by James Reese
As previously Mrs. Nichols’s funeral had become quite the show, precautions had been taken in Mrs. Chapman’s case. There was no procession of mourning coaches to clog the streets, and her kin and acquaintances had all agreed to meet at Manor Park. False notice of time & place had been planted in the newspapers. Foul weather conspired in the lie as well: We three slipped into the cemetery under low skies and a spitting rain to stand behind twenty, thirty mourners. When finally the last of these had left, along with the sexton and shovel-men, Speranza said it was time.
She held that she had to raise the call no later than three hours after Mrs. Chapman’s committal to the consecrated earth. This she did, humbly at first; but when no response came—we knew not what that response might be, of course, but told ourselves we’d know it if and when it came—Speranza began to bray, verily bray, such that we all three felt the fool. Still nothing. Nothing save a greater fall of rain and Caine once crying out, swearing that a nearby shadow had borne uncommon depth the instant before; which observation had him fumbling in his pocket for his flask, the contents of which, when imbibed, emboldened him to ask mightn’t we leave, and immediately.
We did. What point was there in staying? We’d called, and no demon had come. Our solid-seeming idea was naught but an embarrassment now.
Outside the cemetery gates, we waited some while in silence for an omnibus to come; having helped Lady Wilde clamber aboard, we, Caine and I, went up after her. Nearer Trafalgar Square, we descended. Lady Wilde, as chagrined as ever I’ve seen her, headed home in a hansom whilst Caine and I set off afoot for the theatre; and here we have remained all afternoon and evening, there being much business pursuant to Henry’s change of bill. Into said business I threw myself; for I was surprised to gauge my disappointment and find it so profound. I’d wanted to summon the demon, though still I wonder what we might have said or done if he’d come; for, though writers all, we’d not arrived at a script seeming suited to demonic intercourse. More: I’d badly wanted to rile Tumblety. I’d wanted him and Set to split, to imperfect, and thusly afford us some means of laying a trap we’d later spring.
Alas. Nothing. And now I close, wondering, What next?
Later, 3 a.m.—We were wrong: He did hear the call. For he came. Here. Here! And oh, his message is a mean one indeed.
No more now. Cannot. There is…this to somehow dispose of. Pray that action will help calm Caine. And pray, too, that…
No time now for prayer, or words. Action instead.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Sat., 15 Sept., 5.30 a.m.—Good God, the gruesomeness of it!
I sit here in my bedroom. Though dawn approaches, I dare not descend. Can I calm myself with pen & ink, with this Record?
Caine—much medicated—sleeps across the hall. We will see Speranza shortly. Will she be heartened to learn he heeded her call? Only if I forbear telling her of the corpse; and of course I cannot: our pact is predicated upon Truth. And it is truth I shall commit to these pages, perhaps passing them to her; for to speak all this could only sully the tongue and further compromise the mind.
Caine and I came home in the small hours—rather, we returned to this place which no longer seems a home only to find that the fiend had fouled it again and…Oh, where are the words for this, all this?
Alas, it was Caine who found the corpse, and Caine whose scream drew me to the dining room. I ought to have known to search there first, and I can only wonder why I did not. Was I eager to enlist Caine further via the possibility of his seeing a sight such as the blood-balance? Or was I merely more afraid than he? Horrid of me; but again, candour is all, and so I must ask & answer such questions truthfully. In truth lies sanity. Oh, but he has hung my sanity on tenterhooks, has Tumblety; and I fear the same for Caine. Speranza alone is sure. But she has not seen what we have seen. Pray may she never.
Caine’s scream was no scream at all, but rather a plaintive lowing that rose and rose and rose like steam off a kettle. At first, I—having checked the sills and doorsteps, and being still in the scullery—…I did not associate the sound with Caine. Was it wind through the flue? A coal-choked boat down upon the Thames? But then the sound broke into a most insistent Bram,…Bram, which at first I mistook for Tumblety’s call. But no: His Sto-ker, Sto-ker has ever been the same. And so: Caine, of course! It must be Caine. Which revelation chilled me and brought me fast to the dining room, and to a second tableau the likes of which…
This one was more…telling than the last: I knew immediately the message, if not the means; for, coming up on the headless corpse from behind, and seeing it as it sat in my writing seat, mine, I mistook the meat & bone of its neck for a log. A log sitting upright in my chair. I cannot account for this delusion. I can only say that I was disabused of it by Caine, who stood staring slack-jawed and shivering and about to let fall his lamp onto the carpet. Only as I rushed round to relieve Caine of his lamp did I see the corpse as he had discovered it.
