Interviewed briefly at his surgery, Sir Posthumous discounted the notion that Mr. Castle was a vampire. He attributed the attack to a "strange fit of mania" in the actor. He said vampires exist only in Eastern European fairy tales, and that there are "other explanations" that better describe what was responsible for the deaths of the women generally believed to be among the vampire's victims.
Edward Apple, stage manager at the Theatre Royal, disagreed.
"Miss Salisbury was definitely killed by a vampire," Mr. Apple said. "I saw the two holes in her neck and the blood on Castle's face as he ran past me. I saw it with my own eyes."
Mr. Apple said several men tried to detain Mr. Castle backstage.
"He threw them off like nothing. He had the strength of ten men," Mr. Apple said.
The murder and its bizarre circumstances have shaken the tight-knit London theatre community. The authorities have closed the Theatre Royal, popularly known as "Drury Lane." The theatre's management was uncertain when, if ever, HMS Pinafore would resume production. There is talk of closing other London theatres. The Home Office refused comment on that and all other aspects of the crimes that have left London on the verge of panic.
Isaac Lohmuller, the impresario who has worked closely with Mr. Castle, said he had no indication anything was amiss with the actor.
"I find any of this very difficult to understand or believe," Mr. Lohmuller said. "I had supper with Edmund two nights ago. Other than complaining he had been running a slight fever, he seemed right as rain to me."
Mr. Castle is best known for his portrayal of the evil king in Richard III.
"The irony is that Castle has achieved the greatest recognition for his Richard, Shakespeare's consummate murderous villain," said theatre critic Thomas Nelson.
Mr. Nelson decried the decision to close the Theatre Royal, and the talk of closing other theatres.
"Whenever there is a panic over disease or witchcraft or some other public hysteria, the authorities have historically looked to blame the usual scapegoats: actors, foreigners, Jews, whomever are the most convenient people to blame at the moment. People need to keep their heads. Miss Salisbury's death is a terrible thing, but a vampire, if there is such a thing, and it is responsible, is no reason for London to panic."
But Mr. Nelson's opinion did not seem to be shared by the groups of rough men who combed the streets and alleys around Drury Lane, armed with barrel staves, axe handles, and hammers as they searched for the vampire.
* * *
12
The Burning
Captain Charles Fagan, Queen's Guards, wrote to Captain Lucian after an encounter with a vampire on the heath. Fagan had been on an errand for Lucian, inspecting a horse Lucian was thinking of buying for the Prince of Wales's stables.
January 10, 1880
Lucian,
Hearing some mention of your work with the Special Committee, I knew you would want to know straightaway about the violent encounter I had tonight with the vampire.
I was returning from having a look at the Irish cob you sent me to examine. About that matter I need say nothing but that the dealer is either deranged or dishonest to believe the animal is worth anywhere near what he is asking.
It was dark and cold, but thinking of softer things than a bed at an inn, I determined to ride back to London. I was galloping Sultan across the heath when I came upon a crowd of ruffians gathered around a tumbledown cottage that looked as if a strong wind could have knocked it down.
What's the game, then? I asked, pulling up at the edge of the crowd.
It's the vampire, one of the rustics said, claiming to have him trapped inside the house.
Sultan reared up, pawing the air with his front legs, twisting his neck, snorting. I pulled hard on the reins and made him settle.
I asked who was in charge.
The men looked around at one another. As suspected, nobody was in charge of the unruly mob, which had whipped itself into a frenzy of fear bent on violence. I wished I had a saber or my pistols. As it was, I had only the advantage of being on horseback.
A vampire? I asked. What makes you think there is a vampire in this hovel?
We chased him here after he killed Long Liz, the man said.
By this time the crowd had quieted enough to listen to our dialogue.
