“If what we have heard is a dream and only a dream, then I will say this: men who can dream such dreams are already overmen in embryo. To the extent that the future is not predestined it must be built out of the dreams of the present; if men were not capable of dreaming such dreams as this they would be unable to produce futures of any kind akin to that previsioned here, and that would be a tragedy. Let us not worry unduly as to the exact truth or falsehood of this particular vision; let us be profoundly glad that a man has proved himself capable of dreaming thus, and let us hope that we ourselves might not be incapable of similar triumphs.”
I saw one or two of the others – including Wilde – smile indulgently at Shiel’s wild enthusiasm, but S******k H***** was the only one whose eyes were raised impatiently to heaven.
It was Crookes who took up the thread. “I am naturally disappointed,” he said, gravely, “that the insights into the nature and possible applications of electricity which Copplestone hoped to offer us have not materialized, but I have more than one field of scientific interest, and Copplestone’s adventure bears on the other as well. We are on the threshold of a new era of discovery in the science of apparitions and communication with the spirits of the dead, and what Copplestone has achieved is yet another proof of the reality of apparitions. If his story is to be taken seriously – and I cannot doubt its sincerity, although its conclusion may be no more than a delirious episode – then the intriguing possibility is raised that at least some apparitions may be what Copplestone calls timeshadows rather than shades of the departed, and it may well be that some of the confusion which presently arises in the course of communication with what are assumed to be spirits is accountable in these terms. I would like to bring Copplestone’s story to the attention of my colleagues in the Society for Psychical Research, some of whom may be better qualified than I to speculate about the possible reality of vampires. Tesla, of course, will not agree with me . . .”
This was an unwise inclusion in what might have been a much longer discourse. Tesla, as Sir William had anticipated, did not agree, and wanted to make his disagreement clear. “It’d take more than a few suggestions about the nature of ghosts to recompense me for the loss of Copplestone’s supposed discoveries in electrical science,” he said. “And when a promise like that is made and not fulfilled, an American begins to smell hokum. I know all about your English regard for the word of a gentleman, but it seems to me that this whole thing is a straightforward hoax, or a tissue of fantasies generated by monomania. Copplestone exaggerated his understanding of Darwin’s theory of evolution if he couldn’t see that any ability to see the future, drug-assisted or not, would be so advantageous to any critter that had it that it’d be selected out in no time at all – and yet we’re supposed to accept that men, who do have it, will get replaced by vampires, who don’t. I guess he intended to get around that with all this shilly-shallying about the future of destiny and the future of contingency, on the grounds that the prophetic gift would only be useful if it actually allowed us to change things, but I don’t buy it. I think we’ve been taken for a ride here. I don’t know why, but I think we’ve been fed a pack of lies, just like Mr Wilde here keeps saying.”
“I fear,” said Wilde, “that my earlier comments may have been open to misinterpretation. When I referred to Copplestone’s story as a lie, the word was not intended as an insult. Quite the contrary – the modern world’s dedication to vulgar truth is something I deeply regret, not because I have anything against the truth, but because the modern notion of truth has become so very narrow. The modern obsession with petty facts and meaningless measurements distresses me almost as much as the triviality of modern mendacity – for I would never dignify the banal deceptions of politicians and advertising men by calling them lies.
“Lies, to my mind, are grandiose products of the imagination, which enlarge the truth rather than diminishing it. When I describe Copplestone’s experience as a lie I mean to imply what he attempted to convey by speaking of it as a vision or a hallucination, admitting its inevitable pollution by the hopes and fears hidden in the recesses of his inmost soul. Even if it had been a lie in the sense of being a manifest fiction – like the story which Mr Wells has described to us – I would argue alongside Mr Shiel that it might nevertheless constitute a veritable fount of wisdom. Let us not occupy ourselves with the vulgar matter of whether Copplestone’s account is false in any trivial sense – rather let us concentrate on what it has to teach us because and in spite of the fact that it is a lie of unparalleled boldness and magnificence.
“What Copplestone tells us, in brief, is that the universe in which we live is a more wonderful place than our half-blind senses and meagre minds can easily perceive or imagine. That is surely true – or, at any rate, we ought to hope fervently that it might be. He informs us, too, that we should not be overly vain about the accomplishments of mankind, which might easily evaporate in a reckless moment in order that we may give way to a better species, the fact of whose supersession would naturally embody both our most intimate fears and our most daring ambitions. That too is true – or, again, we should certainly hope so. Perhaps most importantly of all, Copplestone tells us that we are capable, each and every one of us, of adventures of the mind far bolder than any we have so far dared to undertake, and that however dangerous or confusing such adventures may turn out to be, the brave man will not shirk them. Can anyone, even for a moment, doubt the truth of that – or doubt, at any rate, that they ought to wish with all their hearts that it might be true?”
I looked around. There seemed to be some who did doubt it.
