by James Reese
“With all due respect, Henry, I doubt Mrs. Quibbel’s job description goes to the heart of the matter.”
“Heart of the matter indeed,” said he with a sniff, assuming now the aspect of Shylock in the Merchant’s trial scene, for Henry has little self on which to rely in realities such as these. “This Mrs….”
“Mrs. Quibbel,” said I. “Quibbel.”
“She let herself into the Beefsteak—by means mysterious, might I add—no doubt with purse or pockets suitably empty and ready to be stuffed, and—”
“Have you reason, Henry, to impugn the woman so?” I doubted he did, for hadn’t I just passed her, still on the property? He’d have surrendered her to the authorities, happily, or kicked her to the curb himself if she’d been caught pilfering his pantry. So I would have to be Portia to his Shylock; but oh, let this play end, thought I, wondering still what the “horrid incident” was. I yet hoped it would turn out to be trivial, but with Henry I would not know till all the facts were told, or rather played.
“Well,” said he, “whatever her reasons…”
“I have discovered Mrs. Quibbel to be most conscientious at her tasks,” said I, failing to add that one of her tasks, of late, had been keeping watch for Tumblety.
“Be that as it may,” said Henry, “yesterday eve, whilst alone in the Lyceum Theatre”—as if I might wonder what theatre he referenced—“she entered my private precincts to find…”
“Yes?”
“That the grill was yet warm…”
“As sometimes it is, Henry, hours after the last of the guests—your guests—have left.”
“Aha,” said he, raising high a crooked finger, “but I had no guests Sunday night. Had you been here, of course, you’d well know it.” He slammed his hand down atop the desk as he added, “Someone else had laid the fire in question.”
Having long been sympathetic towards the lesser members of our Lyceum family who have to make do, post-performance, with cold meats, &c., whilst the aroma of roasting beeves wafts through the theatre, I said, “Perhaps, Henry, someone thought to play the Guv’nor for once. A simple change of locks shall preclude its ever happening again, and…” And, thought I, render inutile Tumblety’s key, if indeed he has one. That was something Stoker would see to at once, if only Henry would give the order; but no:
“You mistake my point,” said he.
“You’ve yet to arrive at it,” said I.
Henry stood to his full height. He seemed now to be playing equal parts mad Mathias and Hal rallying the troops,77 and I shan’t here discount the effect: it was disquieting. Indeed, my words had been rash, perhaps, and I might well have apologised had not Henry then hastened to his point, which was this:
Mrs. Quibbel, entering into the Beefsteak Club, had found its pendant grill still warm, nay hot, and upon it, laid crosswise, were the charred remains of what she at first took to be hares. They were not. They were hounds. Tumblety’s hounds, eviscerated and laid there to roast.
“Good God,” said I, sitting back heavily in my chair.
“The poor beasts were burnt beyond recognition,” said Henry.
“Burnt whilst alive?”
“Not at all. They’d been split and cleaned, albeit clumsily, and the innards lay…lay splayed across the table—my table, yes.”
“The innards?” I asked.
“The innards,” said Henry.
“All save the hearts, of course,” whereupon I started and wheeled round, for these last words had come from behind me. In the doorway of the XO stood a man in every way middling—middling of height, of weight, of appearance—middling in every way save for the reputation I attached to his name as Henry then spoke it:
“Stoker, have you met Inspector Frederick Abberline, Scotland Yard? He is not unknown here on first nights.”
Had I? In my confusion I could not recall, but leave it to Henry Irving to tap the top of Scotland Yard. “Sir,” said I, standing.
“Mr. Stoker,” said he, meeting my salutation with a nod. “Horrid, this.”
“Horrid indeed,” said I. The hearts, had he said?
“It is early days yet, of course,” said Inspector Abberline, “but all answers are tending in the same direction.” He stepped into the office, towards me. We shook hands. His was warm; mine, I fear, had gone quite cold. And there we stood, as he said, “Tell me, sir: What do you know of this man, this American”—he read the name off a pad as small as his palm—“this Tumblety?”
The Third Epoch
THE NIGHT WITHIN THE NIGHT
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Wednesday, 13 June.—Who is this Abberline?
Middling, yes—half a head shorter than myself, with brown eyes and browner hair: bald atop, but with bushy moustache and side-whiskers; a whispery sort, seeming more a clerk than a constable; let alone an inspector 1st class; fifties coming on fast, I should think1—…middling, I say, in every way save one: his repute. Indeed, I did recognise Inspector Abberline from the occasional opening night, when he’d have been accorded two seats, perhaps even in the Guv’nor’s box, and I had only to ask around town—discreetly so—to find out more:
It appears that Abberline has lately been transferred to Scotland Yard from CID,2 H Division, after 14 yrs. service in & about the slums of Spitalfields, &c., 25 yrs. service in toto. Knows all the strata of London life, from the working women of Whitechapel up to Henry Irving. (Mem.: Ask Caine if he knows Abberline from his slumming and court-crawling on behalf of the Town Crier.)3
Now that Abberline has been spared Spitalfields and accedes to the Yard, I suppose we may be seeing more of him at the Lyceum. Doubtless his present work will earn him seats to spare. Oh, but damn Henry for bringing the Yard into this! Things grow complicated now, re: Tumblety.
What did I know of the man? Abberline wondered and wanted to know.
“Not a great deal, Inspector,” said I. We were walking now, side by side, down and through the theatre towards the Beefsteak Club. Henry, of course, led the way.
I had not had to feign my surprise at hearing the news of the hounds back in the XO, but I had insisted, at once, on being shown the site; in so doing I succeeded in buying myself some time, for I’d been caught unawares. What would I say? What could I say? Certainly not the truth. Not even most of the truth. Indeed, the least of it would soon lead to Caine, and I cannot, will not, compromise him so. No. I would have to lie: white lies, lies of omission rather than commission.
“Not a great deal, Inspector,” said I in response to the second iteration of the question. “I have met the man on occasion, and usually in the company of Henry here,” whereupon the Guv’nor wheeled round, showing a brow furrowed by the business at hand: Who’d dared defile his dining room?
“With Mr. Irving, you say?” Abberline scratched something onto his pad with a stub of pencil drawn down from amidst his side-whiskers. Henry was heard to harrumph. We all three resumed walking.
“Yes,” said I. “He—Tumblety—has sometimes dined with us here at the Lyceum since…” I paused. Was I already offering more than was requisite? But Abberline caught me out:
“Since…?” said he.
“Since his arrival in London.” And lest I seem too recalcitrant, I added, “Sometime in early June, that would have been.”
“I see,” said the Inspector, making note of same. “An old friend, then?”
Here I saw an opportunity to hold back the name of Hall Caine whilst calling out Henry on the topic of Tumblety. “Henry,” said I, “am I wrong to recall the American’s presence at your first Lyceum Hamlet?” This, of course, I’d lately learned from Caine.
“You are not,” said Henry, the words thrown back over his shoulder.
“So, then, Mr. Irving,” asked Abberline, “he is a friend of long standing?”
“Hardly that,” said Henry, “hardly that.” And, turning back to us both, he added, “I meet many men, Inspector, few of whom become friends.” Abberline nodded in seeming sympathy, and Henry s
poke on. “What’s more: We cannot conclude that the doctor played a part in this barbarism simply because the hounds are presumed to be—”
“Who else can lay claim to two tiny hounds?” This I asked, purposely over-speaking Henry, for I know he roils at having his lines trod upon and I hoped his ire would prove of interest to Abberline; but Henry spoke on as if I’d not said a word:-
“—simply because we presume the hounds are his, or rather were his—poor creatures—and he has not come round in a week or so.” Hadn’t he? I left it to Abberline to ask the obvious question, the answer to which was:
“No, Inspector, I have not heard from Francis”—and so: infernal Francis Tumblety had wangled his way onto a first-name basis with Henry Irving—“since last we supped at the Garrick. I am afraid I shall have to resort to my social calendar if you require a more precise date.” But nothing more was said upon the point, for we three had arrived at the Beefsteak Club even as Henry spoke.
There was that aroma of flame-charred flesh, save this time it had arisen from neither beeves nor fowl but rather…hound. I fairly retched. And my stomach was settled not at all at seeing two maids-of-all-work, hired from I knew not where, scrubbing a deep stain from the table’s end: Henry’s end. Doubtless he’d soon charge me with replacing the table. See to it, Stoker. A third maid tasked herself with the grill itself, though this, too, would have to go.
Though the canine victims of the crime—the horrid incident—had been removed, still it was unsettling to consider the scene, the deeds lately done. “Pardon me, Inspector: Did you say that the hounds were dressed elsewhere than here?”
“I did not say, Mr. Stoker…. But yes, we may suppose they were.”
“As surely there’d be more blood hereabouts had the perpetrator done his surgery on site?” Abberline said nothing. His silence was meant to discourage further speculation on my part: doubtless the men of Scotland Yard encounter many a would-be Holmes these days and curse Conan Doyle for it. The Inspector did, however, meet my eye at the word “surgery,” which I’d chosen with care: though I could not tell the truth about Dr. Tumblety—whatever that may be—neither would I exonerate him. Surely this was his handiwork, and practised upon his own pets no less! And so let hounds of a higher order have at him, let Scotland Yard set off on his scent and pursue him till they…
Oh, but what might the man say if found? Who might he incriminate? Me, the secret ritualist? Or worse: Caine the catamite? Oh, damn Henry Irving indeed, and damn this Abberline as well! What to do? What to do?
(Mem.: Must copy out these pages and post them to Caine at once. Tell him he is likely to be summoned to London. Too, send word round to Speranza: Must meet.)
Inspector Abberline pursued me on the point of my acquaintance with Tumblety. I said only that, at his request, I’d introduced him into Lady Jane Wilde’s salon on a Saturday late last month. On the instant, I damned myself for having said Speranza’s name: Would Abberline go to her next? Happily, he did not take the name down. Wilde, though, is a name unlikely to slip the mind of any Londoner at present. I worried, too, that he’d draw from me more names: Yeats, Constance. Blessedly, he did not, but he surprised me when he asked instead:-
“Did you not, Mr. Stoker”—and here he glanced down at his pad—“suggest to the wardrobe mistress that perhaps the doctor had stolen items from the costume shop?”
Thank you plenty, Mrs. Pinch. “‘Stolen’? Not at all. Having found proof, proof of the dirty, doggish sort…”
“Understood,” said Abberline.
“Having found seeming proof that Dr. Tumblety and his hounds had been present in the costumery, I simply asked its mistress if anything had been borrowed. ‘Stolen’ is a newspaper word, Inspector, and one of the mistress’s choosing, not mine.” And with a dismissive, dissembling laugh I had at Henry, via the Inspector, saying:-
“I hardly think, sir, that our good Guv’nor here would gift a thief with a Lyceum key of his own and—”
Abberline interrupted to ask Henry the question I’d long wanted answered: Had Tumblety a key?
“No indeed,” huffed Henry in response. “He was welcome here, and will be welcome again when he returns, as I’m sure he will be able to explain all…all this; but a key of his own? Nonsense.” He glared at me. I had best prepare for punishment, for listed tasks of the punitive type. Stoker shall be seeing to this & seeing to that for some while, I’m afraid. So be it. I’d long wondered and worried re: Tumblety’s means of in-and egress; but now that I had my answer, it gave rise to another question:
However had Tumblety come and gone so freely without a key? The man moves as mist! Surely he’d no need of the Invisibility Ritual read over him by the adepts! I jest, jest as best I can at present; but what if that ritual found its effect and Tumblety now has such stealth, such mysterious means of movement as…as the blue-black egg of Harpocrates? Crazed, crazed I am to even consider such! But alas, I have seen what I have seen, and I shall not doubt myself; for that way madness lies.
More questions were asked of us in the Beefsteak Club. I divulged little, and Henry even less; for the Guv’nor is keen on accusing Mrs. Quibbel of complicity in the crime, if not the crime itself. “Follow her and you’ll have your answer,” said he to Abberline, who seemed rather less sure. Yet when Henry insisted that I fire the woman, it was Abberline who intervened, saying it’d be wiser to keep the suspect close at hand some while. To this, Henry unhappily acceded. And finally, with promises of cooperation &c., I bade the Inspector adieu and let Henry escort him to the stage door. By the time Henry returned to the XO—as no doubt he did, having rehearsed the earful he’d offer me—I had taken my leave of the Lyceum and was headed home.
I have avoided Henry thus far to-day; and I shall continue to do so till a quarter-hour before curtain, by which time he’ll be Shylock and I shall be spared both his wrath and his wonder, for I am undeserving of the former and cannot answer the latter with what few truths I possess.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Thursday, 14 June, post-performance.—I entered Speranza’s boudoir earlier to-day with an excess of apology.
“Please, Mr. Stoker,” said she, “desist! How can such apology be called for? Have you been adding to my family’s infamy? I rather hope you have! Say all the bad you can about us, Bram, lest the world not take us Wildes seriously.” I had no interest in Speranza’s wit this day, and showed her so by my absent smile. Now she knew I had come to her with reason, indeed had insisted on seeing her, though the hour was—by her lights—unreasonable.
“Oh, but do speak, Bram. Speak bold and true to your Speranza before you burst!” And she patted the bed beside her, where I was to sit.
I had gone round to Park Street at noon and again at one, twice leaving word with her Betty that I came re: something of great import; and so, when finally Speranza rose—half past 2, this was—she assented to receive me, still abed but already at work, dressed in what she refers to as her “literary attire”: a stayless dress of white lawn with a bonnet to match; for, she asked, how can her mind be free to answer to divine inspiration if her body is not? “Although…,” said Speranza, stoppering an ink bottle and setting her lap desk aside, “far be it from me to invoke the divine these days. The Muses, I’m afraid, have thrown me over in favour of my son. And this daily, undignified, and merely mechanical employment of pen and ink is killing the last vestiges of the divine within me.” And lest I mistake her meaning—that she wrote now for money and nothing more, nothing noble—she added, with a sigh, “My creditors are carnivores, Mr. Stoker.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said I; and as Speranza had never before spoken to me of her penury, which is greatly worse than mine, I ventured to suggest that as Oscar was doing well—or at least better—so, too, must she be. She replied only by saying that her second son was “a good boy” before turning the converse back towards myself. “How it vexes me to see you so, Mr. Stoker!” For there I sat, chin to chest. “What is it, what?”
/> Walking the streets of Grosvenor Square whilst waiting for Speranza to rise, I’d wondered how best to broach my impossible subject. Perhaps it would be best to broach it via its very impossibility; and so it was that I blurted out, finally:-
“I have seen the impossible, Speranza.”
She moaned. “Oh, my, this is serious. But I fear, Bram, you’ve been too long amongst the English—pray summon your Irishness and get about the business of telling me something. Do so poetically, if it pleases you, but tell me something. Facts, please. And fast!”
I said again that I had seen the impossible; whereby Speranza saw that I was at a total loss and said, with a sigh and a wry smile:-
“No, dear, not the Impossible. The Impossible is in Paris at present.” She fluffed her pillows and settled back onto them, saying, “But if you have seen As-car Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, I am at least relieved to hear he has returned to London—what he does amongst the French I’ve no idea, but ’tis not for a mother to wonder—as Constance has been quite unwell of late, and the solitary life on Tite Street suits her not at all. The boys bedevil her, and she speaks to me of unfounded fears…. I worry for her, Bram, truly I do.”
“I have not seen Oscar,” said I; “but tell me: What troubles Constance so? Not her health, I hope.” I knew full well what was troubling her; for it troubles me, too.
“Not her physical health, no.” And Speranza—not known for her subtlety—tapped at her temple, twice, with an ink-stained forefinger. I said no more of Constance, save that Speranza should give her my regards when next the two met.