by James Reese
“I was quite vexed at having to sack her,” said I, truthfully. “I rather liked the woman, and what’s more: She’d proved herself most useful to me at the Lyceum, watching for Tumblety as a hare watches for hawks: a service I secured, mind, with withdrawals from the Lyceum’s petty cash.”
“Well,” said Caine, “if a bit more of my cash puts her back in your employ, I shall consider it money well spent, well spent indeed.”
I had earlier secured from a cat tender Mrs. Quibbel’s approximate address: King George’s Street, Great Walworth; and in a note addressed to that place, I put forth the following particulars of our proposal while offering to pay in direct proportion to “the unpleasantness of it all”:
She would go to 114 Victoria Street, the Albert Mansions.
She would do so at night, alone, taking care not to be seen.
She would climb to the rooms whose bell bore the mark HHC and use the enclosed key.
And, 4. She would brace herself for what she’d see—“…an accident involving a most unfortunate patient of a surgeon-friend of mine…”—and set about ranging the rooms, scrubbing the blood, &c. Again, proper recompense was promised.
I closed, stating that she would need to see to this soon. Of course, I made it clear she could decline and simply return the key by the next post; but should she accept the charge, she had only to send a trusted boy round to St. Leonard’s Terrace, No. 17, with said key and word of the job being done, whereupon I’d hand over her reward.
We left The Hare and Harp to post our note; and, events being what they were, or rather are—which is to say: urgent—I determined that Speranza could sleep-in some other day, some soon-coming day when we were no longer beset by an ages-old demon and his Devourer of Hearts. Likewise, Caine could steel himself to her company now, if you please. And so: Towards Grosvenor Square we went. It was scarcely 2 p.m. when we arrived, so early by the standards of 116 Park Street that still the Betty slept; but both maid and mistress woke to my insistent pounding.
“Messieurs Stoker and Caine,” said Speranza, settling herself amidst pillows as puffy as her eyes, “I trust you have good reason for barging into my boudoir in the middle of the…day.”
“Yes, Speranza,” said I, “we have very good reasons for coming round at the very private hour of”—I drew forth my watch to read it, showily—“quarter-past two.”
Speranza gasped. “It is even worse than I thought! I shall simply have to avenge myself by someday sending a knocking someone round to your homes in the middle of your night.”
“Send a sharpshooter, Speranza,” said I, “if it’s our sleep you mean to target.”
“Indeed. You both look ghastly. Sit yourselves somewhere, gentlemen, before you fall, but do not draw those shades!…I simply deplore daylight. It is too vulgar, too vulgar by far.”
Speranza knew I respected her, and therefore her habits, such as they were: I’d never have disturbed her sleep without very good reason indeed, nor brought a relative stranger into her private rooms, as now I had. For his part, Caine’s dis-ease was evident: he sat like a truant dragged before the headmistress whilst Speranza, with a nod of her still-bonneted head, said, as salutation:-
“Mr. Hall Caine, sir…. News of your great success precedes you here, such that I must say I am happy we are not yet friends, for when my friends succeed, it saddens me. Indeed, something within me dies. I cannot help it. The success of strangers, however, heartens me, and so it is I am able to say to you, sir, in the French fashion: Félicitations!”
Caine was flummoxed. “Why,…why, thank you, Lady Wilde.”
“And though we may not yet be friends, Mr. Caine—’tis but a matter of minutes, I suppose—still, you have seen me, now, in this relative state of undress; and, what’s more, our Mr. Stoker has us hunting demons ensemble; so I really must insist that you call me Speranza.”
“Thank you…Speranza.”
Soon the bleary-eyed Betty had brought a terrible tea. The pudding looked as though it had been dug up from the garden: it had a fungal aspect to it and sat untouched for the length of our stay. And Speranza had neither thanked nor dismissed her maid before the latter slammed the bedroom door and descended, stomping like a Prussian on patrol. Unfortunately, this show prompted Caine to ask:
“Speranza? Indelicate, this;…but can your maid be trusted?”
“Certainly not,” said the lady, feigning offence. “Who, Mr. Caine, wants a trustworthy maid? Where is the fun in that?”
