by James Reese
S.
LETTER, BRAM STOKER TO HALL CAINE6
I am in receipt of your recent letter. Indeed, days have passed since its receipt, days in which I have been at pains to reply, for each time I sit down to do so, I find that my pen stalls and the same question echoes back to me: How, Caine, can you impugn me so?
Can you possibly think that I have not questioned my own sanity of late? You imply that I have not, and further presume to do so for me. This seems hardly the act of a friend, let alone a co-conspirator. Need I remind you of certain letters likely in the possession of a certain friend fiend of yours?7 Need I remind you that prior to your introducing me to Tumblety I was merely unhappy, whilst now I know no words for what I am. You, however, seemingly do: insane. Alas, if ever my sanity does leave me, Caine, it was you who showed it the road.
Do you recall a day late in ’86 when we were in Edinburgh together? So, too, was Henry there. And we three, on the eve of your wedding vows, on the eve of your extricating yourself from a situation all but untenable—by a plan which was both perfect and mine, might I add—…we three friends, I say, repaired to a tavern in the very shadow of that shadowed city’s castle, high atop the Royal Mile, and there drank ourselves down to a state of raw honesty during which you, Caine, confessed to having once peered into a perfectly fine mirror only to find nothing at all. Insanity? Did I spill so damning a diagnosis on the table between us? I did not. I would never. Why, then, do you do so now? Why cannot you extend to me the courtesy Speranza has shown? It is faith in a friend. It is the same courtesy I extended to you in Edinburgh when you confessed to your very self having once disappeared.
In closing I shall say only this: Quit your castle and come to London, and let us see if it is not your name we begin to hear whispered in the streets. Till then, till you stand in this city at my side to see what I see, to hear what I hear, you may call me insane; know, however, that until such time I call you coward.
Yours, formerly,
Ab. Stoker
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Sunday, 1 July.—It is one month since the Setian event, and two weeks since I wrote so coldly to Caine. (No response.) Two weeks more and the Lyceum shutters, the season ends.
Lately I have been away from the pages, this Record, as blessedly Tumblety has neither shown himself nor spoken my name. (Q.: If I hear him, is he near?) The watching, the listening, weakens me, though the waiting is worst of all; for he will come again: his incanting my name seemed to promise as much. And so I watch the shadows, and fear the silence lest it bear my whispered name as spoken by Tumblety, by Set, by the spawn of that dark marriage I witnessed one month ago.
But I must forbear, and will. Two more weeks of The Merch. shall see us to season’s end, whereupon Henry will away to the Mediterranean. So too shall Flo. & Noel go to Dublin for highest summer. And I shall be home alone. Unless of course I leave as well. Shall I leave? Can I stay? Shall I write again to Caine (Q.: An apology?) and ask him to come?
Questions, naught but questions; and whilst awaiting answers I busy myself. As I am useful, so, too, shall I remain sane.
Night now, deepest night; but I fear the onset of sleep, I fear my dreams, And waking, I wonder if still I sleep, if still I dream this darkling dream. Worse: When finally I realise I am awake—quick with life, wanted or not—my thoughts hie to poor Penfold. Why? Why?
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
14 July, Saturday, 2 a.m.8—It is done, another season survived. The Lyceum shall lie dormant a short while, too short a while, I fear; for already all Henry’s talk turns to Macb., viz. how goes it w/ Harker’s sets? & when are we all to head to E’burgh? & what of beetles’ wings to adorn Lady Macb.’s dress? &c. I have promised to wire him at sundry ports of call along the Riviera, for he sails to-morrow from Southampton with Lord & Lady Garner with plans to put in shortly at Nice.
F. & N. safely in Dublin these two days. Speranza stays in town. And news of news: Caine wires that he will come! Soon. He swears it.9
Maids away as well. House too quiet. Shall I walk in search of sleep?
Later; nearly 5 a.m.10—Fool! Who but a fool would so tempt his greatest fear? For I went to Whitechapel.
