by Dacre Stoker
“How can this be?”
Bram perched on the edge of the sofa. “It has always been this way, at least since Ellen cured me as a child.”
“He hasn’t been sick, not a single day,” Matilda pointed out. “Not since that night.”
I frowned. “And last night was, what, some kind of treatment? An exchange of blood?”
Nobody answered this query; there was no need to. We all understood it was true. I took a deep breath, then resigned myself to reveal a secret of my own. “There is something I must show you both.”
I led them through the house and up the grand staircase to the master bedroom, where Emily slept soundlessly atop the covers. Matilda and Bram both hesitated at the door, and I motioned for them to enter and gather around the bed. We kept an oil lamp on the night table; I lit the wick and held the flame close to my wife’s neck. The two tiny pinpricks were scabbed with dry blood. “I first saw these Tuesday night. They appeared to be healing, but last night something reopened the wound and left fresh marks. I heard her scream when I was coming home and found her in a swoon next to the bed, bleeding.”
Bram leaned in closer. “They’re like mine, only more ragged, as if healing slower. Has she demonstrated anything like I showed you downstairs?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. The opposite, in fact. See this little cut on her cheek? She did that yesterday when she fell; I think she hit the bedpost. It has barely healed at all; I had the hardest time getting the bleeding to stop—nothing like what you showed me. Today she hasn’t moved from this bed. She seems to be lost in a deep sleep. I tried to wake her earlier to no avail. She has no fever or other outward sign of illness, but her breathing at times seems labored, and she has complained of a headache nearly the entire week. Even now, she doesn’t stir. She talked in her sleep a few hours ago, but the words made no sense; she seemed very agitated and anxious. Her feet and hands flailed and kicked with such strength I couldn’t hold her down; I called in two of the servants to help. When she finally calmed, the deep sleep came again, and her mind seemed to drift even further away. Whatever is happening to her is worsening, I’m afraid.”
Matilda bent over Emily, inspecting the wound. “I doubt Ellen did this, she wouldn’t have had time, not if she followed us to Clontarf.”
“I don’t believe Ellen is responsible,” I told her. “I had the misfortune of meeting Emily’s ‘man in black’ that night as well. Come, let us return to the library and I shall tell you more.”
An hour later, surrounded by the volumes from my collection—that is, those spared Emily’s fury—I shared all that had happened that night, including the death of the security guard and my encounter with the man in black.
“So this man now has Patrick O’Cuiv’s body?” Matilda asked.
“I would presume so. Either that or someone else got to him first.”
“For what purpose?”
I shrugged.
Bram poked at the fire, adding a new log. The fresh wood let out a loud pop and settled upon the flames of the old. “What would this man want with Ellen? How would he even know you are acquainted with her?”
Again, I had no answer.
“All of this is connected somehow,” Matilda said. “O’Cuiv, this man, Ellen, whatever she did to Bram.”
“Whatever one of them did to my Emily,” I added.
“Yes, Emily, too.”
I watched as Matilda crossed the room and retrieved the black cloak they recovered from O’Cuiv’s grave. She draped the garment over the round tea table next to my chair and carefully unfolded it, revealing the contents: a looking glass, a brush, a necklace, and a book. She handed the volume to me. “Do you recognize the language?”
I opened the book and began flipping through the pages. “Ellen wrote this?”
“We think so,” Bram said. “The handwriting is very similar to hers, if not an exact match.”
“But these dates?”
“It makes no more sense than the rest of this,” Bram said, spreading his hands wide.
“Do you recognize the language?” Matilda pressed.
The language did seem familiar to me, not something I have studied, but most definitely a language I had encountered before. “I think it may be Hungarian. I own a medical text—” I stood and made my way to the bookshelves lining the east wall. From high atop the third from the right, I plucked out a volume. Returning to the table, I laid the text out beside the handwritten book found in the grave. “This is a copy of the Orvosi Hetilap; I acquired it a few years back while studying abroad.” Running my fingers over both texts, I began to identify words. “Many words are similar. Yes, I am convinced this is Hungarian.”
“But can you read it?” Bram asked.
“No,” I told them. “But I know someone who can, and he may be able to shed some light on everything else.”
“Who?”
I closed the covers of both books. “Have you ever heard of the Hellfire Club?”
* * *
• • •
13 AUGUST 1868, 9:51 p.m.—I was surprised to learn that Bram knew of the Hellfire Club by name, though not by location. The organization familiar to him was a group of rowdy gentlemen who frequented the Eagle Tavern near Dublin Castle in the heart of the city. These bucks were known to undertake the night’s festivities drinking scaltheen, a concoction of whiskey and butter, until good and liquored up, then they would wander around Dublin in quest of mischief. The police feared them due to their numbers and a tendency towards things violent, but they were hardly the club I planned to introduce Bram and my sister to this particular evening. The men he knew as the Hellfire Club were nothing more than a smokescreen devised by the actual members meant to divert attention should the name ever be spoken in public.
The true Hellfire Club was an old stone hunting lodge that stood high atop the summit of Montpelier Hill, built nearly one hundred years ago by William Conolly, the onetime Speaker of the Irish House of Commons. The location was unique, for you could clearly see the city from the building, but the structure was hidden from below—and the road that led to it was concealed and guarded.
As a doctor, I was welcomed into this fold by my colleague Dr. Charles Croker when I first joined the staff of Swift’s Hospital for Lunatics. He saw in me a curiosity and desire that reached beyond the teachings of modern medicine I had received at Queen’s College, and believed I would benefit from the higher conversation often found at the Hellfire Club during late-night debates and discussions, particularly in the upper halls, which could be accessed only by an additional invitation. These conversations would often turn to the supernatural, the occult, and discussions of medical theory so extreme Mary Shelley’s vision seemed as tame as a commonplace medical text.
I did not attend these discussions often, for I found the subject matter so disturbing that sleep would elude me for days after taking part in even a single session. It was during one of these roundtables that I met the man I hoped to find there tonight, a Hungarian professor named Arminius Vambéry.
“You believe this Vambéry will assist us?” Matilda asked, piercing the cloud of silence that had smothered the coach. My driver remained missing, and his son drove in his stead. I gestured for Matilda to keep her voice low, for I did not know the boy as well as his father and I figured it would be best if he overheard little of our plans.
I tapped the cover of the book Matilda and Bram had retrieved from O’Cuiv’s coffin. “I am certain this is written in Hungarian, and Vambéry will make the translation with ease. He is also quite knowledgeable in matters of the dark arts.”
“And you trust him?” Matilda asked. “With something like this?”
I nodded. “I have known him since medical school. He has shared some horrific tales with me over the years, and I have shared a number of secrets with him. Not once did any of those secrets pass from his lips. I would trust this man with my
life.”
“Why is it you never spoke of him before?” Bram asked.
“Matters discussed at the Hellfire Club never leave the walls; that is the golden rule. To speak of something learned at the Hellfire will get you barred from admittance for life, sometimes worse.”
“Worse?”
I lowered my voice. “There are stories of men disappearing simply for mentioning the names of other members, let alone discussing a topic learned at the club. You might find high members of society freely speaking to the working class; sometimes even royalty can be found in attendance. They will share an ale and talk about things unmentionable in other circles, but should you run into these men the following morning on the street, they will not so much as nod a hello to you. Nothing leaves the club, not ever.”
Matilda’s brow creased with concern. “If this ‘club’ is so secretive, how do you plan to spirit Bram and me inside?”
“As long as you are with me, I can gain your admittance. Don’t you worry about that.”
Matilda snickered. “Our brother, the aristocrat. Who would have thought such a thing when you were mucking out stalls back in Clontarf?”
The coach slowed as it rounded the bend at the top of the hill, then stopped altogether when it arrived at the first checkpoint. There were two quick knocks on the door of the coach, which I followed by knocking five times in succession. My response was in turn followed by a single knock, to which I knocked thrice more. A moment later, the coach began to roll forward again. Bram and Matilda were both staring at me, Matilda grinning like the cat who had swallowed the proverbial canary. Five minutes later, at a second checkpoint, we halted once again. This time a voice simply inquired through the door, “Password?”
I leaned forward and supplied the secret word: “Mitten.”
The coach again continued on its journey up the path.
Matilda said, “Do they not open the door? How do they know who is inside?”
“That is precisely the point; nobody is to know who is riding in any given carriage. This precaution is taken to ensure anonymity; nobody will actually see your face until you are safely within the confines of the club. The same secrecy holds true when you leave. Many visitors rent hansom cabs rather than take their own coaches to ensure they are not identified through association with specific vehicles.”
Matilda furrowed her brow. “Are these men hiding in the bushes or are there little guard posts along the way?”
I shrugged. “I’ve been told it’s forbidden to look, so I don’t look.”
“Boys play the most peculiar games,” Matilda said, peeking out from behind the curtain covering the window.
As the coach achieved the summit, I felt us round the building and come to rest at the side entrance. I reached for the door handle. “Come, now.”
Stepping down from the carriage, I offered my hand to Matilda to guide her down the steps.
Bram glanced around the small enclosure. “The secrecy continues.”
He was right, of course. The side entrance of the Hellfire Club was outfitted with walls and a roof which butted up directly against the coach with heavy curtains sealing out the outside world and defining a path from coach to the interior of the club, which curious eyes could not see in or out.
“The location of the club is a closely guarded secret, and this side entrance allows members to ferry guests in without revealing its address. Come, this way.”
Once inside, I led them through a short tunnel illuminated by gas lamps set in the stone walls on either side. Ahead, voices filled the air, a dozen or more. I always found it difficult to tell how many I was hearing due to the way sound bounced off the walls.
As we entered the main hall on the first floor, eyes fell upon us, mostly on Matilda and Bram, for I was recognized by a number of familiar faces. No verbal greetings were exchanged, for that was not the members’ custom. At most, there was a slight nod of one’s head.
“Is that . . .” Matilda said softly.
I followed her gaze to a rather attractive man standing amongst a group of four others engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion. I could not make out his words, but judging by the redness of his face, the topic was not a pleasant one. “Yes, that is Arthur Guinness. The man he is addressing is William Wilde, Willie and Oscar’s father. This will be interesting.”
“Oh, blast,” Bram muttered behind me.
I turned to him. “What is it?”
“The man over in the corner there, with the cigar, that is Sheridan Le Fanu.”
“The owner of the Evening Mail?”
Bram nodded. “He is also its editor. Probably best that he does not see me here. I still owe him a review.”
I took Bram and Matilda by the arms and led them through the crowd, granting wide berth to Le Fanu as we passed on our way to the staircase at the back of the room. A hefty man in a black bowler hat stood at the foot of the stair, blocking our path to the second floor. He eyed all three of us curiously, his gaze lingering just a bit too long on my sister. Like his eyebrows, his mustache was thick, black, and bushy. His attempts to tame it with wax caused the hairs to jut out randomly in protest. His hand kept attending to it, endeavoring to smooth out the wild mess, but his efforts made matters worse. “Only select members are permitted upstairs,” he finally intoned in a rich Irish brogue.
“We’re here to speak with Arminius Vambéry,” I told him. “He’s expecting us.”
The man considered this request for a moment. “Wait here.”
He climbed the stairs, favoring his right leg with a pronounced limp.
“Did you get word to Vambéry? How is he possibly expecting us?” Matilda asked.
“Getting word to Vambéry is akin to sending up a smoke signal and instructing it to turn at the top of the hill and proceed west. He has no permanent address or mail drop for receiving letters, telegrams, or messages. Nobody knows where he rests his weary head at night; he once informed me that he never sleeps in the same place twice. I’m not certain Vambéry is even his real name. Most believe he is some kind of spy working for the government, but of course there is no evidence to prove or disprove this theory. He always seems to know the most obscure facts, and in that regard has served as an instructor at a number of institutions of higher learning; speaking to him, in fact, is a bit like conversing with a library in human form. I have yet to find a topic on which he cannot speak with confidence.”
The man in the bowler returned, carefully navigating the steps to accommodate his bad leg. “Mr. Vambéry is in the Green Room.”
He ushered us past, and we climbed the stairs.
* * *
• • •
THE DOOR TO THE GREEN ROOM was at the end of the hall, the chamber being Vambéry’s preferred space while in attendance at the Hellfire Club. We found him inside, sitting at the head of a grand table, with two other gentlemen in attendance I did not recognize. As we stepped into the room, both men stood and simply left; there were no hellos, no good-byes. They passed us and walked down the hall towards the stairs leading back to the main floor.
“Come in, my friend!” Vambéry said. “It is most excellent to see you again.”
Vambéry was about my height and appeared ten or so years older. His dark hair was closely cropped, as were his beard and mustache. I had once heard that both beard and mustache were false and attached with glue, offering him the ability to quickly alter his appearance. In all my time around the man, I never once saw anything to indicate that either were anything but authentic.
“Please, close the door behind you,” he said.
Bram did so, the lock automatically engaged with an audible click.
Vambéry reached out and took Matilda’s hand, raising it gently to his lips. “Who is this beautiful young woman?”
Matilda’s cheeks flushed. “I thought names went unspoken in this lit
tle clubhouse?”
Vambéry shrugged his shoulders. “The old, stuffy members would like us all to adhere to that little rule, but I, for one, prefer to know who I am speaking to at all times, particularly when that company is one as glowing as yourself.”
“That is my sister, Matilda,” I told him. “And this is Bram.”
He encased Matilda’s hand with his own. “A pleasure.” He then turned to Bram. “And how are you enjoying your post at Dublin Castle?”
Bram tilted his head. “How do you know where I’m employed?”
“I make it my business to know everyone with a position in the government, from the very top down to the clerk’s office. I have heard good things about you, Bram. Sounds like you might be the one to finally bring some organization to the Petty Sessions office. I look forward to seeing what you do there. I am also very fond of your father. He is a man I deeply respect. And your brother as well; there is not a finer physician in Dublin.”
A servant entered through a door at the back of the room and set a tray with an assortment of meats and cheeses on the table. There were also three cups and saucers and a black kettle with steam rising from its spout. “Please, join me for tea,” Vambéry said. “I grew fond of this particular spiced tea while traveling in the Balkans. I made sure no matter how spartan my kit, a small kettle and cups and saucers were always with me. Try it, please. If it is not to your liking, I will have some coffee brewed instead.”
I found the tea to be quite enjoyable and told him so; both Matilda and Bram concurred.
He gestured at the table. “Please, take a seat. Tell me how I may help you.”
A benign question, but with matters such as this, where does one begin? I turned to Matilda and Bram, and both glanced back at me, none of the three of us certain where to begin. We took places around the table.
After nearly a minute, Vambéry broke the silence. “During my years on this planet, I have killed seven men, five in self-defense, the other two under, well, different circumstances.”
I stole a look to my right—Bram’s eyes flicked over to meet mine for a moment. Matilda’s mouth had dropped open. She quickly pulled it shut. If Vambéry noticed, he gave no indication, not missing a beat before going on.