by James Reese
“A cloak, Mr. Caine…. A torn and bloody cloak has lately been discovered in the vicinity of Westminster, near about Parliament Street and the St. Stephen’s Club.”
Caine and I shared a glance, but it was I who asked, “Is that not near—”
“It is indeed,” answered Abberline, peremptorily. “Very near the site of what is to be the new headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.”
Caine and I shared a second glance. “Inspector,” said he, “I know nearly as well as you that London is chockablock with…with bloody cloaks.”
“Not quite, Mr. Caine. Not quite. Take care not to confuse your romances with the real world.”
Before Caine could take the Inspector’s bait, I said, “Regardless, Inspector, what has this cloak to do with us? For I suspect you came here to-day to convey this news to us.”
“The news I came to convey to you, Mr. Stoker, is not that a bloody cloak has been found but rather that said cloak bears a label sewn into its liner reading Property of the Lyceum Theatre.”
“Are you…are you certain, Inspector?” It was Caine who asked the question. I was struck silent.
Said Abberline—with a derisive snort? a half-snort and a shallow sigh?—“As it is the writer’s job, Mr. Caine, to be clear, concise, and clever, so it is an Inspector’s to be certain…. Yes, Mr. Caine, I am certain.” He turned now to me, continuing with, “However, I am not at all certain what you, Mr. Stoker, may know about the costume in question.”
“A man’s cloak, was it?” Had Caine lost the cloak from The Merch. marked Jessica, the one he’d worn the night my senses had riled me so? Abberline affirmed he had not, saying:-
“A man’s cloak, yes. Black, worsted wool,” adding, somewhat snidely, “with silk at the collar and sleeves.” Henry, then? Was this his spit-stained Shylock cloak? The one he’d worn the night I’d first seen Tumblety in Batty Street?
“I…I shall have to check with Henry. He does sometimes venture out in costume, and borrows from the Lyceum at will, of course.”
“Please do check with Mr. Irving,” said he. “I shall await word from you.”
“And you shall have it,” said I, adding, as Abberline stepped onto the sidewalk proper, “Inspector? The press…? Surely there is no need to…?”
“No need at all, Mr. Stoker,” said he. “Hounds, they are. Hounds with no sense of smell.”
“Indeed,” said I, my smile forced. And just as I pushed open the Park Street door, I heard his call behind me:
“Oh, and Mr. Stoker…?”
“Sir?” said I, turning round.
“As it relates to the Lyceum’s own”—here he dropped his voice, as if we two were co-conspirators—“hounds, was not there a question of some articles of clothing having gone missing from your store about that same time?”
He knew the answer full well. “Unfortunately, Inspector, our store is such that its mistress was unable to say definitively if that were the case.”
“I see,” said he, and I quite feared he did, does. “And I assume you’ve heard nothing from Mr. Tumblety?”
I shook my head. So, too, did Caine.
“Strange, that,” said Abberline, “most strange. Rarely have I known a man of means to vanish like…like that,” and he snapped his fingers before using them to run the brim of his bowler and thereby bid us good-day.
“What do you make of this latest?” asked Speranza some half-hour later, her salon clear now of all save two fawning Frenchmen intent on meeting her second, absent son.
“I…I don’t know,” said I, and I did not. “Except—”
“Wait please, Mr. Stoker,” said she; and, gesturing to the Frenchmen, beckoning them nearer, she sent them away in their own language. This—to judge by their collective sneer—they were not at all happy to hear. “If they hope to see As-car,” said Speranza, “then they ought to search their own capital city. I am merely the man’s mother, and as such I have surrendered all expectation of filial kindness; oh, but still, Mr. Stoker, are two or three words in a telegram asking too much?”
I shook my head in sympathy, in solidarity.
“Go on, Mr. Stoker,” said Speranza with a sigh. “About the cloak…”
“As I told the Inspector, I know nothing of it, nothing certain. Except, well…it is quite feasible that Henry let it fall in the streets of Whitechapel.”
“Or he may have stolen it.” Caine meant, of course, Tumblety, but he has fallen so far from calling the fiend Francis that now he is unable to name him at all.
“I shall check with Henry and Mrs. Pinch post-haste,” said I. And, feeling quite the cabalist, I added, “If the cloak is not at the Lyceum, and if Henry cannot recall losing it, well, then, I will simply convince him of the possibility of same; for I am the man’s memory, after all, am I not? And then Henry Irving shall send word, signed word, of same to Inspector Abberline.”
“That will be well done, Mr. Stoker,” said Speranza. “Well done indeed…. I do not favor this Abberline at all, and can only hope that none present at to-day’s conversazione knew him from the Yard.”
“Even if they did,” said Caine, “no-one could think he’d come on official business.”
“You miss my point entirely, Mr. Caine.” Whereupon Speranza put it in plainer terms: “If the police are known to be present at my salons, then the criminal element will not come. And with whom, Mr. Caine, would you rather consort of a Saturday?”
I steered my peers back to more immediate concerns, and Speranza—just as we’d supposed she would—spoke persuasively of calling again to Set so as to rile his vessel, Tumblety, into action.
“But when he takes action,” said Caine, “blood is shed.”
“True; and of that we have had excess of proof,” said Speranza. “But I believe we shan’t see the same again.”
“How can you be sure?” I asked.
“I cannot be sure, of course; and to be wrong is to see another…another of that sad sorority done to death. This I understand too well, I do. But I beg you to consider:
“One: He will not harm you, Mr. Stoker; for he needs you, or rather believes he does.”
“What about me?” This from Caine.
“Of your security, Mr. Caine, I am less certain…. Two: As he believes he needs you, Bram, so, too, does he believe he needs you now; for he has his human heart, does he not, drawn from the cadaver set down at your dining table?”
“So we may assume.”
“Indeed,” said Speranza. “Now we have only to goad his…his Devourer into action at a time and place best suited to our purpose.”
“Our purpose being what, precisely?” I asked. “Are we to apprehend him somehow? Train our pistols upon him?” Speranza confessed she did not know.
Caine, however, supposed he did. “It is clear: We surrender him to Abberline. I no longer care about the cost to myself. I cannot. What I might suffer is naught, naught compared to…” To what the torso, to what she whom we’d lately committed to the Thames had suffered; she and however many others done to death before her. And after her as well, for if we…Oh, but it is too horrid to consider what may come if we fail.
“You are courageous, Mr. Caine,” said Speranza. “But understand: I jested about the salutary benefits of scandal, quite; and a man like yourself, sir…Well, let me simply say that the odds of your surviving forced labour in jail would not be good.”
“Agreed,” said I. “No Abberline, leastways not till we take fuller measure of Tumblety…. Perhaps he has no letters. Perhaps he has them and will hand them over to us in exchange for this ritual of his.”
“You are kind, my friends. Too kind.” Caine hung his head, chagrined. I feared tears, and so was heartened to hear, “We speak lunacy here: summoning demons, arranging to rendezvous with a ripping murderer…”
“We live lunacy at present, Mr. Caine,” said Speranza, “and the only way to survive it is to forge through it. Agreed?” It seemed so, to judge by our silence.
“Our imped
iments, then, are these,” said Speranza. “Will we be able to summon Set a second time if we keen over a corpse that concerns him not at all? Will the anonymous dead do?” I was not in the least sure the anonymous dead would do, but still I acceded to Speranza’s suggestion that we all three return to the Manor Park Cemetery, and I convinced Caine to do the same. But before we left her salon, Speranza arranged a word with me in private, sending Caine into her study to sign her copy of The Deemster–my copy, in point of fact, which she had lately borrowed; but no matter. And when we were alone, she wasted no time in whispering to me, “Steel yourself, Bram. And arm yourself as well. For I recall to you that—in the rare case, and indeed this is that—my Roman counsels murder. And I don’t suppose the deed will fall to Mr. Hall Caine.”
“Speranza,” said I, “I cannot!”
“No, you cannot,” said she. “Yet it may come to pass that you must, in which case you will.” And if so—Heaven help me!—I shall hark back to Burton’s words for strength: The explorer in savage places holds, day and night, his life in his hand; and if he is not prepared for every emergency, he should not attempt such adventures.
LETTER, THORNLEY STOKER TO BRAM STOKER
Friday, 21 September 1888
Bram, dearest brother,
Let my delay in responding to your letter of the 17th indicate nothing more than that I have had some deviltry of my own here in Dublin, dealing with Emily, who worsens. Your Florence, may I say, has been a balm throughout, and the light of your Noel a benediction. Be assured, they are welcome here at Ely Place for as long as it suits your situation. Indeed, their company is most welcome to me at present, as my poor wife—But alas, I steal this time to address your troubles and not my own.
Were I you, I would worry about the American and Abberline in that order. I mean not to state the obvious, Bram, but rather to warn: Do not underestimate the Inspector! Surely he watches you three if he knew enough to search you out at Lady Wilde’s with this business of the bloody cloak. But do you suppose he—Tumblety—is behind that? If so, beware. He may be seeking to set the Inspector onto you with the purloined property. In any case, you have not heard the last regarding that cloak, surely.
As regards your imminent actions—Call out to the demon with extreme of care. I cannot say I am wholly in accord with Lady Wilde’s suggestion, yet that is a personal and not a professional opinion. I know the mad well, yes, and have met many a murderer amongst their number, but never have I been party to such insanity as this! Indeed, this species of beast is as new to me as it is you. It is, in a word, otherworldly; and so to pull the possessor onto the worldly plane, as Speranza suggests, is a risk, a risk indeed. One that may eventuate in either the wished-for “dialogue”—is it to be supposed that the possessed can be reasoned with?—or, yes, more bloodshed.
And of course I will come when called. I shall simply tell Florence that I am called away on consultation and ask her to manage my house and wife. She, by the way, received your letter well and is content to stay here in Dublin till all the work be done, and indeed she wonders—aloud and at length—what Caine’s decorators will do; and so it may behoove you, Bram, to redo your dining room as grandly as Caine’s coin allows. Thusly you will both buy yourself time and rid the room of its associated horrors as well.
Meanwhile, till such time as you call me to your side, do keep me apprised by whatever means. And if it be but a communiqué of few words, pray let those words be All is well. Somehow all will be well, though would that I knew how! Would, too, that I had sounder advice than Take care! If only you Children of Light could write your way clear of this Tumblety—pursued by your three pens, he would stand no chance of escape. Oh, but he is real, too real, and these present truths are indeed stranger than any fiction.
With blessings on you,
and a brother’s love,
TH. Sto.
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL
Mon., 24 Sept., mid-night.—How dared we to gamble when the stakes were lives other than our own? What penance can cleanse us? For we have called, and now he has come promising to rip anew.
Yesterday we three fools retraced our steps of Friday the 14th and returned to the site of Mrs. Chapman’s interment, Manor Park Cemetery; for we’d deemed Sunday the day of death. It was again drear, with rain drizzling down. The hour was noon. Speranza had risen early and had done herself down in blackest mourning; and though Caine and I hadn’t benefit of a like veil, so, too, did we dissemble lest we be seen falsely mourning the stranger we’d yet to select.
We had to wait some while for a funeral to come and conclude; whereupon Speranza would keen over the anonymous soul whilst hoping, hoping it would be as suited to the summoning as Mrs. Chapman’s had been. And then, supposing Set heeded the summons and sent Tumblety to us, I would agree to the Weighing—whatever shape that might take—if he, Tumblety, would stop the slaying. And if the struggle within rendered him rational, for wont of a better word, we would reason with him further, perhaps even securing Caine’s letters or the promise of their disposal in exchange for we-knew-not-what. Only then, with Caine’s name in surety, would we go further: If an avenue opened to us, we would draw Tumblety down it, nearer to Inspector Abberline. We would drive the demon/Devourer to bay in some place where the catching and the destroying would be sure. It was, in sum, an arrogant plan. Pathetic-seeming, too, now that it shall never come to pass.
Alas. Lady Wilde took it as luck when we learned that an Irishman had been interred at noontide, as, said she, no-one would look askance at a widow keening over her departed Paddy. And she seemed just that: a widow in her weeds, going slowly down onto her knees beside the fresh gravesite. Caine and I watched from a distance. We’d gone to Manor Park the long way round, watching for men from the Yard. We’d seen none, and saw none now. Finally, Speranza’s death-song was sung, was done. She was some while in righting herself, but then she sailed back towards us like a pirate ship on a stilled sea, her black veil billowing on the risen breeze.
There we stood in the cemetery, attendant. Did we think Tumblety would suddenly show? Did we think the weather would worsen, and Set would speak as thunder? It shames and embarrasses me to wonder what it was we thought; so I shall record only that we waited, and waited, and waited some more, till finally I grew fearful of going home. Surely it was there he’d show himself again—I shuddered at wondering how—if he’d heard the summons.
And hear it he had. So, too, did he show. Though this time it was in word only, but oh, what horrid words they were, or rather are; for a letter, this letter, arrived in to-day’s post.52
You disobey. You mock. WE said call when the WEIGHING was ready. Now watch for more whores. 2 more yes yes For mighty SET Almighty SET frees me to do as I please, and your blade being so sharp at present STO. KER I will put off the rite & instead say LETS PLAY 2 more to rip rip one for STO.KER one for CAINE. Watch the post for proof Jolly Jolly & STOP ME STOP ME does Saturday suit for slaughter ha ha Tell Boss all about it & catch me if you can STOP ME please Will be a rip & a clip & TO HELL with the hearts FJT
BRAM STOKER’S JOURNAL (CONTINUED)
“Francis J. Tumblety, yes, I believe so,” said Caine in response to my query. “John, perhaps…or maybe James. But what of it, Bram?”
“Yes,” seconded Speranza, who’d come round in a cab at my call, “what of it? The sender’s middle initial seems hardly the salient point of such correspondence as this.”
Perhaps not; but I’d struck upon an idea.
“This letter threatens the lives of two women, yes? Lives to be taken Saturday next, in five days’ time.” On this we were agreed. The threat was plain. “What, then, are we to do in the—”
“Yes,” blurted out Caine, “what are we do? To watch and wait does not work.”
“And look what’s come now of our taking action,” said Speranza. “Oh, dear…oh, dear”; and we barely got a chair beneath her before she fell into a half-swoon. “I…I…”
“We all have grounds for
self-recrimination, Speranza,” said I, “but I suggest we desist in practising it. Instead let us take heart”—a most unfortunate phrase, this—“…I mean to say we should be encouraged that for the first time we are forewarned. We have five days; five days in which to work.”
“To work at what?” asked Caine.
“To work at saving two lives,” said I.
“Oh, but how, Mr. Stoker? Pray tell us.”
“By doing what it is we do best. By writing.” Silence, silence till Speranza said:-
“Do you propose that we prowl through Whitechapel and its surrounds, me keening and you stepping out of the shadows to bash the murderer down with a weighty book bearing the name of our Mr. Caine?”
Caine took up the game. “Or perhaps we might incite emotional paresis with bits of Lady Wilde’s poesy?”
“Well, then, league up, friends! What do you propose? That you, Caine, tuck your tail and hie back to your castle keep? And you, Lady Wilde? Do you mean to delve deeper into the surreal in search of more and better ways to frenzy the fiend?”
“Well,” said Lady Wilde as I stood there staring, steaming, “…‘by writing,’ eh? It must be said: It is the sole thing we all do well…. Explain, please, Mr. Stoker.”
“It was Thornley who put me in mind of it. In a recent letter, he lamented that we three could not pursue the murderer with our pens. Said he, ‘No criminal could escape you then.’ And so I fell to wondering: Mightn’t we write?”
“Write of what?” asked Speranza.
“Write to whom?” asked Caine.
“Yes! To whom is the question, Caine. And the answer is Abberline, of course, in care of Scotland Yard.” I reasoned it out thusly:
We have five days before the promised murders occur—and we are all three agreed: They will occur. If, in those five days, we have Abberline on our tails and not Tumblety’s, then we are constrained whilst he is free. The women of Whitechapel require the reverse: we free, and he hindered. And so we ought to write to Abberline, letting him put all the Yard on lookout for Saturday next as well as the days precedent to it.