by James Reese
You needn’t thank me for meeting your American friend, as any friend of T.H.H.C…. &c., but do, Caine, convey what it is you know of the man. Most unique, he is.
As Tumblety has now seen our Merchant twice and seems much to fancy our little Lyceum, I ask that you answer those questions one cannot ask a new acquaintance. Never would you compromise me, Caine—the notion is patently preposterous; but if I am to vouchsafe your Dr. Tumblety’s return to London capital-S Society, I feel I must needs know more about the man. And in haste, if you please, for he has heard of Lady Wilde’s Saturday at-homes and very much wishes to accompany me to Park Street,16 two days hence. Share something of the who/what/where/when & why of the fellow so that I might more ably answer Speranza’s many questions. Of course, far better it would be if you could shake the tax-men from your tail and come to town yourself, in lieu of a letter. But, barring that—and I do sense that solution is, at present, barred—send some history of the man.
Apologising for my insistence in the matter of the American, I remain,
Yours, tried & true,
Stoker
P.S. Macbeth comes on swimmingly. Henry is much bent upon the lot of us heading to Edinburgh to research. If you can join us, send dates that suit, I shall plan accordingly. Much fun it would be to return there, for haven’t we many fond & mutual memories of the place, Henry and myself and you and, of course, your young Mary?17
MEMORANDUM TO THE DOSSIER18
After the April 1882 death of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Thomas Henry Hall Caine moved from Tudor House, taking rooms at No. 18 Clement’s Inn; these he shared with one Eric Robertson, who was then, as now, unknown to me. Caine had already contracted for his Recollections of Rossetti, and his sonnet anthology was upon the presses. In addition, it had been agreed that he would remain resident in London to report on goings-on for the Liverpool Mercury, writing both its “Literary and Theatre Notes” and contributing to its annals of crime. Indeed, Caine was often in the courts by day and in the East End by night; and thusly did he acquire much knowledge re: the seamy underside of London life.
Caine also took charge of the Mercury’s obituaries. Previously, it was with great difficulty that newspapers covered the death, especially the sudden death, of persons of note; Caine contributed to the revision of this process by writing obituaries of the well-known whilst yet they were alive, filing these for instant use upon the subject’s decease. Thus, many of London’s luminaries vied for Caine’s attention, wishing to meet him in public houses or private rooms and, over pints or port, eulogise themselves; for, to contribute to one’s one obituary—“Caine’s columns,” as they came to be called—was to have arrived. So it was that even death came to serve an aspirant Hall Caine.
At this time, Caine and I saw each other increasingly less. We were no longer neighbours, true; but also, Caine grew somehow…secretive. For the longest while, I would not know why. I wondered if I had proved faulty as a friend. Now, however, I know his reasons; and, as said knowledge is necessary to the sense of this Dossier, I impart it here with Caine’s permission, so:
Having no servants, Hall Caine and the aforementioned Mr. Robertson had their meals sent up from a coffee shop in Clare Market. A common enough occurrence, this, amongst unmarried men of the city. Common enough, too, would have been the familiarity, perhaps even the flirtation,19 which soon developed between Messrs. Caine and Roberston and the girls who regularly brought up their meals, one of whom was thirteen-year-old Mary Chandler.
Though I am told by Caine that his behaviour towards Miss Chandler was beyond reproach, still trouble came; and, as often trouble does, it took the form of a male relation. The girl’s step-father—wishing to rid himself of Mary, who was, to him, naught but another mouth to feed—accused Caine of gross improprieties. Words such as “ruin” and “blackmail” were heard, or leastways implied. As the “Maiden Tribute” campaign had recently appeared in the Pall Mall Gazette, much was then being made of the illicit trade in young girls. Caine could not risk being tarred by such a brush. This his accuser knew, and so the man pushed beyond the pecuniary: soon, most improbably, Mr. Robertson had moved from the rooms at Clement’s Inn to make way for Mary Chandler. Caine now had responsibility for the child; his options, it seemed, were two: adoption or marriage. As the former seemed too public a plan and the latter too private,20 Caine came up with a third option:
He committed Mary to school at Sevenoaks, some distance from the city, thereby buying himself time, time in which to decide: What to do? For better or worse, if not yet in sickness and in health, Mary was his; for Caine knew all too well what would happen to her if she were left to fend for herself on the London streets.
Though Caine was…admiring of Mary, it soon became clear the girl was smitten with him. Another man might have felt more: Mary, when finally I met her, fully one year into her tenure at Sevenoaks, showed herself a beauty. Her skin was pale unto opalescence, her eyes were blue and her hair honey-toned. She was doll-like, tiny enough to suit the diminutive Caine. In time, Mary was reinstalled at Clement’s Inn, and those few who found her there were both told she was seventeen and sworn to secrecy. I was such a one.
To me, later, an in-his-cups Caine said that Mary had much benefited from her schooling at Sevenoaks, where the primary topic of study was wifehood; but Caine made no mention of marriage, not to me and not to Mary. Indeed, he kept young Mary hidden whilst further establishing himself in literary London. Then a thing equally improbable and inevitable occurred: on 15 August 1884, Ralph Caine came wailing into the world.
To hide a false wife was one thing, to hide a false family quite another. What to do?
Caine and company decamped from Clement’s Inn. Wife and child were installed out in the Worsley Road, Hampstead, whilst Caine took rooms at Lincoln’s Inn, where he, to all appearances, went about his bachelor ways. Meanwhile, Mary, still two years shy of her stated seventeen, raised Ralph whilst recording in her scrapbooks—which yet she maintains—every step of her “husband’s” ascendance. Caine came to the house when he could, and indeed doted upon Ralph. Mary, for her part, wanted marriage and, in protest against Caine’s putting her off, kept her hair long and her skirts short.21
In 1884, Mary and Ralph were removed to Bexley Heath, to Aberleigh Lodge in Red House Lane, whilst Caine kept to the city proper. Now that I knew his secret—if not all its particulars—our friendship was resumed. That same year, Caine’s first novel, Shadow of a Crime, was published. Caine, having found his authorial feet, as it were, felt himself steady enough to inform the Liverpool Caines of the London ones; yet still he would not marry Mary. As she was now sixteen, it would have been legal to do so; but no. Meanwhile, book followed book, and Caine became a known name.
Finally, in September of 1886, having wearied of both the secret and of Mary’s insistence upon marriage, Caine came upon a solution. In truth, the idea was mine, or should I say Shaw’s? For I had recently read a most bilious article by George Bernard Shaw, the topic of which escapes me, wherein he scorned the marriage laws of Scotland, which required naught but that bride and groom declare themselves before witnesses. As we of the Lyceum Company were then readying to play in Edinburgh, I suggested to Caine that he, Mary, and Ralph come along. He agreed. So, too, did Mary, quite. No-one else was in the know save Irving. And so it was that on the third day of September, betwixt matinee and evening performances—and with Henry needfully disguised, half made up as The Bells’ Mathias—we five found ourselves comprising a wedding party: myself and Henry Irving, along with Caine, Mary, and a toddling Ralph. By that declaration sufficient to the Scots, Thomas Henry Hall Caine, thirty-three years of age, married Mary Chandler, twenty-three. (The bride was, in point of fact, and finally, seventeen.) Serving as witnesses were one Angus Campbell, Coachman, and John McNaughton, Hotel Waiter. (Irving, wearing Mathias’s cape, was perfectly suited to play Campbell the Coachman. I served as the Waiter.) And by the time our curtain rose that night, the Caines had begun their descent
down the length of the kingdom towards Torquay. There they all three celebrated a honeymoon of sorts, returning to London some days hence, their union legal at last, their secret shed.
Rather, that particular secret had been shed. Caine, of course, had others. Only lately have I learned that one such is named Tumblety.
JOURNAL OF BRAM STOKER
20 May, a Sunday; irises rising, but I am not in heart to describe beauty.—Flo. & Noel off to Grim’s Dyke.22
A note came round from Speranza on Friday last, begging my company at yesterday’s conversazione, which I had hoped to miss; but as it was signed La Madre Dolorosa, I sent back surety of my attendance. Said, too, that I would come in the company of one Dr. T., as the man had much impressed upon me his hope of meeting O.23
As for Caine’s coming to join us, he did not. There has been no word from Caine in quite some time. Hence, I know little more of his Dr. T. than I can glean for myself, and when on occasion I have dropped the stone of his name into common Society—having partaken little of Same, busy as I’ve been—it has quickly sunk, rippling not at all the waters of truth or rumour. He remains a mystery, too much so. This discomfits me. He discomfits me. And lest I hear from Caine soon, I shall consider my debt to the Manxman paid, and this Tumblety of his shall take no more of my time.
In truth, he has taken too much of it already. Were it not for his obvious means and the rooms he has let in town—in Batty Street, of all places—I would think he were resident at the Lyceum. He comes & goes as he pleases; moreover, and despite my admonitions that they pay greater attention to their tasks, one of which is logging all Lyceum visitors, both Jimmy A. and Mrs. Foley miss the American whenever he comes. It is as though he has found an unknown door. Most strange, this. I have informed the doctor of our logging habits—saying our insurers insist upon them, when in truth it is Henry who so insists—and asked that he comply. Further, I have put my own hound onto Tumblety and his two: the ubiquitous Mrs. Quibbel has, in short order, proved herself rather…resourceful, and has twice reported to me of finding Dr. T. both in the costume shop and the loge. What he was doing in the former I have no idea. In the latter, he passed the two hours prior to curtain in feeding his hounds by hand. My own hands are now somewhat bound in the matter of the American, however, as H.I. is much taken with him and his strange manners, such that when next Irving plays Richard III or Prince Hal or Prospero, he will no doubt incorporate into said roles of crook-back, crown prince, and conjurer certain of the American’s characteristics.
H.I. has even gone so unaccountably far as to tell Tumblety that whilst he remains resident in London, he may dine at the Beefsteak Club at will. Such terms of invitation are rarely heard from Henry Irving. Indeed, Liszt was the last.24…A mesmerist, indeed, is this Dr. T., for it would seem he has the iron-hearted Henry Irving in his hold.
I see I have given some pages over to Dr. Tumblety himself when I’d intended to use this quiet to write of yesterday’s visit to Speranza’s salon in his company, where a most interesting and tempting invitation was extended to me; so:
Tumblety came round to the house at half four, as arranged. Florence was in a froth and drove poor Ada to distraction, this despite my having told the maid, having insisted, that neither tea nor refreshments of any kind be served. This, quoth the wife, was most uncouth and even unkind of me. “I’ll not be shamed so,” said she. And so it was I acceded to refreshments of the lightest sort. Florence, of course, over-spoke me in secret and told Ada to prepare a proper tea. This a teary-eyed Ada served some minutes after Tumblety had been shown into the parlour by our Mary, herself done up in a new dress-apron so lace-laden at the collar and cuffs, so befurbelowed about the neck as to make her seem a species of serving Iguana. There I sat in silent contemplation of the cost of it all whilst Florence hosted the American on her own.
He can be quite charming, this Tumblety; though I have noticed, too, that when he does not strive to charm, he falls far short of doing so, and people—women in particular—take against him, as has E.T. Not so Florence, however. As the American was all charm yesterday afternoon, my wife sat in receipt of same till the clocks slowed to a crawl. I very much wanted to hasten to Lady Wilde’s and ascertain the cause of her dolour; too, I was eager to confer Tumblety unto the company of others. But I had first to suffer an interminable tea; in the course of which I had to suffer as well, the sight of Mary drawing from a low cupboard, under Florence’s watchful eye, pieces of a Wedgwood service acquired in my absence. How these foreign tours cost me!
Tumblety revealed little of himself to my wife as I listened. Cagily, he responded to her every question with a compliment. Then Noel came down from on high in the company of Mlle Dupont. Quite the proper young gentleman, he is, albeit a bit Continental in his habits. Oddly, I found that I was loath to leave wife & child alone in the parlour with Tumblety when Florence suggested that I fetch from the dining-room mantel our preferred picture of Caine. I asked Mary to retrieve it, and when she handed the gilded frame to Florence, who in turn handed it to Tumblety, something seemed awry; for Tumblety said, or rather lamented, how long it had been since he’d last seen our mutual friend. Is he not welcome at Greeba Castle? Oughtn’t Caine to come to London to greet a friend of such long standing? I might have answers to these and other Q.s if only Caine would write, or call, or come. As he has not written, and will not call—refusing, still, to install a phone line at the castle—and is disinclined to show himself in London owing to these Tax Wars he wages, I am left to guess as to the state of his relations with Tumblety, past and present.
At long last, Florence freed us; and only as we set out towards Lady Wilde’s did I remark what it was the man wore. Were we headed anywhere but Lady Wilde’s, I’d have blanched; but, blessedly, the lady is not to be outdone, even by one as…as sartorially splendiferous, may I say, as Tumblety. Speranza would meet Tumblety in his furred cuffs and Ephesian shako25 with equanimity, if not admiration. Meanwhile, there I’d stand at his side—for as short a while as possible—in my funereal suit of blue serge, thankful that at least he had unscrewed his spurs and boarded his hounds at Batty Street.
Indeed, there sat Speranza dressed in an entirely departed style: a dress of sizeable black and white checks set off with accents of black tulle and silk and accessorised with tiny bunches of bundled wheat, such that she appeared more harvested than dressed. “Mr. Stoker, Mr. Stoker,” came her call, and towards it I proceeded with Tumblety in tow.
“Lady Wilde,” said I, “allow me to present Mr., or rather Dr., Francis Tumblety. He is a good and long-standing friend of Mr. Hall Caine, who sends his regrets and very much wishes he’d been able to join us to-day.”
“I imagine Mr. Hall Caine,” said Speranza, grandly, “is quite busy at present at his Grubby—”
“Greeba,” said I. “Greeba Castle.”
“—busy at his castle,” said she, sniffily, “burying all his newfound coin.” Turning to Tumblety, she asked, “But mustn’t we, sir, find joy in our friend’s good fortune?”
“We must indeed, madam. It is only proper, and propriety is an English trait I’ve long admired.” With this riposte—had he not heard the humour in Speranza’s words?—Tumblety kissed our hostess’s hand. I have seen him touch the hind-quarters of his hounds with less disdain. This, Speranza sensed, of course; and so it was she said:-
“You are welcome here, Mr. Dr. Rubbertree; however—”
“Tumblety, madam. The name is Tumblety.”
She tapped at her ear. “My apologies, sir…. I meant only to say that propriety is a word best applied to tradesmen, I find. Here we’ve no interest in the merely proper.”
“Duly noted, madam…. May I ask, is your son present to-day?”
“He is here…,” said she, squinting into the dark, “somewhere; but I fear that if you wish to speak to As-car—or rather listen to him—you shall have to make your way through his many admirers. I have had word that a covey of your countrymen, your concitoyens, came here di
rectly from their ship’s mooring at Chelsea Bridge in search of my son and—”
And never before have I seen someone turn on his heel and head off whilst yet Speranza spoke, but this Tumblety did. “Well…” huffed Speranza.
I apologised, adding that I could not account for the man. Leaning nearer, I confided, “Caine sends no word at all, none, yet asks that I indulge this friend of his.”
“How very curious of Caine.”
“Indeed,” said I, and the silence which ensued ended with:-
“But surely, Bram”—and she beckoned me nearer with a beringed finger—“you know you need never apologise to me, not from this day to my last. Your kindnesses to both myself and my late husband are well remembered.”
I nodded. I bowed, just so. And then I did the lady the favour of returning to her preferred topic: “Oscar, you say, is present to-day?”
“He is, yes; which explains, I suppose, this uncommon crush. Since his American successes, As-car is followed hither and thither, with Punch reporting such pith as, ‘Mr. Oscar Wilde has cut his hair,’ et cetera. It is preposterous!”
“And, milady, you love it.”
“Yes, you devil, I do…. But cannot the boy spare a moment for his widowed mother? He is forever in the company of that Mrs. Langtry26—there, there she is”; whereupon Speranza nodded toward a clutch of salonistes, none of whom I could discern in the uncertain light. “Why the woman would wear mauve I’ve no idea. One would think she’d try to live down her history rather than flaunt it…. What will it be next? Pink ribbons? Disgraceful, it is!”
I smiled my assent: disgraceful indeed; though I’d neither notice nor care if the Prince himself took to sporting pink ribbons.
“And if my As-car isn’t arm in arm with Miss Langtry, or amongst those…those sporting fellows he finds I know not where, then he’s fending off a swarm of social-women hopeful of being mentioned in his Woman’s World: ‘Mrs. Black looked very well in green, and Mrs. Green looked very well in black,’ et cetera. I tell you, Bram, it’s too much, terribly too much.”