t that be a dream!” She laughed. “But you’ve already given me a typewriter.”
“And I anxiously await your first communication,” he said, taking her hand in his.
He kept up conversation for the rest of the trip, but Tillie had some difficulty trying to stay lighthearted. She could think only of Lucy. Would she warn her about James or think, What a perfect match? A man who will buy you a typewriter, a whole library! She still had unresolved questions about whether James was as innocent as he claimed to be. She twisted the ring on her finger. It didn’t seem as foreign as it had yesterday, but it still felt conspicuous and heavy.
They finally rounded Twenty-Sixth Street, past Matthew’s Soda Factory, and turned onto First Avenue, where Bellevue Medical College stood. It looked so different in the daylight, compared to when she’d passed by with Ian. James helped her out of the carriage, and they entered the building; a wooden staircase in front of them led upstairs.
“James! Good to see you.”
They saw a severe-looking gentleman with a white coat, brass spectacles, and a dark mustache. A younger man in a dapper twill suit stood beside him.
“Dr. Biggs. And Andrew! Good to see you. Miss Pembroke, Andrew is an old schoolmate, the nephew of Dr. Biggs.”
“Thank you for taking the time, Dr. Biggs,” Tillie said, curtsying. She nodded at his nephew and dipped a curtsy again.
“Shall we begin the tour?” Dr. Biggs held out his hand, and Tillie took it.
“Uncle, may I speak to James for a moment? We have some catching up to do. I don’t believe he has the stomach for such a museum, as I recall from our university days.”
James winked. “Indeed, he remembers well. I believe the sight of a dead cat nearly did me in once.”
“Pooh!” Dr. Biggs waved his hand. “It’s those other atrocious venues, like Dr. Kahn’s Museum of Anatomy in the Bowery—that are filled with only titillating exhibits. Pure trash. Here, we strive for education, not for spectacle.”
“Still, I think I’d be unwise to risk it. I’ll be here, Tillie, if you need me,” James said.
Tillie nodded, and together, she and Dr. Biggs ascended the stairs.
“The museum was begun by Dr. Wood just around 1850. He amassed quite a collection, and our pathologists have been adding to it ever since. We’ve over two thousand specimens, in comparable anatomy, normal anatomy, embryology, and pathologic specimens.”
“Do you have . . . any vampires? Or vampire victims?” Tillie asked when they approached the top landing.
Dr. Biggs let go of her arm and turned to her, his eyebrows furrowing so deeply she could only see half his eyes.
“Are you in jest?” he asked, nearly a growl.
Tillie attempted to hold on to her bravery. “Absolutely not, sir.”
“I thought interest in vampires had left after those horrible penny dreadfuls stopped being read all the time. What was that one? Varney the Vampire, wasn’t it called? An absolute joke!”
“It’s not a joke. Have you read the papers?” Tillie threaded her fingers together. “A girl—my very own sister—was killed by a bite to the neck and all the blood drained from her. There are stories and tales that are all imaginary, for sure, but a pattern of deaths like hers requires investigation, even if it means entertaining the fantastic. Even germs were once considered fantasy, in the eyes of the most preeminent surgeons. Now we have Lysol and carbolic acid to fight them.” She swelled her breath. “I need to know if such a human creature, if it may be called human, could possibly exist.”
“Nonsense. No such creature exists.”
“But how do you know?”
“There are legends, and there is truth.”
“Then show me the truth so that I may be soothed by what is real and what is not,” Tillie implored. They were standing in front of the Wood Museum now, but the doors were locked. Dr. Biggs had a key in hand but hadn’t yet opened it. “I refuse to accept an answer that does not include evidence and thought, instead of speculation.”
Dr. Biggs saw that she was not laughing or smirking but perfectly serious. He sighed heavily. “Very well, my dear. Very well.”
He unlocked the door, swinging it open and stepping aside. Tillie entered. The room was large and yet somehow small at the same time. There were columns in the ce
nter and cabinets in rows on either side. It was like a small library, except instead of books, the cabinets held specimen after specimen of health and disease.