There I saw an old friend.11 As she lives not far from Batty Street, I asked if she knew a man fitting Tumblety’s description. She looked at me queerly and said she did not; but here the blame is mine, for I struggled to describe the man. Was his hair the black it had been when first I’d seen him, or was it reddened still from the effects of Set? Would his oddly tautened skin make him seem much younger than he was? Would the split skin of his cheek have scarred? And what of that crook-backed stance that made his body seem not his alone? Alas, I fear I made a hash of it all, describing many men in one. So I said no more, only bade her beware.
“Of…?” she asked, whereupon I took my silent leave.
I lingered over-long in Batty Street when I ought to have hurried home. Indeed, I ought never to have gone! Whatever was I up to, walking those fetid, fogged streets, watching, waiting for it. And of course it came: Stoker, Stoker, faster at first before devolving to the heartbeat of Sto-ker, Sto-ker, with a laugh of sorts underlying it all.
Meanwhile, I walked, very nearly ran, this way and that; but then…nothing. My name came no more, and the laughter lessened to silence, silence broken only by the bells of St. Botolph’s, the hooves of horses, the din of those within the pubs, heedless of a demon come amongst them.
Was I searching him out? What might I have done had I turned a corner to see Tumblety step from the fog? Would I have known him? Is he himself at times? If so, can he be spoken to, reasoned with? Can he speak and reason in his turn? Or is he always subject to Set? Far better if he appear the freak he has become; but I fear this is not so, for is not the devil the Great Dissembler? Alas, more questions; and all I know for certain is that while I wandered Whitechapel, the fiend hurried himself here, to my home, such that now this gruesome game is well & truly joined; for:
Upon my stoop, he left a horrid tableau: a calico cat with a mouse in its claws.
Something there was that drove me to scoop up the corpses and hurry into the house. I cannot say if he called to me, Sto-ker, Sto-ker; but something there was, of that I am certain. I knew it at the nape of my neck. Was he near? Is he near still? Near and unseen?
Here I sit, listening, waiting. And writing writing writing by lantern light. At break of day, I shall scrub the blood from the stoop. And I shall take up a spade and bury these bloodied things in the back yard. Meanwhile, I find I cannot move, will not move, have not moved save to do what finally I had to do: finger the split cavities of the creatures—cat & mouse—to confirm what already I knew: They are as heartless as the Batty Street cat, as heartless as he who does these deeds.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Wednesday, 18 July, sun rising.—Only resolution and habit allow me to make this entry. In truth, only resolution and habit allow me to live. I am so miserable, so low-spirited, so sick of the world and all in it—including life itself—that I would not care if I heard this moment the flapping of the wings of the angel of death.
Resolved: To the Brit. Museum to-day at the earliest hour. Search out Budge and bring to bear upon him the name of Sir William Wilde. None better than Budge to speak to the question of Set, the Scales of Anubis, the Devourer of Hearts, &c. (Mem.: Must remember to dissemble, dissemble as the devil does; an academic matter, this.)
Speranza reads on re: possession, but little has availed her of late. Still, her Park Street salon—conversazioni adjourned at present—is the port in which we weather this strangest of storms; oh, but are we worthy vessels on such a sea of wonders? Metaphor. Have I no weapons but words? Meanwhile, I doubt and I fear and I suffer thoughts I dare not confess to my own soul. Oh, pray may God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!
Resolved: To Euston Station to-day to meet the 1.46 train. Caine comes grudgingly but comes to-day!, I having cajoled and cowed him onto the
10.14 a.m. from Liverpool. He wires in advance that he will stay in his own rooms: Albert Mansions, 114 Victoria Street, nr. W’minster Abbey. Mightn’t I set them in readiness, the Author asks, as he has let them fall into disuse of late? My wire in reply: Stoker will see to it; but sarcasm is lost on Caine. Humour has never been his long suit, and wealth worsens him. Still, I shall see to it, after I find Budge. May even stay w/ Caine if his rooms prove serviceable, as doubtless they will. Oh, but what then of the cemetery No. 17 has lately become, myself its secretive sexton? He has haunted this house! Damn the man, damn him though it be redundant!
Resolved: To Park Street to-day w/ Caine. There we three shall finally be one: the Children of Light, says Speranza, indivisible against the Dark. We are to make a plan. Or perhaps we shall all three wake to sanity in strait-waistcoats and take the place of Penfold!
Resolved: To Budge “on business,” whence to Albert Mansions, whence to Euston Station, resolute all the while.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
20 July, Friday, late.—Good God, how many other lairs might the fiend have found?
No. Stop. As there was a certain method, a resolve, to my late enquiries, so, too, shall I put them down here in sequence; and so:
I was at the British Museum on Wednesday last when it opened. Budge was not to be found—he digs at present; somewhere distant—but from an underling of his in the Office of Antiquities, I borrowed books relevant to the Creation Myths of the Egyptians—Osiris, Isis, and, of course, Set. Budge I will find another time.12
Breathe. I breathe, seeking to slow my heartbeat & steady my hand. It is night as I write. The Night Within the Night. And if latter days have taught me to despair of sleep, this recollection, this Record of Wednesday last, 18 July 1888, will surely render to-night white as well.
It is at present Caine’s turn to keep watch, and this he does from the parlour beside the dining room in which I write. Silence surrounds us; a silence that no doubt will cede to the call, Sto-ker, Sto-ker,…oh, but when will it come? This waiting may well be the worst of it!
In truth, Caine suffers more than I, though he hears not the call. Poor Caine: I so fear for his nerves—nerves that might lead to a too-twitchy trigger finger—that I have temporarily deprived him of his pistol. He sits, just there, in the darkened parlour, sunk down beside the sill, spying over it to the yard and street beyond, waiting, waiting and no longer wondering if I am sane; for now Caine, too, has been converted: He believes; for now he, too, has seen….
No. Must, must, must write of events as they passed; and so:
Caine arrived Wed. a.m., the 18th inst. His train was on time. Mere minutes in one another’s company and all was forgiven. Apologies were passed, this way and that. Caine laughed to have called me crazed. I laughed to have called him coward. As Caine was shy to see Speranza, it was well that I’d already brought Budge’s books to Park Street and left them with the Betty. Further, and at my friend’s request, I wrote to delay our luncheon. Soon enough we Children of Light shall convene in Speranza’s salon for a conversazione of another type entirely. And then Caine will see that Speranza, though she is free with petty judgements, will not presume anything at all re: the affairs of his past, Tumblety, &c. Moreover: Surely we have progressed past the petty unto the profound, and must turn all our talk toward a plan, a plan to stop Tumblety on our own whilst keeping clear of the Yard. (“No authorities,” I reassure Caine; though now I wonder if he won’t come to ruin anyway, such is his present state.)
We—Caine and I—took a pint for strength near Euston Station. The sky was cloudless and high, and the sun scoured the streets of all shadows. And though the day itself did not conduce towards fear, still Caine and I, as if by common instinct, went to a deep and dark corner of the chosen pub, sitting far from the street-side windows. Our beers we lifted in a wordless toast, to friendship, to forgiveness, and to a fast resolution of this fiendishness. Food was ordered. Caine commented upon my absence of appetite, and I realised he was right: I have not eaten much of late, but my burliness bears it well. Were I to try to set something upon my stomach, I fear I would find the food passed back—this, no doubt, is owing to all I’ve seen of late, all I see still; and to this horrid show of things seen must now be added the odour of Tumblety’s having come again.
Stay. I speed, and ought not to. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Luncheon ended, and by hansom we hied to Victoria Street, to Albert Mansions, to Hall Caine’s London rooms; to which I’d never been and had not gone earlier, their airing-out having come to seem quite secondary.
Caine had forgotten his key, but the landlady—cheered to find the famed Author returned to his rooms after a long absence—happily handed him another; whereupon we two climbed to Caine’s chambers. Arrived upon the second-storey landing, I paused to compliment Caine on this arrangement: rooms, private rooms of his own in which to write. My envy—of which I said naught, naught at all; for had we not tacitly toasted to friendship a half-hour earlier?—was short-lived indeed; for as we stood upon the landing, Caine fumbling with his key, I caught that scent, the violet scent that tells of Tumblety’s violation by Set. And there was a second scent besides: a ferric tang, redolent of rust and newly-turned earth. That also was a scent I’d caught too often of late: blood.
I took the key from Caine and bade him stand aside. I opened the door. I entered. It was dark within the suite and horribly close, and whilst I walked with care to draw the drapes and throw high the sash, I felt my shoes alternately stick and slip upon the bare wood floor. And at first, having discovered the drawn drapes to be of crimson hue, I, turning, assumed that the round table sitting center-all was covered in a similar fabric; but wouldn’t a tablecloth drape the table and hang evenly from its edge? No tablecloth, this.
By the circle of coagulant shimmering on the hardwood floor beneath it, I knew the redness atop the table to be blood, blood that had run to both cover the table’s surface and drip from its side to fall upon the floor. The sudden intake of air from Caine confirmed it; for he had followed me into the blood-redolent rooms to see what already I have described.
Fear the first: Was the fiend still here?
Caine drew from his pocket his pearl-handled pistol. With a wavering hand, he pointed it this way and that, finally training it so long upon my still-shadowed self that I, in short order, took it from him, set him down, locked the door against any comers—i.e., a too-solicitous landlady coming to see if Caine had all he needed—and only then, having lit a lamp against the last of the shadows, only then did I set about searching the suite for Tumblety.
As I’d supposed, he was not there; oh, but he had been of late, for he had made a secret shambles of the Albert Mansions.
I lit candles not for illumination but against the stench, and by their flickering light I returned to see Caine no longer sitting but standing now, and shivering as if from cold.
“What is it, Tommy?”
“Leave. Can…can we not just leave, Bram? Please?”
“Do you suppose—” I began.
And indeed Caine had supposed something, for like a child’s over-wound toy he sprang now toward the door. With fingers both fumbling and fast, he’d undone two of the door’s three locks before I could calm him. “Now, now,” said I, setting my hands heavily upon his low shoulders, “think well, Caine: Do you suppose Mary may have…?”
“Have what? Come here to bathe in blood? Opened a surgery on the side?…And what’s more, Bram: Mary knows nothing of these rooms.”
“You, Caine,” I ventured, “…are you certain there can be no other explanation for—perhaps—”
“Oh, Bram,” interrupted Caine, “two plus two is very often four, don’t you find?” He returned to working the last of the locks and said again, or rather pled, “Can we not just leave, please?”
“Leave this scene for the landlady to discover?”
“The police, then. Let us leave it all to the police!”
“To whom we will report
what, exactly? That your city rooms—rooms, might I add, kept private from your wife—have lately been the scene of inexplicable slaughter, or bloodletting at best, then tip our hats and say ‘G’day’? Or should we simply hand them Tumblety’s letters and save the man the bother of arranging your ruin?…No, Caine, we cannot just leave. Neither can we summon the police. We must—”
“Surely you don’t mean to suggest that we—”
I interrupted, meaning only to say that the rooms were ours to scour and range, like it or no; but now I heard myself speaking rather more summarily, as it seemed Caine hadn’t heard, truly heard, what I’d said. “Have we not agreed, Caine, that circumstances”—by which I tacitly referred to a secret society whose membership comprised the leading lights of London life, as well as certain indiscreet and potentially ruinous letters to which a witless Caine had signed his name, and the visions I have seen, and the sounds I have heard, and the animals putrefying at present in my own back yard, &c.—“…have we not agreed that circumstances as they stand preclude our confiding in the police?”
Caine let my logic lie. Said he, “Very well. But all that blood! My own runs cold at the sight of it, the stench of it. Oh Bram, oh Bram…” I worried that Caine might faint, but greater was my wonder at how Tumblety had accessed his suite.
The Tumblety I saw in Batty Street, his person twisted and his face drum-tight, is unlikely to have sidled past the concierge without raising her suspicions. And so I can only conclude that he is able to dissemble and does not always show the influence of Set. He can pass as unpossessed. He can win people to his ways. If this be true, the danger he poses is redoubled. And what mightn’t he accomplish now, with his magic, with his blue-black invisibility, with his money and the meanest of motives, all the while in league with the Adversary, Set? How many hearts mightn’t they harvest?
When finally I took my first step towards the far side of the room, my soles sucked harder at the hardwood floor; for the blood had congealed. Which meant, did it not, that when first I’d stepped in it, nearer the table, it had been fresher? Had Tumblety only lately absented the suite, the shambles? Had he left us this fresh…evidence, knowing we were coming? If so, he was watching. He was near. I said none of this to Caine, of course.