Firstly I tried to send Caine to the scullery, or simply elsewhere. He would not go. He clove to my side, staring at the torso—to call it a corpse is incorrect: hacked from it were its legs and left arm as well as its head, and it showed, too, a cavity atop & betwixt the pendulous breasts: the heart had been harvested, yes…. There it sat, in my seat. Or should I say there she sat? No: There it sat; for I cannot countenance the fact of the torso’s having lately been a living woman. And so there it sat, yes, just as I have sat innumerable hours whilst writing; and lest I lose said fact, he, he had laid the torso’s stiffening right arm atop my writing slant, where it weighted down a note.
Secondly I had to see to Caine. Although I feared he might fall into nervous collapse, the horror seemed somehow to fortify him: I was taken aback by hearing him ask not Who? nor What? nor Why? but rather How? How were we to rid ourselves of this latest…message? Ever the writer, is Caine; for we writers often distance ourselves from life as it passes and watch from a remove, as if we write the very scenes we witness, asking only, What next? This, Caine did. The collapse would come later.
So, too, did I survive the sight by springing into Action. Clues! There must be clues. Certainly we knew the who of it all, but as for the rest…
The flesh was yet fresh: the victim had only lately been done to death. The disseverance of its limbs was artless and showed more a savage’s hand than a savant’s. Blood had soaked through the chair’s cushion to the carpet. The blood upon the table was scant: no splay, no blood-show, this. And by the risen light of the lamp, I trailed blood to the window sill, where I discovered mud and so supposed the means of his ingress. Throwing up the sash, I shone the lamp onto the yard beyond: nothing. Later I would look upon the leaves of the bushes for blood: again, none; and so it would seem he had only unbagged or un-bundled the torso in my home. Cold comfort, this, but comfort nonetheless. If no blood led to my home, there’d be no trail for an amateur Abberline or for the Inspector himself. This tells me, too, that Tumblety does not seek to pin his crimes upon me but rather seeks my collusion, my co-operation in their commission and in the completion of his plan. And all of this confirmed his ability to plan. It was as we’d supposed, and worrisomely so.
Minutes later—and not four hours ago—Caine urged me into further action. Soon the two of us slipped from No. 17, enacting a most rudimentary plan. In a disused pram of Noel’s, drawn down from the attic, we trundled the torso down to and into the Thames. Caine proffered words of rest unto the woman we sent to sea; I, revenge. Revenge unto he who’d done the deed. (Q.: Why, why did we not weight the remains and thereby spare another the discovery, the sight?) Returning, we spoke not a word; for I was listening for a call that did not come.
We cleansed the dining room as best we could, but our best will not suffice. I shall see the dining set turned to tinder. As for its replacement and the rest—the rugs, &c.—a newly resolute Caine promises to see to it all. (Mem.: Write Florence of a surprise, and with the promise of same put off her & Noel’s return some while longer.) T
o-day we shall apprise Speranza of events, though Caine and I both suppose she will suggest calling to Set again, riling Tumblety again in the hope he’ll spring that trap we’ve yet to set. That, surely, will be our plan. That, surely, will be our penance.
I ascend now to lie at Caine’s side.47
Messieurs Stoker & Caine,
Did you mean to tease him from me with the lady’s ululating? Fools. Your derring-do finds another whore ripped, nothing more. I did this one for you, Mr. Stoker, as Tommy is too easy to scare. Are you scared, Mr. Sto.ker? Does your hand rise to the level of your own heart, unbidden? Fear not, Mr. Sto.ker; I will leave you your heart if you prove its worth. So too yours, Tommy. And Lady Wilde’s as well. Nor am I to visit Dublin or Keswick.48 So Set commands. And I am having far too much fun in London at present, watching you & awaiting your next move, & ripping hores at will. You can stopp it Sto.ker like you started it with the majic that rose me up to slay and be savd Do you want to stop it Sto.ker if so call me to the Scales of Maat I shall bring the hearts to Balnce but call me for OTHER reasons & I shall rip rip rip & do not presume, gentlemen, that your safety is assured. Yours hearts, too, may yet be wrested away for weighing if Set commands or allows it. Trifle with me at your peril. NO the men are needed take the OTHER or have another hore But I will do as I am told. It is he, not I, who saves you; but, should you set yourselves between us again, I will slice & rip you both I promised HIM he could Set says I may. And I will use your knife, Mr. Sto.ker, as the blade of it sits so well in our hand.
Call again to ME for the ONE reason ONLY The Weighing otherwise we shall slay rip & rip & rip and Set will accede to my wish, and let me take in hand your three worthless hearts as well as49
LETTER, BRAM STOKER TO THORNLEY STOKER
Mon., 17 Sep’t. ’88
CONFIDENTIAL
Dearest Brother,
Firstly, do not let Florence know I have written. I do so to apprise you of developments here, and as you learn of same, you will understand and no doubt honour my request. No-one save C., Sp., & myself knows what I am about to confide in you, Thornley, the fourth member of our stygian band, and no-one can.
Do, though, send word of Noel, pls. Send word of Emily as well. Better still: Ready yourself to bring word in person. Truly, Thornley, set your bag at the door; for you may soon be needed here, as all has devolved to a veritable hell.
The American man, the possessed—Tumblety, you will recall: Francis J. Tumblety—has shown himself again, and shown, too, his hellish handiwork; indeed, he has rendered our home a shambles. For, Friday last, he brought a woman’s body (duly disposed of) to No. 17, though to call it a body does not bespeak the atrocities he’d committed unto it. As I told you in Dublin, he has brought death here before, but lately he has done so intending to leave me messages. He has even left me two notes of the strangest sort, the gist of which is that he wishes us—me in particular, doubtless because I was present at the ritual via which his possessing demon rose—to assist him in another ritual, one to be done along Egyptian lines, and for a fuller comprehension of which I can only, at present, refer you to the Papyrus of Ani and those chapters speaking to the Weighing of the Heart. (Will explain more & better in person, Thorn.) Suffice it to say that requisite to said ritual are hearts, human hearts, and this accounts for the Wh’chapel horrors of which you, of which all the world, lately reads.
Make no mistake, Thornley: A brutal business, this, and bloody; and the blood is being drawn, I fear, with a blade of my own. (Again, I will explain.)…Thornley, brother, do you recall how, as a child, I hated blood? Well, now that I am verily awash in it, I find that the feeling has persisted into adulthood. I don’t know how you & the other Bros. Stoker do it, truly I don’t.50 Indeed, can you not hear me screaming, still, like a Banshee, as Uncle Willy comes round my sickbed with his lancet and leeches, eager to bleed me?51 Dreadful, that; and the stuff of many a nightmare since. Indeed, the night mare runs roughshod over my days at present, if not my nights; for I cannot sleep, not at all, leastways not without the help of those addictive aids against which you have long warned me. I do take care, brother. I take care as best I can.
Alas. The horrors of Friday last seem to have been occasioned by a plan of Lady Wilde’s, which at first we’d deemed ineffectual. Brief: Speranza had struck upon a means of summoning the demon, and summon him we did; rather I should write summon them, the double-entity. Our hope was to dissever possessor from possessed and set them to struggling; in the course of which, we would throw-in with one or the other, depending, doing whatever might stop the atrocities. Although you may deem us over-ambitious or deluded, or worse, let me say that we did succeed in summoning the demon (madness, this!); but in so doing we taunted Tumblety, who took terrible action in consequence: the torso.
Still, Speranza is convinced that we ought to do the same again, reasoning thus: If we set the villain into action, perhaps we can predict his reaction. Our only goal is to stop the slaughter, though now Caine insists we ought to somehow steer Tumblety towards the Yard, towards Inspector Abberline as well. This must be done, says Caine, even if those ruinous letters of his come to light. I disagree. He is doing his best to be brave, is Caine; but I fear for him, Thornley, truly I do. And I refer not only to his name but his health as well—another reason we may need you near.