Tillie walked to the first cabinet, seeing an entire row of glass jars. These were embryology examples, tiny fetuses curled like the ends of violins or young ferns, never to grow and unfurl themselves upon the world. Many were normal examples of development, and Tillie shuddered to think why they’d ended up in jars of beige preservative instead of walking the streets of the city, playing rounders and kick the can. Other jars held examples of the unborn never destined to survive—ones with heads too small, internal organs twisted upside down or never formed at all. Tillie bowed her head slightly as she passed them. She was glad they were not on display in a gaudy showroom downtown.
Dr. Biggs stood back and let her explore the aisles. “I’d heard a passing comment about your sister’s case. I thought it was another example of the World getting overenthusiastic with their imagination, all to sell more papers.”
“I saw my sister’s wounds. It’s very real. What I don’t know is the nature of the killer. If he is what everyone thinks he is. Here.” Tillie stopped to point to a case holding preserved skulls. Beneath them was a label.
MALFORMATIONS OF THE SKULL
1. CALVARIUM TUMOR 2. SEVERE MALOCCLUSION 3. MICROCEPHALY 4. SUPERNUMERARY TEETH
She peered closer at the skull with the supernumerary teeth. It had been displayed with the jaw opened. A second set of teeth pushed against the row of normal teeth, but they crowded in such a jumble that they appeared to be a weedy garden of tooth points.
“Is it possible that someone could grow teeth sharp enough to puncture skin?”
“Well, of course. We all have teeth that can puncture. It’s what you do when you bite into a roast beef. We are simply too civilized to bite living persons. Unless you are a misbehaving child, I suppose, or rabid.”
Tillie straightened, prodding the pointed canine teeth in her own mouth with her tongue. She turned to Dr. Biggs. “But two clean holes? Is there any condition that could cause a person’s teeth to become sharp and large as, say, a wolf’s or big cat’s?”
Dr. Biggs shook his head. “None in the literature.”
“Which means such a person cannot exist.”
“No, it means that if such a person exists, no one has been able to reliably document them. Medicine and science rely upon observation, repeated observation, and repeated analysis. Without any word of such an existence, it is hard to fathom that a huge-fanged human exists, unless they are incredibly good at hiding. But then again, any such creature cannot live in a vacuum undetected forever. Even bacteria, even germs, were the ghosts of the medical world until we found them through analysis and microscopes. As you so eloquently noted before.”
Tillie walked to another aisle. Here were more specimens, pickled in formaldehyde or created through waxworks and plaster casting. She found one wax model of a woman’s head and neck, the neck splayed open and diagrammed with different-colored paints to explicate the anatomy of the neck. The woman’s face was beautiful, with dark hair and half-closed lids over deep brown eyes. She looked a bit like Tillie herself, if she thought of it. Shivering, she looked at the tiny inscription, which read,
ARTIST: ALEXANDER TRICE, 1849
Dr. Biggs looked at it as well and shook his head. “We will likely remove the wax sculptures; they were initially created to bring in the crowds for entertainment, rather than academic study.” He pointed at the neck. “You said there had been . . . bites? Can you show me where?”
“Here. And here.” She pointed to where the carotid artery was painted cherry red next to the thick blue jugular vein.
“The neck tissues must have been torn terribly,” he remarked.
“Not at all. It was so clean, just two puncture holes.”
“Not even behind the neck?” He pointed to himself, above his starched collar. “Anything that bit down hard enough to exsanguinate would leave bite marks in the back. And it would not be two simple, clean punctures. I tended to a child once with bites from a fighting dog. The skin tore, and where there were punctures, there were matching ones to counteract the force of the top jaw.”
“I’ve considered that too. I don’t recall seeing cuts on the other side, but then again, I didn’t lift her head to look.”
“Also, consider—to bleed out through a bite, there must be the bite first and then a sucking action. Surely, it would also leave a bruise, circular, where the mouth applied suction. A creature would bite and lick or suck, but even so, to drain such a quantity of blood from the large veins . . . and if the arteries were bitten, why, no animal could consume so much blood quickly or so cleanly. An artery would bleed like a fire hose. In either situation, consuming blood and leaving either no suction marks or a bloodless scene would be impossible.”
Tillie’s pulse raced. “Are you saying that a creature—let’s not name what it is—could not have done such a thing?”
“I am a pathologist, Miss Pembroke. I have seen all manner of disease and all manner of death by the hand of fellow humans. My opinion? Someone is killing these people. A human, a person, not an imagined vampire. But they would like it to resemble the work of a vampire.”
“Why?” Tillie asked. “Why go through the pains to make it look so macabre? So fantastical?”
They had walked all the way through the museum and now were back where they had begun at the top of the stairs.
“Why would any murderer try to hide themselves?” Dr. Biggs asked. “Why, they wish to avoid discovery. What you need to find out, Miss, is, Why blood? The victims likely died within minutes of the bleeding, but you said that most of their blood was removed. That is an unnecessary step if death were the only purpose.”
“Perhaps death was not the purpose,” Tillie said. “Perhaps it was an unintended consequence of gathering the blood.”
“For what use?”
“I don’t know,” Tillie admitted. “I have no idea.”
Dr. Biggs locked the museum doors behind them. Downstairs, James was shaking Andrew’s hand. Dr. Biggs halted on the stairs and leaned in close to Tillie. He almost seemed afraid that his words would reach James.
“Miss Pembroke,” he said quietly. “Keep in mind that someone who wishes to kill innocents and blame it on a pretend vampire also has another motive. They wish to continue to kill. If there is one thing that a murderer despises more than being caught, it’s the person who discovers them. Do take care of yourself.”
“I shall. Thank you so much.”
Dr. Biggs accompanied them out of the building and to the carriage. He waved goodbye cheerfully, but as the carriage pulled away, he continued staring at them until they rounded Twenty-Fifth Street.
Tillie could not shake the feeling that Dr. Biggs was afraid to leave her in the company of James, alone.
At home, Tillie first wrote down everything she could from her meeting at the museum, then dosed herself heavily with morphine and collapsed in her bed. When she awoke, she took a small supper by herself. Her mother was reading by the fireplace, but her paper had fallen onto her lap, and she was snoozing ever so gently. Her grandmother was already in bed.
Tillie went to the other end of the table, where the typewriter sat. She took the cover off and saw that the message from James was still there. She pulled it out, and the register spun with a zipping noise. In their escritoire, she found sheets of creamy paper. She fed a piece into the back of the cylinder, rolled it up the front of the register, and sat down.
All she needed to do was start typing the story.
She had no idea where to begin. When she closed her eyes, the story was done in her head, polished and perfect, drawing the reader in and releasing bits of information like crumbs off a loaf of bread, luring in whoever was hungry for more. Before her, there was this grand typewriter, and there was a blank page.
She longed to see Ian again. His encouragement from before had dissipated. She wished to discuss
her notes and go over her theories again. But he was awaiting a copy of a draft by mail.
I have to start somewhere, she thought. Why not start with her name?
So she typed T.
The key hitting the paper sounded like a tiny gunshot. Down the hallway, there was a sudden squeal and a “What in heaven’s name!” Footfalls thumped the floor, and her mother appeared, red eyed and confused.
“What are you doing, Mathilda?”
“Typing.”
“I can see that. But it is nearly eleven o’clock. You ought to be in bed. You may write to James tomorrow.”
Tillie stood up and smiled. “Of course. You’re right. Good night, Mama.” She kissed her cheek and skittered up the stairs.
Tillie waited until her own witching hour, near midnight. Then, the whole house would be slumbering, and John would be touring the grounds, and Ada would visit him with gifts of bakery sweets and of herself. Sometimes both, but never simultaneously, which would be a carnal catastrophe of crumbs, now that she considered it.
Carnal Catastrophe of Crumbs.
It sounded like an excellent title to something that Tillie best not write.
Wearing her nightdress and a wrapper of pale-blue sateen, she gathered her precious papers to her chest. The main floor was quiet and perfectly empty. She would have to find somewhere the sound wouldn’t carry.
Outside? She didn’t want to be near John. Anyway, the sounds of the typewriter might still wake someone up. The attic? She hadn’t been up there in ages, but as a child she clearly remembered hearing the servants calling for her straight through the floorboards while she explored old trunks and treasures. No, that would not do.
There was only one place in the house that was nearly soundless.
Tillie latched the cover onto the typewriter and hauled it out of the dining room with her good arm. She staggered into the kitchen, past the massive cookstove, and thence to the pantry and its trapdoor floor. She pulled it open and turned on a switch, and a single light bulb illuminated the tiny cave-like space populated with ropes of onions, dried herbs, and tubs of butter.