“I could not have put it better, Oscar,” I said, drily. I did my best to sound flippant and ironic. “Indeed, no one could have put it better. There is not a word to add.”
Even Wilde – whose appetite for flattery was insatiable – frowned a little, as if to say that he had meant what he said more seriously than my casual endorsement implied.
H***** was still impatient to turn the discussion towards matters of his own concern. “I have a keener appetite than Mr Wilde for the separation of the improbable from the impossible,” he said. “For myself, I am less interested in the possibility that Copplestone’s story may contain hints about the actual shape of the far future than the probability that it contained clues as to a motive for robbery. We know that Copplestone intended to offer all of us the opportunity of using his drug to put his story to the proof – and we know that someone has taken the trouble to reserve that privilege entirely to himself. But what motive could possibly have impelled anyone to do such a thing? If Sir William or Tesla really believed that the drug might disclose new insights in electrical science one of them might have thought it worth while monopolising the advantage, but they have not been given adequate grounds for believing that. If Wells or Shiel felt that the drug might be an invaluable aid to the furtherance of their budding literary careers, they might have thought it worthwhile to take possession of the formula, but like Wilde they surely have confidence enough in their own powers of invention.”
“Whereas I,” I put in, smoothly, “have no conceivable motive at all. It is clear, therefore, that it was H***** who picked his friend’s pocket, and H***** who removed the vial while W***** was busy with Copplestone’s corpse. It only remains for H***** to tell us why on earth he did it!”
There was a ripple of laughter, not because what I had said was hilarious, but because everyone was embarrassed by H*****’s dogged insistence that a crime had been committed and that someone seated at the table must therefore be a blackguard. The detective’s scowl deepened, but he must have known that had he charged me the theft the laughter would have increased. Even so, I was grateful that we were at that moment interrupted, when Copplestone’s manservant brought in a message, which he gave to the doctor.
“It is a report of the post-mortem examination,” W***** said, when he had scanned it. “Copplestone’s death was due to the general deterioration of his vital organs caused by long u
se of certain poisonous compounds. There was no evidence of any ingestion of poison within the last twenty-four hours. There is a separate note to the effect that in the absence of any evidence of breaking and entering, Scotland Yard will not be mounting an investigation of the missing vial. The matter is officially closed . . .” He trailed off, leaving something unsaid.
“It may be officially closed,” said H*****, darkly, “but it is not ended.”
It was Crookes who took it upon himself to prompt the doctor, although I too had guessed what it was that had perplexed him.
“How great was the deficit?” asked the man of science.
W***** looked up, clearly embarrassed.
“Come now,” said Crookes. “The doctors at King’s may not have considered the matter significant – after all, the weight of a body is a simple datum, if you have nothing with which to compare it – but you have been weighing Copplestone before and after his experiments for some little while. How much weight had Copplestone’s corpse lost?”
“About three stones,” said the doctor, with a sigh.
“Death is not the end,” said Crookes, as though he were quoting the final line of a mathematical proof. “This we know.”
“But he did not drink the contents of the vial,” the doctor said. “The post mortem confirms that.”
“Perhaps,” said Crookes, “he no longer needed the drug, once he had learnt the art of astral projection.”
“You aren’t saying, I hope, that he might come back?” said Tesla.
Crookes shook his grizzled head. “He opined that the body which a timeshadow left behind would not survive mortal damage to the timeshadow – but it is possible, is it not, that a timeshadow might survive the death of the body? It is, I think, certain that a feebler phantom invariably does. Is it possible that whatever Copplestone encountered in the farther reaches of his expedition could reach back to his point of origin, not to destroy but to save him? Perhaps, in the end, Copplestone overcame his fear of attack, and found himself able to accept the invitation which the world into which he went made to him.”
“This is madness,” said Tesla.
“This exchange of views does not seem to be getting us anywhere,” said H*****, acidly.
“You are right,” said Wilde. “Perhaps we expect too much of reasoned discussion – or of our own ability to make use of it. We are only human, after all. Each of us is locked within his own theories, imprisoned by his own prejudices. There can be no proof of anything that we have heard. Even if we still had the drug, and one of us the courage to use it, there would be no proof. It is, and must remain, a rough-hewn but nevertheless brilliant lie. Copplestone might have done well to remember the story of Cassandra – the wise parable which reminds us that prophets, no matter how accurate they may be, can never command belief. Mr H*****, do you have a specific charge to bring against one of us, or may we go?”
“I have no charge to bring, at present,” said H*****. “But you may be sure that the matter of the formula and the vial will not be forgotten.”
I offered the detective and the doctor a lift in my carriage, but H***** declined. I was not surprised. I suspected that I had not seen the last of Mr H*****, and that when we met again it would not be as friends.
XV
The inevitable came to pass some seventy-two hours later, when I returned to the house which I had rented in a quiet cul-de-sac off the Edgware Road. H***** must have lain in wait for some considerable time. He did not show himself immediately, but waited until the carriage had been driven round into the mews. As I set down my burden in order to bring out my keys he called my name from the bottom of the flight of steps which led up to the front door. I turned to confront him.
“How pleasant to see you again, Mr H*****,” I murmured.
“The pleasure is mutual,” he assured me, with even greater insincerity. “I apologize for the lateness of the hour. May I help you with your case?”
“No thank you,” I said. “Its contents are delicate.”
“I presume that it contains the last of the ingredients required to make up Copplestone’s formula,” he said.
I smiled wanly. I opened the door before turning to meet his gaze again.
“Enter freely,” I said, politely, “of your own will.”
When our coats and hats were hung up I conducted him into the sitting-room. The fire had burned low, there being no servant in the house to maintain it; when I had lit the candles I added more wood, and stirred it with the poker until the embers flared. I offered H***** the armchair to the right of the hearth and went to the sideboard where there was a decanter of whisky.
“Would you like a drink?” I asked. “I have no liking for alcohol myself, but I keep a little for my guests.”
“I think not,” he said. Apparently he suspected that I might poison him, although my only desire was to help him to relax. Lest that should prove impossible, though – I did not know how seriously to take his reputation as a man with a preternaturally sharp mind – I opened the right-hand drawer of the sideboard and took out the gun which rested there. When I turned with it in my hand, I saw that H***** had a gun of his own. He was touching his chin lightly with the barrel.
“What you have there,” he observed, “is an antique duelling pistol, which can only fire one shot. What I have here is Dr W*****’s old army revolver, which is a more accurate weapon by far and is fully loaded with six bullets. I think I have the advantage, don’t you?”
“Can you be fully confident of the efficacy of any gun, Mr H*****?” I asked him, mockingly. “Have you spoken to Vambery about me?”
“The professor is in Budapest,” H***** replied, “But I spoke to someone who was at the Beefsteak Club five years ago, when Vambery entertained the party with bloodcurdling tales of the vampires of Eastern Europe.”
“Then you must know that garlic and a crucifix are better tools than a pistol to keep a vampire at bay. Have you a sharpened wooden stake about you, perchance? We have quite a while to wait until dawn, I fear. I suppose you will be anxious until you see that I will not vanish away, nor shrivel to dust beneath the rays of the sun.”
“You rarely go out by day,” he said, off-handedly. “That much I have ascertained.”
I sat down, not more than eight feet away from him. I did not point my gun at him, nor did he point his at me. I knew that it would be some time before he relaxed sufficiently to be mesmerized, but the hour was late and his chair was comfortable.
“My skin and eyes are extraordinarily sensitive to sunlight,” I told him. “London’s grey pall is far less of a menace than the bluer skies of Italy or Greece, but my habits were formed in brighter climes and London’s night-life is so much more interesting than its daylit routines.”
He looked at the candles on the mantelpiece. “Even indoors,” he observed, “you seem to like gentle light. Would you prefer it, perhaps, if the candle-flames burned violet?”
“You seem confused as to which kind of vampire I might be,” I observed.
“There is no such thing as a vampire,” he informed me. “I am not a superstitious man, Count Lugard. Still, it would be interesting to hear your version of Arminius Vambery’s story – and your reasons for stealing Copplestone’s formula from Dr W*****’s coat while he was clumsily boarding your carriage.”
“Where is the good doctor?” I asked. “According to his accounts of your adventures you rarely go anywhere without him – except, of course, to that sanatorium in Switzerland to which you retired a little while ago for a rest cure. How are your nerves now, Mr H*****?”
“Copplestone’s manservant confessed his misdemeanour,” H***** said, blithely ignoring the fact that we were talking at cross-purposes. “I know that the girl was in the house, and that she had the opportunity to take the vial. She was seen talking to a person of your description – and she has not been seen in Piccadilly for three days. The other ladies of the night thought that odd, given that she had stuck so religiously to her pitch for so
me weeks previously, regardless of the winter cold. On the lookout for someone, they said. Someone special.”
“What do you suppose I have done with her?” I asked, lightly. “Do you think she scratches even now at the lid of her coffin, desperate to escape in order that she might slake her hunger for human blood?”
“What have you done with her, Monsieur le Comte?” He spoke the phrase as if it were the deadliest of insults.
“Much as I did with Vambery’s daughter,” I muttered, tiring of the game. “No more and no less. I can tell you where to find her, if you really want to, but she would not tell you anything about the vial if she could.”
“But you do have the vial,” he said, “do you not?”
“Arminius Vambery is quite mad,” I said, quietly. “You must have realized that. On all subjects but one he plays the savant to perfection, and without dissimulation, but in regard to that one subject he is the victim of a terrible delusion. If only he were not so anxious to talk about it to anyone and everyone . . . but that is the form and fabric of his madness. The preposterousness of the story does not detract from its fascination as a tale, more’s the pity. As Oscar would doubtless observe, a vivid lie is so much more memorable than a dull and naked truth.”
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