by James Reese
Returned here to No. 17, Caine—poor, pitiable Caine—had all he could do to help me down from the hansom, into the house, and up to bed, where, last night, I slept like I have not slept since those long-ago Trinity days devoted wholly to sport; and just as I used to wake still weary from those contests, so, too, did I wake this morning to find my senses stiffened from hard use. I sat some while on the edge of my bed, gathering strength. Still it was dark. I thought of Mr. Penfold, as is my habit of late: a sort of prayer, it seems. And when I lit a lamp, I heartened to see its flame leap up—neither taste nor hear but rather see the flames, as one ought to. Then I listened for and heard, heard the first of Chelsea’s birds. And as I descended in my nightshirt, I heard only the echo of last night’s Sto-ker, Sto-ker.
Caine yet slept his laudanum sleep, dreamt his induced dreams. His habits of late led me to believe he’d sleep for some while. So it was I hoped to open these pages, to record our Whitechapel night before I’d have to assuage a woken Caine. But having drawn back the draperies to let into the dining room the rising light, I turned back to find beside my writing slant—there on the table, where I’d just set my morning tea—that same white rat in its white shroud, save now it no longer played a corpse but had become one.
Rather had been made one. As I lifted its tiny shroud to find the rat intact—the heart unharvested—a breeze blew into the room from behind me, bearing that violet scent I’ve come to abhor. Could Caine have left the window open? No. Here was a man who kept his hilltop castle closed tight as a casket. So it was I knew how Tumblety had come in the night. Had come into my home to leave word, as it were: I, too, am watching. I, too, can hunt if I choose. Now I knew both the how and the why of his coming, and the knowledge chilled me.
I sat at the table, my hands yet too tremulous to take up my tea, when Caine came hurrying downstairs, earlier than expected and calling my name in concerned tones. He cheered to hear that I’d woken with my senses intact, but his relief was short-lived; for I told him then of the rat, which I’d already conferred to the dustbin outside the kitchen door.
“Where…where was it found?”
“On the front sill,” I lied. Caine cannot know that Tumblety entered here last night, entered and might have easily ascended the stairs and gone to Caine as he slept. To do what? Harvest that same heart he once tried to win? No. Caine cannot know that this house is no longer inviolate. (Q.: How then can Florence & Noel return to it? The maids? How, then, can Caine and I stay?) Lest Caine press for details, I changed tack and asked him to recall all he could of the stranger who’d helped him load me into the hansom last night.
“Why, he was…a gentleman, I should say. Perhaps midway between us two in height, and rather more stocky than not.”
“How old a gentleman?”
“He was easily fifty,…yet quite strong of limb. He verily handed you up into the cab himself. So: perhaps younger than fifty. Forty? Thirty, even?”
“Hair color?”
Caine thought a long moment. “I cannot recall.”
“Moustaches?”
“Why, yes, certainly…. Or is it mutton-chops I’m remembering?”
“What about an accent? Did he speak?”
“He spoke to offer his assistance, and he spoke again to bid us God-speed as we headed home. An accent, you ask? Why, I’m embarrassed to say I cannot recall.”
“Nothing more? If not of the man proper, then of the incident itself?”
“Well,” said Caine, “there was Abberline, of course.”
“Inspector Abberline? What of him?”
“I would swear, Bram, swear I saw Abberline standing on the Commercial Road as we headed off.” Had he then trailed us from The Red Lion? If so, why?
“What was Abberline doing, Caine?” I tried to master myself by sipping my tea, but cup and saucer yet clanked in my hands.
“Watching I suppose…. Oh, Bram, I don’t like that man at all. There I was, worried sick, with you teetering on the edge of consciousness, and what does he do from across the road? Runs his finger round his hat, just as he had when we took our leave of the Lion. Did he offer help? Not at all. Can you fathom it, Bram? A public servant, such as Abberline, not offering to assist a—”
I cut him off to ask, “What more, Caine? Anything more?”
“Why, yes; but…but the particulars of the night are all so confused!” Caine sat now, heavily. With his elbows on the dining table, he set his broad forehead into his hands and hid his face from me. “Bram,” he began, “I…I…”
“Do not be bothered, Hommy-Beg. You were simply…confused, yes; as any man would have been under the circumstances.”…that they may see me not nor understand. And I said nothing more, least of all what it was I suspected: That Tumblety had been in that alley beside us, that it was he—the dissembling fiend!—who’d offered his help, he who’d handed me up into the hansom, and he’d who’d set the rat on my dining table as proof of same.
As for Inspector Abberline: Why wouldn’t he have followed two slummers in disguise, the one famous and the other not unknown, and both of them allied to the Lyceum, lately the site of the still-unsolved “horrid incident”? Or perhaps he is in the sometime employ of the press, members of which would pay handsomely to hear what Hall Caine was up to in Whitechapel Saturday last.
No: I said none of this to Caine. Instead I invited him to take his tea and toast, though there both sit yet, untouched. As there Caine sits, still, scribbling. Perhaps he keeps a Record of his own, though I think it more likely he simply surrenders himself to his writing habit much as another man might lie down in an opium den to lose himself similarly.
As for my own Record, this Record, I close now by committing to it this question: What if the Enemy leaves me my heart but takes from me my mind? What then?
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Thurs., 2 August ’88.—As I must do something or go mad, I write this diary.
The Plan, once again, is Watch & Wait. This we have done these five days since Saturday last without effect: no more dead things deposited here, no calling of my name, &c., but neither have we learned how the demon dominates Tumblety: perfectly or imperfectly. TO LEARN would mean TO RETURN to Wh’chapel, but Caine cannot do it, I will not risk it, and Speranza agrees. So: We Watch & Wait, damning this Plan of Inaction and going about our lives as best we can.
Caine studies my Bradshaw’s, longing to leave. Yet still he stays, and we while away the days reading the tale of maddened Macb. whilst at night we seek sleep via sundry drugs. Speranza sleeps all day and at night tasks herself with translating a terror-tale from the German.
The maids stay away w/ pay; but what of Flo. & Noel, due to return mid-month? Ought they to remain in Dublin? Ought I to take Thornley into my confidence re: all & everything? Much, too much to mull whilst again we watch, again we wait.
TELEGRAM, BRAM STOKER TO LADY JANE WILDE
8 August 1888.—Waiting over. Receive us at 2 to-day. God help us in this.
B.S.
CUTTING FROM THE MORNING ADVERTISER, 8 AUGUST 1888
BRUTAL MURDER OF A WOMAN.
At about ten minutes to five o’clock yesterday morning John Reeves, who lives at 37, George-yard-buildings, Whitechapel, was coming downstairs to go to work when he discovered the body of a woman lying in a pool of blood on the first-floor landing. Reeves called in Constable Barrett, 26 H, who was on the beat in the vicinity of George-yard, and Dr. Keeling, of Brick-lane, was communicated with and promptly arrived. He immediately made an examination of the woman, and pronounced life extinct, giving it as his opinion that she had been brutally murdered, there being multiple knife-wounds on her breast, stomach, and abdomen. The body, which was that of a woman apparently about 5ft. 3in. in height, complexion and hair dark, wore a dark green skirt, a brown petticoat, a long black jacket, and a black-bonnet. The woman is unknown to any of the occupants of the tenements on the landing on which the deceased was found, and no disturbance of any kind was heard during the night. The body was removed t
o the Whitechapel mortuary, and Inspector Elliston, of the Commercial-street police-station, placed the case in the hands of Inspector Reid, of the Criminal Investigation Department.
The superintendent of the buildings, Mr. Francis Hewitt, has made the following statement:- “When I was called this morning, shortly before five o’clock, I saw the poor woman lying on the stone staircase, with blood flowing from a great wound over her heart. There were many other stab wounds of a frightful character on her. Up till half-past three this morning some of the occupants here passed up the staircase, and therefore the murder must have taken place after that, for the deceased was not there then. It is my belief that the poor creature crept up the staircase, that she was accompanied by a man, that a quarrel took place, and that he then stabbed her. Although the deceased is not known by name, her face is familiar. She is undoubtedly an abandoned female.”
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Thurs., 9 Aug. ’88.—C. & I to Speranza’s yesterday at 2 p.m. to consult.
Said she, “Yes, but what of the heart? This article mentions”—and here Speranza had recourse to the Advertiser article, which I’d brought and which now she read again—“‘blood flowing from a great wound over her heart.’ The poor woman! Dreadful, dreadful. But still: What of the heart? Was it harvested, as you are wont to say? If not, perhaps the murder is…merely that: a murder.”
“I know no more than you, Speranza. Details are yet scarce.”
“Details…,” adjoined Caine, “yes: it is details we need, and that detail in particular.” He’d not said much prior to this, nor would he after. He is unwell, and though we all fear that the blood of the woman murdered in George Yard may be upon our hands—God help us—Caine fears this, feels this, deepest of all.
Said Speranza, “What about this Inspector you reference? Can you ascertain more from him?”
“No indeed,” said I. “In point of fact, I’ll not be surprised if he comes to me seeking details.”
“Whatever do you mean?” This from Caine.
“Need I remind you that we are allied in the Inspector’s mind to a series of events ranging from grilled hounds to bad disguises to my taking literal leave of my senses and fainting in Whitechapel, verily at the Inspector’s feet?” In enumerating the reasons we wouldn’t be seeking the favor of information from Inspector Abberline, my voice had risen, prompting Speranza to say:
“Calm yourself, Bram. Neither you nor Mr. Hall Caine can be suspects in the Inspector’s mind.”
“To the murder? No, no; impossible. Yet the man must have questions he’d like answered. I have no doubt, no doubt at all, that Henry’s return—which is imminent, I hasten to say—shall bring Inspector Abberline round to the Lyceum once again. But…”
“Speak, Bram,” urged Speranza. “But what?”
“I know another man in the Yard. Perhaps he…”
“Try it,” said Speranza. “Try it, Bram, but by all means: Be careful! There are a few very simple questions which, if asked, must make perjurers of us all.”
(Mem.: Simpson? Swenson? No: Swanson. Well met at the time of the Thames suicide. Came to the Lyceum later as my invitee.)
“Oh, please do be careful,” said a querulous Caine. “It seems every time we poke about somewhere, we find something!”
“That, Mr. Caine, is the point of poking about,” said Speranza.
“I know it is,” said he, “but still…all this detection. Must we, really?”
Yes, we must; but neither Speranza nor I bothered answering Caine, whose chin had quivered even as he’d asked the question. (Q.: Mightn’t it finally be time to send poor, petrified Caine back to his castle? His commitment is to inaction only.) Alas, our conference ended as we all three agreed I will write to Inspector Douglas Swanson, Scotland Yard, in discreet search of details.21
CLIPPING FROM THE TIMES, FRIDAY, 10 AUGUST 188822
Yesterday afternoon an inquiry was opened at the Working Lads’ Institute, Whitechapel-road, regarding the death of the woman who was found Tuesday last with 39 stabs on her body at George-yard-buildings, Whitechapel. Detective-Inspector Reid, H Division, watched the case on behalf of the Criminal Investigation Division.
John S. Reeves of 37, George-yard-buildings, a waterside labourer, said that on Tuesday morning he left home at 1/4 to 5 am to seek for work. When he reached the first-floor landing he found the deceased lying on her back in a pool of blood. The deceased’s clothes were disarranged, as though she had had a struggle with someone. Witness saw no footmarks on the staircase, nor did he find a knife or other weapon. As he was frightened, witness did not examine deceased but at once gave information to the police. He did not know the deceased, thus described: Age 37, length 5ft 3, complexion and hair dark; dress: green skirt, brown petticoat, long black jacket, brown stockings, side-spring boots, black bonnet, all old.
Police-constable Thomas Barrett, 226H, said that the last witness called his attention to the body of the deceased as he walked his beat. PC Barrett sent for a doctor, who pronounced life extinct.
Dr. T. R. Killeen of 68, Brick-lane, said that he was called to the deceased, and found her dead. She had 39 stabs on the body. She had been dead some three hours. Her age was about 36, and the body was very well nourished. Witness has since made a postmortem examination of the body. The left lung was penetrated in five places, and the right lung penetrated in two places. The heart, which was rather fatty, was penetrated in one place, and that would be sufficient to cause death.23 The liver was healthy, but was penetrated in five places, the spleen was penetrated in two places, and the stomach, which was perfectly healthy, was penetrated in six places. The wounds generally might have been inflicted with a knife or a dagger, as one went through the chest-bone. Witness is of the opinion that all the wounds were caused during life.
The CORONER said he was in hopes that the body would be identified, but three women had already identified it under three different names. He therefore proposes to leave the question open until the next occasion. The case will be left in the hands of Detective-Inspector Reid, who will endeavour to discover the perpetrator of this dreadful murder, one of the most dreadful imaginable. The CORONER records that the assassin must have been a perfect savage to inflict such a number of wounds on a defenceless woman in such a way.
The CORONER afterwards addressed the Jury, who returned a verdict of Willful Murder against some person or persons Unknown.
TELEGRAM, BRAM STOKER TO LADY JANE WILDE
10 August 1888.—Organ intact, but was its removal sought; hence, the butchery?
B.S.
LETTER, BRAM STOKER TO HALL CAINE
14 August 1888
Dearest Caine,
I trust that you and yours are safely ensconced at Greeba, and that your return trip to the Isle was easily seen to and speedily accomplished. You do the right thing, friend, and as you sit there in safety beside your wife and child, know that I shall keep you apprised of developments here—of which there are none.
It seems the M. was simply that, as Speranza suggested. Horrid though the details be, there was no harvesting of the H. Neither have any gifts been brought to me here at No. 17. And so again I watch and wait, adjudging you, Caine, neither less a man nor a friend for your inability to do either one moment longer. I understand. Your leaving was for the best, for yourself as well as your family. I, too, shall have to make a new plan soon, for Florence and Noel are due back from Dublin. And Henry is to arrive in short order. Doubtless he’ll be a devil of another type entirely. Already he writes to ask after plans for the Macb. trip to Edinburgh. Won’t you join us in Auld Reekie? Henry would be thrilled, and my sentiments on the subject warrant no words.
Highest regards from Lady Wilde, who joins me in wishing that we will see you in London only as friendship requires, and no sooner.
Yours, simply,
Sto.
P.S. I remind you again, Caine, of those provisions discussed re: F. & N. and the unlikely event, the wholly unlikely event, of m
y sudden decease.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Fri., 17 Aug.—I hate having to lie to Caine; but I am hopeful that if ever he discovers my lack of candour, he will forgive me for it.
If I were to write that I have heard my name called these last days, either Caine would have to upbraid himself for not returning to London, or, worse, he would return, and I’d have his nerves to contend with in addition to my own. No: He cannot know. Neither can Speranza know all & everything, leastways not that I have re-taken to the streets of Whitechapel. The worry of it would ruin her, even though she, too, disdains so feeble a Plan of Inaction as Watch & Wait. Watch and wait for what? Another murder, another attempted harvesting of a heart he deems worthless?
Both Speranza and I fear that the possession is perfect, for surely Caine and I gave Tumblety reason enough to solicit our help in his struggle against Set if, if he suffers a struggle within. Further proof of perfection is this victim’s very femaleness, which bespeaks Tumblety’s involvement; for Speranza reports—after close perusal in Budge’s books and all the other funerary literature she can find—that nowhere is it stipulated that a woman’s heart must be set upon the scales of Maat. Such—says Caine—would be Tumblety’s take, for the man verily defines misogyny.
And so if this first woman was his—and I cannot doubt that butchery, those blade-borne horrors of the attempted harvesting were his clumsy work, clumsy because two entities engage the one body—…well, I fear that other women will follow, and doubtless they will be drawn from amongst the worthless of Whitechapel. So it is amongst them that I watch & wait.
Yes, the calls of Sto-ker, Sto-ker come as I wander those streets—but blessedly not the sensory confusion—and by them I know it is Whitechapel he haunts, Whitechapel he hunts. And yet I wonder: If it is not my sanity he wants—he has shown that it is his for the taking—nor my heart, why then does he suffer me to come amongst his quarry? What does he want of me?