More: We are agreed that the only way to turn Abberline from my door—yes, he persists, and lately knocked at No. 17 when yet the dining room was in disarray, the bloodied carpet still rolled in the corner, but blessedly Caine put him off, explaining that the draperies covering the dining set, &c., were owing to a gift I am about to make my wife: a renovation; the now fact of which is a welcome distraction for Caine, yes, but also serves to explain both Florence’s extended absence and my Dublin week, about which, as you supposed, the Inspector was quite curious—…I say that the only way to turn Abberline from my door is to stop Tumblety. But we have yet to locate the door, be it a metaphorical one, viz., the means of entrapment, or a literal door—in Batty Street or elsewhere—behind which he hides. And so what more can we do but call again to Set, and hope Tumblety shows? If you find fault in this, Thornley, if our reasoning seems to you spurious, wire at once. I am not at all certain we are thinking straight; rather, I know Caine is not, and I have suspicions re: Speranza and myself.
Yours,
Bram
P.S. Will write Flo. under separate cover to apprise her of a decorative surprise, done in collusion w/ Caine, that necessitates her staying at Ely Place some while longer. Wire at once if this does not suit; and bless you, brother, if it does. B.
P.P.S Pls retain or return this letter; will explain.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Wednesday, 19 Sept.—Caine is crazed indeed, but now it is with catalogues ordered over from this and that manufactory. I am told we Stokers shall soon dine in a room the lower walls of which will be colored café-au-lait; and that the new crimson carpet coming from Peter Robinson’s is still au courant “despite the opinions proffered by Mrs. Panton,” whoever she might be. (“Green—and green alone—is to be avoided,” says Caine, contrarily.) It would seem that an over-mantel and larger mirror are to factor in the re-done room as well. My role—other than being measured, as though for a suit, by a man from Maples in the Tottenham Court Road, from which place will come a customised escritoire, Caine being determined to end my habit of writing at my slant at the dining table: a habit that I, too, am ready to surrender, considering—…my only role in this redecorating is to choose a pattern of china that will please Florence. Service of same, for twenty, is to be ordered and paid for by Mr. Hall Caine himself. That fact will perforce render whatever china I choose most appealing to my wife. So, too, will she enjoy telling her callers that the papier peint upon our walls was chosen from samples sent over for Caine’s consideration by none other than Mr. William Morris. (Q.: Do people do Caine’s bidding because he writes or because he has grown rich from it? I confess I cannot tell.)
And so it seems we will maintain ourselves at No. 17 some while longer, though I wonder as to the wisdom of Caine’s doing all this now. Oughtn’t we to wait upon…whatever may come? Caine says no. Caine says he cannot wait. He must busy himself with things other than this red-business and cares not a whit for cost; and so I consent, opining only that a crimson rug seems to me a wise as well as a tasteful choice, considering. Too, I sat this morning poring over china patterns. Only when I realised that a quarter-hour had passed without thoughts of Whitechapel, &c…. well, only then did I understand the motivation of my dear Hommy-Beg. And he is right: Blessed be distraction nowadays, no matter the means.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Sun., 23 September 1888.—The week being quiet, & still, & with no calls or corpses coming, we three determined to convene after Speranza’s Saturday at-home, for she has resumed her conversazioni so as to preserve her name and self, says she.
We were late in arriving yesterday, Caine and I, and purposefully so: social converse seems rather beside the point at present. Alas, we were not late enough, for we ran smack into a departing Inspector Abberline.
“Inspector,” said I, quite surprised, when we met him on the Park Street steps.
“Mr. Stoker,” said he. “Mr. Caine…. I thought it likely I might find you here.”
“But how unlikely that we would find you,” said Caine. “Have you been to Lady Wilde’s before?”
“I have not had the pleasure previously,” said he.
“To what, then,” queried Caine, “is the pleasure owing at present?” Rather arch, that. And the Inspector agreed, for he verily spat what next he said, which was: