The Dracula Dossier
Page 1
The Dracula Dossier
James Reese
Contents
The First Epoch
The Day
The Second Epoch
The Night
The Third Epoch
The Night Within the Night
Author’s Note
About the Type
About the Author
Other Books by James Reese
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
«Le Comte de Ville»
c/o Massip, Boscardin & Hercé-Morel
Avocats à la Cour de Paris
33 rue Galland
75016 Paris
FRANCE
3 January 2008
Mlle Sarah Durand
Senior Editor
William Morrow & Company
10 East 53rd Street
New York, New York 10022
Mademoiselle Durand:
You do not know me, and you never will.
Anonymity is all in this matter, and mine must be assured. I bear a noble name and have led a noble life; I will sully neither by public association with the enclosed Dossier, the originals of which, in the hand of the late Abraham (Bram) Stoker, known to the world as the author of Dracula, will be forwarded to you by my attorney once my anonymity has been assured and my privacy has proved inviolate. What you do with the Dossier at such time is of no import to me. I want neither recompense nor renown, and I will refuse recognition. Simply, as my days decrease and death draws on, I mean to unburden myself of Stoker’s secret. I cannot die with the truth untold, as none alive know what I know.
Stoker’s biography—scanty at best—tells of several auctions to which he was party, knowingly or not, and doubtless this dossier passed from his close hoarding on one such occasion. It is likely that occasion was the auction of Stoker’s personal papers upon his decease, as he was far too careful, far too circumspect a man, to let the dossier slip from his hands while alive.
On 7 July 1913, Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge auctioned off some three hundred–odd items, adding four hundred pounds to Stoker’s meagre estate. Among these items were his notes for Dracula; other original manuscripts; research volumes concerning sea travel, weather, folklore, Egyptology, history, et cetera; seventeen volumes associated with Walt Whitman; fifty-odd presentation copies inscribed to Stoker by authors of his close association, such as Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, W. B. Yeats, and Robert Louis Stevenson; and a collection of the actor David Garrick’s letters, which Stoker himself had inherited from the estate of his longtime employer, the actor and theatrical impresario Sir Henry Irving.
My research shows that at the Sotheby’s auction a Mr. Drake paid £2.2 for Item 182: the eighty-five pages of Dracula notes referenced above as well as other related “miscellany.” Among this last lot may have been the dossier now in my possession and soon, perhaps, to be in yours: a ragged assemblage of newspaper clippings, correspondence, and notes written, as was Stoker’s habit, on whatever paper was at hand—the backs of envelopes, hotel stationery, menus, and any other flat surface capable of holding ink. Most significantly, Stoker’s personal journal for the year 1888 was included in the lot as well.
The Dracula notes were resold on 25 February 1970 to Philadelphia’s Rosenbach Museum and Library, yet the record of that sale makes no mention of “the miscellany” of Item 182. It is my belief that the two lots were separated sometime between Stoker’s estate auction and the Rosenbach acquisition; further, I believe that the miscellany was purchased by a relation of mine.
Said relation was a devoted acquirer of all things Dickensian and may have purchased the miscellany—what I have entitled The Dracula Dossier—along with an early typescript manuscript of the now-famous novel to which it gave rise, then entitled The Dead Un-Dead, which somehow came to be associated with a lot of Dickens’s papers in California, circa 1959. These papers I later inherited, and though agents of mine sold both the Dracula manuscript and the larger part of the Dickensiana over the years, I held to Stoker’s miscellany. I did so for one reason only: an early perusal of the papers showed that some were written, by Stoker, in cipher. These encrypted pages piqued my interest, but I soon supposed that Stoker was simply partial to the espial, as were other sensationalist authors of the nineteenth century. And my supposition seemed confirmed when I later learned that the plot of one of Stoker’s lesser novels—these, sadly, are legion, though I refer here to The Mystery of the Sea—turns upon the Bilateral Cipher of Francis Bacon, dating to 1605, the construction of which Stoker details in an appendix at the end of the novel, presumably as a reward for those few readers who make it that far.
So it was that, thinking I’d stumbled upon some authorial sport, a parlor game indulged in by Stoker and his writing cronies and nothing more, I let those ciphered pages lie amongst the other, unread pages of the Dossier for a long, long while, returning to them only in late years. This time I more than perused the papers. Imagine my surprise, Mlle Durand, in discovering that I had inherited a secret known only to Stoker and several of his intimates—a secret of abiding interest to a far, far wider world.
It all began some few years ago when I lifted the Dossier from my personal safe, spurred, if memory serves, by the umpteenth iteration, on celluloid, of Stoker’s vampire king. As said, the pages had sat untouched for some time; shame, now, precludes my saying how long. As I riffled the pages, there fell from them a brittle, browned clipping. A partial piece of newsprint. Though all identifiers had been torn away along with much of the body of the article, I can now cite the article as having been published in the New York Herald on 11 November 1888. The clipping was of interest in itself—indeed, I well recall the dizziness induced by the headlines—but even more interesting was the marginalia it bore, written, evidently, by Stoker himself.
OFF THE SCENT
Sir Charles Warren’s Men Still Unable to Track the Fiend.
VERY NECESSARY RETICENCE.
One of “Jack the Ripper’s” Threats Partly Carried Out.
Jack the Ripper. Could it be? thought I. Could the man known to the world only as the author of Dracula have had a more than casual concern in the case of Jack the Ripper? The presence of other such clippings seemed to confirm it.
The subhead of the article in question goes on:
WHITECHAPEL’S LATEST.
The Police As Far Off the Scent As the Bloodhounds.
And here—most odd—Stoker had scrawled “Yes,” underlining the word so emphatically as to have torn the newsprint. Other such commentary trailed the story’s contents, which are:
“The Herald’s European edition publishes to-day the following from the Herald’s London Bureau, No. 391 Strange, dated 10 November 1888:—
Thirty-six hours have passed since the ghastly discovery in Miller’s Court, Dorset Street, and nothing more has become known about the murder or murderer than what was sent to the Herald last night. Neighbors have been fancifully garrulous, absurdly ineffectual arrests have been made, and sensational journals have printed a number of absurd, groundless rumors.” And here, in Stoker’s hand, even more scrawl-like than usual: “Good good.”
The story continues: “It is still said ‘the police are reticent.’ Quite so, and for the best of all reasons—they know nothing. Sir Charles Warren has issued a proclamation offering a pardon to any accomplice, as if so secretive a murderer possessed accomplices.” Here, eerily, Stoker has sketched an ill-closed circle—it cannot be ascertained which of the words, “pardon” or “accomplice,” was his target—and written, “MUST STOP CAINE.” Caine. I did not know the name.
“A story is afloat that the victim”—and reference here is to Mary Kelly, the last victim attributed to Jack the R
ipper’s reign—“was last seen outside in the morning shortly before the shocking discovery, but medical evidence shows that this was impossible, as from postmortem signs she had been dead some hours.”
And at the end of the last legible line, above the clip’s ragged edge, which reads, “The hoaxer, ‘Jack the Ripper,’ is again at his postal methods,” Stoker wrote, “Hope. Hope remains.”
Hope? Hope of what? That is the question that led me then, and finally, to train all my resources on Item 128. What I learned in the process is of an interest that cannot be overstated. This I assure you.
I close by saying that what you have in hand is my transcription of the lost miscellany of Item 128, The Dracula Dossier. Though I make no claim on creativity, I have arranged the original Dossier ’s varied contents in such a way as to render them logical, or rather chronological. Its division into three Epochs is my doing as well. So, too, have I done that research necessary to render sense from pages that were never meant to be read by persons beyond Stoker’s small circle. This research I have interposed as footnotes, wherein I identify persons of relevance, some lost to time, others of enduring fame, et cetera. Otherwise I have let Stoker tell his story, his secret.
My Parisian lawyer awaits word from you, Mlle Durand. Settle the issue of my anonymity and The Dracula Dossier is yours to publish as you please. To you I will bequeath the originals. To the world we two will bequeath Stoker’s secret. In return I ask only that you let me pass from this world un inconnu, an unknown. Spare me my name’s being associated with these pages, with the Crime of All Time and the devil that did it.
Sincerely,
«Le Comte de Ville»
Witnessed by Nicolas Massip, avocat
The First Epoch
THE DAY
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Monday, 12 March 1888.—Out on the streets, it seemed wise to hide the bloodied knife.
I’d preserved that much sense; but just why I’d brought the knife with me, I cannot say. Better to have left it back in the hotel, or to have hidden it in the theatre where last we’d used it. But no, here it was in hand, and reddened, and yes, rather hard to hide: the convex blade bends eight steely inches to its tip, and the hilt is carved in the Nepalese style. Once seen, this knife is not to be forgotten.
The hilt protruded from my pocket. I tried to hide it in the hollow of my ruined hand. The blade-tip itself pushed through the pocket’s bottom, like a spring shoot eager for the end of this Manhattan winter, the worst in living memory. And so it must have seemed, as I stumbled down Fifth Avenue in the snow, that I would draw the knife, put its blade to purpose on some passerby; but no, no indeed.
Mad? Maybe I was. But the only knives I have known heretofore are of that spring-loaded species common to the stage. The kind that give upon contact with actorly flesh, the bashful blade retracting to conceal itself in the hilt. But this knife, my knife, is another type entirely; for Henry will not hear of props upon the stage. Reality is all, says he; and his Shylock, when nightly he begs his rightful pound of flesh from Antonio, lays a real blade, lays this blade upon his bared chest. Yes: Reality is all.
That: a pound of flesh, as scripted by the bard. This: a gallon of my own gore.
Had the knife sought the All of Me, sought to set the All of Me to running red? Had I sought it myself? No knife knows a will of its own;…but can a hand act of its own accord? I ask because, if not…Alas, I dare not write the word begged by so rash an act. I shall leave its sinful S steaming, unspoken, upon my tongue. I shall not trade ink for blood and name the act here. No. But the blood, yes, all the eager blood, drip drip dripping through the mean tourniquet I’d tied, dripping down to the knife’s tip to drip drip drip onto the new-fallen snow of Fifth Avenue: a red trail to betray my wandering way, to betray me as my own hand had a half-hour earlier.
No more scratch now. Let this suffice. My left and penless hand throbs in sympathy with this, my ruined right; and so I close. The blade I have scrubbed of its blood, but the body knows no such ready repair. Nor does the soul. And so what can I do but embrace this pain as my penance?
Whatever did I mean to do? And what will become of me now?
LETTER, BRAM STOKER TO HALL CAINE1
19 March 1888
My Dearest Hommy-Beg,2
I’ve much to apprise you of, old friend, as Life’s pendulum has swung of late to the bad; for damned I am if the Black Hounds are not hot upon my heels.
I write whilst training to West Point with all the Company,3 and whilst profiting from the peace afforded me by the Guv’nor’s shunning me at present.4 As the Lyceum herd follows his lead, I am spared having to see to their manifold needs as well. Though of course it fell to yours truly to arrange this 8 a.m. special from Madison Square on which we—players, scenery, costumery, &c.—chug toward the military academy. And no mean feat that, may I say, as still New York, as still all the eastern seaboard sits snowbound. Indeed, so desperate is the citizenry to locomote that some stand at the side of these very rails on which we ride, hailing our train as if it were a hansom cab.
Of course, from the aforementioned herd I exempt dearest Ellen.5 It is she alone with whom I share this car, hence the rare peace I reference; for E.T. sits staring out over the snowscape, lost to the present save when she slips a treat into the mouth of her Drummie, the treasured terrier upon her lap. A sidelong glance at her impossibly fine profile tells me she “rehearses” at present: no doubt it is Portia she plays within, as it is The Merchant of Venice we will play to-night for the assembled cadets.
Alas, though I need not describe to you, Caine, those dank cellars to which the mind and soul do sometimes descend—you’ve suffered so long your own mullygrubs and glooms—I shall address a few particulars of my own descent. Catharsis, may I call it? Confession? Regardless, I must begin by begging your pardon for the fearful state of this letter. On tour I have even less time to myself than in London, and if I set this letter aside till such time as I can make a fair copy, well, it would be many more days till you heard from your old friend Stoker. So I shall post this in time, saying now do not mind the stains.6 Yes, they are bloodstains. And yes, it is my blood, accidentally shed. So I hope. And so I’d pray, if prayer availed me still.
Surely I must beg pardon, too, of my penmanship. The train knocks this nib about, yes, but this scribble is more attributable to the mummified state of my left hand. It is bandaged and cross-bound from forearm to fingertip. The thumb is splinted so as to help its nearly-severed tendon heal. My four fingers stick out from the white swaddling like spring shoots from snow. And my right hand, my writing hand, seems to suffer in sympathy; hence this horrid scrawl.
The blood, yes; quite a flow came. And I am quite lucky to—
No, no, no. What I am is remiss, what I am is rude, if I do not set my own woes aside for a half-page more and congratulate you, friend, upon publication of The Deemster. Are you aware that Punch has renamed it The Boomster? Surely you are. But you cannot know what I have lately learned from your stateside publisher: the novel has sold some 70,000 copies in its first three weeks of release here. Prodigious indeed! Your Rossetti7 was right in directing you to become The Bard of Manxland, for such you are now, and I hope as you hold these ill-conditioned sheets you sit with your face to the sea, high and happy in your beloved Greeba, with Mary at your side and Ralph at your knee.8
Of course, I shall be glad to hear more about your new story—its aim, its grip & go—when next we are both in London; though you quite flatter me in your last letter. Please, no more thank-yous for the slight, slight role I may have played in bringing forth The Deemster. Only parts of it were yet crude when I read it in draught, and if my sub-editing helped set those aright, so be it. But the work, friend, was all yours. So, too, is the glory and the great fall of coin that has come.
Alas, the blood. The particulars are these:
I had returned to the Brunswick on the day in question—I narrate events of Sunday the 11th instant,9 little more than
one week ago—not long after sun-up, cold to the bone and weary, quite; for Irving had held us all night at the theatre. We play the Star Theatre at present, and he deems the place “deficient” as regards the lighting of the Brocken scene in Faust. This was the situation he meant to set aright after that night’s run. Poor Harker—a stout young Scot; you’ll like him, Caine10—poor Harker, I say, lives in fear of being made to repaint all the backdrops, which Henry says do not pass scrutiny in the cooler electric light which reflects off them, rendering flesh pale and lips purple. Electricity versus limelight: this was the topic of hours of talk.
When finally I returned to my room, I knew that my respite would be short-lived: I would have but a few hours to sup and sleep, for Irving had let it be known that I was expected back at the Star by noon. “We shall lunch,” said he, words which had seemed to me more threat than invitation.
So I made it back to the Brunswick bone-weary, wanting naught but some beef tea and my bed. Into the lobby I came, and toward the stairwell I went—oh, but here comes a bellman in a monkey’s suit handing me a banded bundle of Irving’s correspondence. And there the man stands in attendance, as if he’s provided me something I wanted—he decidedly had not—for which provision I might wish to tip him. Lest you set a black mark beside my name in your accounts, Caine, let me say that I would have fished up a coin with still-frozen fingers but for this:
Atop the pile sat a note in Henry’s own hand: “See to these straightaway.”
I was a half-flight past the bellman before I realised I’d excused myself with a curse and no coin; but I feared that the man might find a tear upon my cheek if I did not remove myself from his presence post-haste, so frustrated, so tried and troubled was I.
Nothing new in this task of correspondence, of course: in London I sign Irving’s name fifty, one hundred times a day to letters of which he knows little or nothing; but on tour the correspondence does not decrease, as one might suppose. On the contrary, it increases, with a flow of invitations to This That & the Other, all of which Irving insists be answered immediately. That is, straightaway. I knew he’d enquire as to my progress when next we met, and I knew, too—from unfortunate experience—that he’d delved deeply enough into the letters to test me well.