After several more questions, I learned Long Liz was a prostitute who worked in a tavern at the edge of the heath, in a village about half a mile from the cottage. She had been found in a room a few minutes after the vampire came out. She was dead, drained of her blood, a pair of bite marks in her neck. The men pursued the vampire to the cottage, which had stood empty since the death of the old peat cutter who had been its last tenant.
By now I was slightly more convinced there might be something to the mob's claim, having heard the stories going around London about the vampire. I suggested they bring him out and bind him up for the authorities. The crowd grumbled. They were brave enough as long as they were part of a mob, but there was precious little individual courage among them.
Come on then, I shouted. Which of you lads is brave enough to go inside with me and bring him out? The men mostly looked down at their shuffling feet, but four stepped forward as volunteers. I climbed down from Sultan and gave the reins to my interlocutor.
I gathered my squad together and told them that, when the enemy is outnumbered, a frontal assault is the best attack. We'll burst in through the door and overpower him, I said, then bind him with rope or strips of cloth, whatever we can find, and hold him until the authorities arrive.
I kicked the door open and we dashed in. The vampire was standing in the middle of the cottage's single room, as if waiting for us. We threw ourselves on him, only to have him toss us back like a mighty stag using his antlers to fling yelping beagles into the air. He managed to grab one of the fellows and sink his teeth into the poor man's neck. I have never seen teeth like that on a man—long, curving, cruel, like the teeth of a tiger yet narrower in gauge, like a viper's.
With the vampire thus engaged, the others in my squad lost their courage and fled through the open door. I looked around for a weapon. A spade was the only thing handy, so I picked it up and swung it down hard on the vampire's shoulder and neck, snapping the wooden handle. The vampire seemed to hardly notice. He looked up at me with eyes that glowed red in the torchlight coming through the door. It was then that I realized I had done everything I could do but make a strategic retreat. I backed slowly out and pulled the door shut behind me.
The mob made it unnecessary to decide on an alternate campaign. Torches had already been thrown onto the thatch roof, which began to burn like tinder. Armloads of wood from a ruined shed were piled against the door, the only way out of the cottage, and set afire. Within a minute the small house was transformed into a conflagration.
I climbed back on Sultan, who was doing his best to terrify the man who was holding his reins. I had a choice to make if the vampire escaped the blaze, impossible though that seemed. I could ride hard for armed reinforcement, or pursue him on horseback. Before I could come to a conclusion, a weird animal howl rose above the roar and crackle of the fire. Next came two loud thumps as the vampire threw himself against the door. The wood cracked a bit, I think, but the burning boards and timbers made escape impossible.
The howl began again, a terrible banshee wail that made Sultan stamp and rear.
And then, to the complete astonishment of all, the vampire shot like a signal rocket up through the burning roof. He must have jumped thirty or forty feet in the air, like a circus performer shot out of a cannon. His clothing and hair were on fire, so that he trailed flame and smoke as he rose into the cold, black night. He seemed to hang there for a moment against the starless sky, his face and hands upstretched, as if to beg God for help or forgiveness. And then, slowly at first but then with fast-gathering speed, the monster plunged back toward the earth. He had risen up straight, as if standing, then he became horizontal as he fell, his arms outstretche
d almost in the shape of the cross at the moment he crashed into the burning thatch roof in an explosion of spark and flame.
The burning cottage collapsed on the vampire.
After that, there was no sound or movement but that of the fire. Not even the witnesses spoke or moved until after it was certain the vampire's immolation was complete.
I stopped at the Cock & Ball Tavern on my way back into London, to look over the few personal belongings the vampire left behind when he fled. There were papers that identified him as Edmund Castle, the actor who killed the actress in Drury Lane last week. I suspect that if the authorities inspect Madeline Salisbury's body closely, they will discover two puncture wounds in her neck, as were found in Long Liz. Though Liz's body was gone by the time I got to the Cock & Ball, the innkeeper confirmed the details I had heard from the mob about the neck wounds.
We can discuss this in more detail if you wish. As for me, it is nearly dawn and I must go exhausted to my bed.
At your service,
Captain Charles Fagan,
Queen's Guards
* * *
PART IV
The Paleontologist
* * *
13
The Jabberwock
From the field journal of James Cotswold, Ph.D., Harvard University, kept during his visit to London, 1879-80.
January 11, 1880. Blackley dragged me to a ball. It was a full-blown formal affair, as insufferable as a Harvard faculty meeting. The men were dressed up like monkeys in boiled shirts and tails, and the women in ridiculous plumage of gowns and jewels. They paired up like prairie chickens to prance about the floor in a courtship ritual while the orchestra played waltzes.
The soiree was at Lord Shaftbury's residence, which is more of a palace than a proper house. A king—one of the Henrys, I think, though not the bloody one who had his wives' heads chopped off—built the place for one of his mistresses. It's a sprawling marble pile that makes it easier to understand the men who get up on soapboxes in Hyde Park to rave about reform.
Blackley said I needed to attend the ball because "all of society" would be there, including Mayfair's luminaries, several of whom are entangled in the so-called "vampire epidemic." I think Blackley's real motive in wrangling me an invitation was that he simply wanted to show me a good time, which I ended up having in spite of myself.
What little objectivity the committee could have claimed went out the window after Blackley had the ill fortune to be in the theatre when an actor named Edmund Castle killed an actress on stage, supposedly by drinking her blood. Madeline Salisbury did die of blood loss, and there were puncture wounds in her neck that apparently healed postmortem. Still, I remain correctly skeptical, although I am the only one on the committee making the least pretense of doubting the existence of vampires in London. Castle appeared to bite Miss Salisbury's throat, but there was nobody close enough to actually see it. It would have been useful to question Castle, but that was made impossible when a mob burned him to death in a house outside London. I have read the account of a witness, one of Captain Lucian's friends. I was shocked to learn that even an army officer could become caught up in the hysteria to imagine the poor man "jumped" some forty feet into the air, through the burning roof, to escape the flames.
As there has been little hope of achieving any science in the course of this dubious investigation, I intended to inform Shaftbury at the ball I was resigning from the committee and returning to America to get ready to dig tyrannosaurus bones in Wyoming in spring when the ground thaws. But I changed my mind, and for entirely personal reasons—more on that in a bit.
The ball was in honor of Sir William Petersen, the Viceroy of India, congratulating him, I presumed, for his role in the ongoing plunder of the colony. I discovered, to my surprise, that Sir William was an altogether agreeable man. He is a tall, barrel-shaped fellow who must weigh three hundred pounds, with unruly hair and a full brown beard shot through with streaks of gray. His hand swallowed mine, his fingers nearly as big around as an infant's arm. Viking stock, I guessed, an expression of robust Nordic physical characteristics in the watered-down English gene pool.
"I heard your talk to the Royal Society last week, Professor Cotswold. Absolutely smashing."
We agreed to get together at another time to talk about dinosaurs, which have the power to intrigue the most unlikely people, I've found. I made my way to a quiet corner. A servant offered me a glass of champagne, which I accepted. I have never cared for it but the prospect of getting a glass of beer or a whiskey at Shaftbury's shindig seemed remote.
"Why the glum face?" Blackley asked as he joined me. "Don't tell me you're disappointed I forgot to arrange an invitation for Professor Van Helsing."
"I can understand why a boy like Lucian would fall for this tripe, but the rest of you are old enough to know better."
"There are more things under heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."
"Quoting Shakespeare is especially appropriate, if you mean to infer the committee's scientific horizons extend no farther than an Elizabethan's. That does appear to be the case."
"I know what I saw at the Theatre Royal."
"You know what you think you saw," I said in retort. "As for Van Helsing, I have no doubt the man is a fraud."
"How do you explain Annie Howard's empty grave?"
"If an empty coffin proves Annie Howard is a vampire, does an empty pocket prove I am a pauper?"
"I could lend you a few bob if you are hard up, Professor."
"As a matter of fact, my pocket isn't empty, but thank you anyway. My point is that appearances are superficial. They stand for something, but they are hardly a substitute for hard data. Inferring Annie Howard's transformation into a vampire on the evidence of her empty coffin is the least likely of several explanations that come to mind. Someone could have taken the body. Or maybe the body was never in the coffin in the first place. Did you attend the funeral? Did you see the body placed in the coffin, and the coffin placed in the ground and covered with dirt? Maybe the body was stolen. Or maybe it was dumped in a common grave to defraud Lady Moore."
"Why would anybody steal a corpse?"
"What a question for a physician to ask, Blackley. You went to medical school. You dissected cadavers."
"You may be forced to rob graves to supply anatomy classes in the United States, Professor, but I assure you there is no shortage of paupers to supply the universities in Britain."
It was at that point Lord Shaftbury whirled across the floor with the most beautiful woman in his arms that I had ever seen. Her hair was so blond it was nearly white, topped by an emerald tiara, and her neck and delicate ears were covered with a matching emerald necklace and earrings. The gown was cut dangerously low over her bosom. As they waltzed, she looked at Shaftbury with an arch expression, as if whatever he was saying amused her on several levels.
"The Contessa Saint-Simon," Blackley told. "A real stunner. I hear she's Shaftbury's mistress."
"I've met Lady Shaftbury," I said. "If she were my wife, I doubt I'd have much interest in a mistress, even one as lovely as the Contessa."
"You betray your provincial origins, old boy. In British society it is almost in bad taste to be in love with one's wife. Besides, Shaftbury is most euphoniously named. He is quite intent on burying his shaft wherever he can."
I asked if it was common then for English men to keep women on the side.
"Of course, but most of the women aren't 'kept' in the way you mean. It is far more convenient to carry on with someone who is safely married. Why my dear Cotswold, you look positively scandalized. Do you find us decadent?"
I said nothing to dissuade him of the idea.
"We are, in our way, extremely moral. One must strictly obey the rules of the game or face disgrace. Discretion must be observed above all else. Scandal is anathema. Liaisons can be overlooked as long as one is discreet."
There was a commotion at the entry. A visible thrill shot through the cro
wd, as if the doors had been opened to admit a refreshing breeze into an airless room.
Someone cried: "His Royal Highness, Prince Edward Albert."
The dancing stopped as the men and women in the room turned as one toward the figure in the entryway. The Prince of Wales was not at all what I expected. He was short and stout, with a round, bearded face and thinning hair. He looked more like a prosperous banker than a prince. The crowd parted as the Prince made his way toward the dance floor. The orchestra started again, and there was the Prince, waltzing with Contessa Saint-Simon.
"Poor Shaftbury," Blackley said. "I think Bertie has just stolen his mistress."
Shaftbury stood at the edge of the crowd, watching his Prince dance with his mistress with a look of seemingly authentic joy on his face. In some ways England is like an Oriental satrapy, where everything and everyone is subject to the monarch's whim.
"Professor Cotswold, may I present Charles Dodgson?"
I stuck out my hand and said hello to the fellow Blackley was introducing.
"P-P-P-Pleased to meet you," Dodgson stammered.
"Dodgson lectures in mathematics at Christ College, Oxford. How's the work coming on the treatise?"
Dodgson looked flustered and nodded.
"He's writing a book about symbolic logic," Blackley explained. "It's all beyond me, I'm afraid."
"A dive into the lake of pure reason," I said helpfully.
"That's the g-g-g-general idea," Dodgson replied. He had an unfortunate way of opening his eyes wide and gulping when he became stuck on a word, as if a fish bone were caught in his throat. "I'm a-f-f-f-f..." He looked around with bug-eyed horror, as if in fear he might prove unable to finish the thought. But he started over and got it out. "I'm afraid it isn't g-g-g-going well."
The London Vampire Panic Page 8