I said to a confused Caine that he could surrender his fears of Speranza’s maid meddling in our affairs. This Speranza seconded, saying, “’Tis true, Mr. Caine. My maid’s deafness is surpassed only by her disinterest.
“But you, sir; let us speak about you and your most enviable position.”
Caine began to demur, but Speranza corrected him. “No, no, I refer neither to your inky triumphs nor the monies thusly derived—money is a topic best left to merchants, sir, not artistes such as we are; rather my envy stems from Mr. Stoker’s telling me you are on the verge of involvement in un vrai scandale!”
Whilst Caine blanched, I, trying to leaven things, laughingly said, “And Lady Wilde knows whereof she speaks!”
“Indeed I do,” said Speranza. “We Wildes were the stars of many a scandal back in our Dublin days. And though scandals are not always pleasant to endure, Mr. Caine, they are won-der-ful to survive.”
“I shall be happy to take your word for it,” said Caine, coldly, “as I hope neither to endure nor survive any scandals featuring myself. I trust you take my meaning, Lady Wilde?”
Indeed she had; and by the slowness with which she removed her bonnet and tidied her coiffure, Speranza conveyed to Caine that he had spoken out of turn. “Do you suppose I mean to threaten you, Mr. Caine? Or is it that you keep your humour locked in your castle’s keep?…Your mien, sir, is suddenly that of a cat in a corner.”
This was not good, not good at all. “Now, now,” said I, “it has been agreed amongst all parties present that our secrets, all our secrets, shall be held in trust. Perhaps it would be best if such vows were made aloud, now that we are in company? Caine?”
“Assuredly. And I would ask that discretion be used as regards the indiscretions of my youth. Further, I hold that we would be unwise to solicit the belief of anyone save those present—here, now—of things unbelievable. What can come of it but the Queen’s offer of room and board in Bedlam?”
“Indeed. Speranza?”
“Mr. Caine, forgive me. I did not mean to make light of your situation, which is a most regrettable one. This I understand. It is simply that I hold to a long-standing preference for being spoken of, period, no matter the words applied. You may one day understand, sir, if ever the world ceases to utter your name.” Caine nodded to the lady, who added kindly, “Though surely the world will continue to speak the name of Caine for quite some time to come.”
“So, too, Wilde,” rejoined he. “Your Oscar’s genius is spoken of in the streets.”
Poor Caine. I can only wonder as to the scribbled state of his first draughts; for this, too, had come out all wrong, and again it fell to me to intercede:
“Friends,” said I, “we’ve much to discuss, and a plan to formulate. Shall we, then?”
And so we did; though our discussion was more akin to reportage, each of us speaking in turn. Caine confided in Speranza re: his history with Tumblety. This I thought rather brave of him, and so, too, did she. Speranza then spoke—and simply as well—of what she’d learned of possession from her Roman friend, which already we knew, then added to the topic what little she’d learned from Budge’s books. For my part, I apprised Speranza of late events. And by the time Caine and I testified together re: what we’d found in the Albert Mansions and afterwards at No. 17…well, suffice it to say the tenor of our talk had changed.
“Are you in danger, Bram?” asked Speranza as she sat bolt upright in bed, spilling her tea only to blot it, absently, with sundry pages of manuscript. “
Tell me true.”
“I may be,” said I.
“Then so, too, are you, Mr. Caine; and I refer to more than just those delicate letters of yours coming to light.”
“But you, Speranza, have nothing to fear. The fiend can know nothing of your involvement.”
“Your talk, my dear Mr. Stoker, is hollow, and I rather fear you patronise me with it. We cannot presume to know what this Tumblety knows. We cannot even presume what he is, or has lately become. And these calls you hear, these carcasses you find on your property, the sudden ease with which the man appears and disappears, well…No. Do not suppose for a moment, Bram, that our adversary does not know all, all who stand against him.” Speranza was right, of course, and I shuddered to think of having put her in harm’s way.
“Oh, Speranza, forgive me. I did not know—”
“I understand, Bram: You did not know the man when you brought him here. However, you, Mr. Caine, did; and that is a matter with which you alone must reckon.”
“What…what can I do now?” This from Caine; who, seemingly inspired, then added, “We could all three head to Greeba! We’d be safe in the castle.”
“Thank you, Mr. Caine,” said Speranza. “And though typically I accept all invitations to castles upon principle, I am not sure we can be assured of our safety anywhere at present. Moreover, if we were to hide, we’d be hiding only ourselves.”
“Why, yes, of course,” said Caine. “Who else would we hide?”
I picked up Speranza’s point. “If we were to secrete ourselves away, Caine, what then would become of the unsuspecting? Of ‘the worthless’?”
“Good God Almighty,” said Caine, falling back heavily in his chair, “what have I loosed on London?…You were right, Bram: I am a coward.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Caine, if you were a coward, you would not be here now. It may even be argued that you are the bravest amongst us, as it is you who stand to lose something more than…life; for those who hold that the reputation of a dead man never changes are, I fear, quite wrong.”
“I…I…” began Caine, but he finished with a most plaintive moan.
“Self-recrimination,” said Speranza, “is like a rocking chair, Mr. Caine: it is something to do, yes, but it will get you nowhere. What’s wanted here is a plan.”
“Indeed,” said I. And so it was that we set about formulating one. By dawn of this day—Friday—we were able to refer to it as fixed. Unfortunately, after all our talk, talk this way and that, said plan is comprised of little more than:
Watch and wait.
And that is what we do at present, as Friday cedes to Saturday. Caine keeps watch at the window, and we all three wait, we two here, Speranza behind her bolted door. Though I worry about Speranza, it is Caine who needs taking care of. Indeed, as we sat trying to sup some hours ago, my bell was rung and poor Caine nearly slipped his skin. But it was only Mrs. Quibbel’s hired boy come round to deliver word of her success. This he did by holding out Caine’s key and saying the one, well-rehearsed line the lady had charged him with:-
“Mrs. Q.,” said he, backing from my door even as he spoke, “swears that if you forget her, she’ll forget you.”
I nodded my understanding, and before I could draw forth a coin the boy was off and running towards the river.
So yes, we watch and we wait. And I write, have written, rather; for now I close to take up position in the darkened parlour, at the watcher’s post.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Saturday, 21 July.—Neither of us saw him, though one of us watched the yard all night long. ( Q.: Does he—Tumblety, if not Set—want us to pursue him?) This vigil is killing Caine. He does not know how long he can stay in the city. If I call him coward now, he will be crushed. So, too, would I be if he called me crazed. But so we are, both of us: cowardly and crazed! Who would not be, amidst such strangeness as this?
Meanwhile, we watch. Meanwhile, we wait. Pray may we never have occasion to say we waited too long.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Wed., 25 July.—Caine still here, though his bag sits packed at his bed’s end.
TELEGRAM, BRAM STOKER TO LADY JANE WILDE
Th., 26 July 1888.—Receive us to-day at 3.00. New plan needed—Plan of Action.
Bram
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Fri., 27 July.—Having risen at dawn—the effect of the laudanum lessens, and, unlike Caine, I dare not up my dosage—I cased the property for carcasses; finding none, now I sit to write my way into another day. I must be exact, must seek the sanity orderliness can confer; and so, in summary:
Ada & Mary stay contentedly away, Caine paying their wages.
Henry still at sea. Have wired him: All is well & correspondence quiet; Harker proceeding apace, &c.
Florence & Noel in Dublin, where they shall safely stay some while longer.
Have sent a tentative invite to Thornley: We may need to speak, as & where it suits him—London? Dublin?
…Have breakfasted now: a bit of eggs & hash. Pray may it stay on my stomach and settle me sufficiently to recount yesterday’s conference w/ Speranza; so:
We walked to the Wilde house in silence so I could listen: no calls came; and Caine heard my report with due relief. (Q.: Is this silence a good or bad sign? We cannot know.) Rounding onto Park Street, we encountered Oscar on the sidewalk before No. 116. Or nearly did. I espied him stepping down onto the sidewalk and heading in the direction opposite to ours. As he was yet within hailing distance, I sped my step, raised my hand, and readied to call out to him, only to be arrested by Caine.
“Hsst!” It was that or a comparable sound that came from my companion. “Is that not Wilde? I’d know him anywhere—that body of his seems built of boiled potatoes.”
Rather unkind, this, but so be it. Said I, “I’d have thought it was the green velvet suit and top-curls that betrayed him.”
“Curly hair to match the curly teeth,” sneered Caine. “And that suit of his is absurd!” This from a man in his Knickerbocker tweeds of an orange hue.
“What reason have you, Caine, to cut the man so?”
“I’ve no interest in keeping the company of a metropolitan sodomite the likes of Oscar Wilde,” huffed he.
Indeed? Well, this was too much. And so I said—in my best barrister’s voice, meant to allude to the Laws of the Land—“Might I remind the honourable Mr. Thomas Henry Hall Caine that he himself was once a ‘metropolitan sodomite’?”
Caine coiled; but he soon thought better of it, un-balled his small fist, and said, simply, “Stoker! How dare you?”
“No, Caine,” said I, “how dare you malign a man you know not at all, and he the son of my, nay our, devoted friend?”
“Well…” stammered a contrite Caine, “one hears rumours red enough to rouge the ears, that’s all.”
“And with the release of certain letters, friend, similar rumours regarding you will quickly turn to truths.”
“That’s quite enough, Bram, quite enough.” And so it was, for we’d each made our respective points: mine being that Caine had spoken cruelly, his being that Wilde scared him; for whether Caine knows it or not, that is the truth: Wilde simply scares him.
By now we’d lost our chance of encountering Wilde in the wild, as it were; for he’d disappeared down the street, walking briskly and seeming to recite from pages he held in his hand: a play script, no doubt; for Speranza tells me Oscar fancies he’ll try his hand at theatre now, and asks would I be so kind as to read the results?17
If Caine was chagrined by his show of contempt for Wilde, the feeling must have deepened as we entered Speranza’s salon to find her all but illuminate from the filial visit. “Did you not see As-car? If you missed him, it was by minutes, merely; for he—”
I interrupted, cursing our ill luck at having missed the man.
“Oh, well,” said she, settling back into her seat, “perhaps another time. Though of course poor As-car is mortally busy, doing this, that, and the other thing, here, there,
and elsewhere. To you, Mr. Caine, As-car asks that I convey his especial regards, and so now I do.”
“Thank you, Speranza,” said Caine. “You may return them in kind.”
“I shall. I shall indeed,” said she with a smile, happily tapping the book nearly lost in her lap amidst flounces and furbelows and folds of fabric, fabric whereon polka dots battled broad and blindingly bright stripes. (Q.: Am I in league with damselfish? These friends of mine are not ones for hiding lights under bushels.) As I approached Speranza for a kiss, I saw that the book was a text of Russian grammar. I saw, too, that several pound notes protruded from its pages: the point of Oscar’s visit had been pecuniary, at least in part. Speranza, shyly tucking the bills deeper, showed me the book’s spine and explained, “I used to covet news of the world when waking; but now—what with the two worlds being rather confused, thanks in no small part to you gentlemen—I prefer to start my days with a difficult declension. Nothing, I find, cleanses the mind like the predicate nominative case of certain Slavic verbs.”
“So I’ve always held,” said Caine; but as ours was hardly a social call, Speranza let the slight lie, and soon we were about our stated business.
“This new plan of yours, gentlemen—this Plan of Action, as you put it—…well, let me just say this: Our watching, our waiting has proved both ruinous to our nerves and dangerous to London at large, or leastways its population of domestic pets. So I, too, have struck upon a plan, and I shan’t be surprised to find we are like-minded in the matter.”
“Possession,” said I.
“Indeed,” said she. “We return, perforce, to this notion of possession; or, more to the point: imperfect as opposed to perfect possession.”
Speranza took it upon herself to explain, to clarify our common thought. This she did as Caine and I settled into our seats, our too-tiny seats set amidst the dimness, the pinkness of her salon. Said she, with concision: