by Simon Hawke
"It seems that no one has," said Grayson. "Any idea where I might find him, Lord Douglas?"
Douglas gave an elaborate shrug. "The last time I saw Tony, he was otherwise engaged. Not with an actress. I mean." He said "actress" as if it were a distasteful word. "He was with a dark, Mediterranean looking gentleman."
"Mediterranean?" said Grayson. "Could you describe him?"
"Tall, slim, black hair, swarthy. but in an elegant sort of way," said Douglas. "Well mannered and well dressed. A man of obvious means. He was foreign, a titled gentleman. He was a very striking looking man. I remember he wore a top hat and an opera cape. I do not recall his name."
"When exactly was this, Lord Douglas?" Grayson said. "Oh, I can't be sure," said Douglas. "Two weeks ago, perhaps'! Maybe three."
"And where was this?"
"Why, at the Lyceum," Douglas said.
"You would not, by any chance, happen to know where I could reach this gentleman'?" Grayson said.
"Haven't the faintest," Douglas said.
"Well, if you should happen to see him again, or Mr. Hesketh, perhaps you'd be kind enough to let me know," Grayson said,
Douglas shrugged.
"Something tells me, Inspector Grayson, that this matter is not entirely routine, as you put it." said Wilde. "Do you suspect some sort of foul play in this young woman's death?"
"I am merely making inquiries, Mr. Wilde."
"I see. Well, Bram Stoker would be your man, then. He manages all of Henry Irving's affairs and he is the Lyceum Theatre's mother hen."
"I see. Well, thank you for your help," said Grayson. "And if you see either of those gentlemen again, I should very much like to speak with them."
"So would I, Inspector," Wilde said, glancing curiously at Douglas. Grayson was glad to leave. Wilde seemed likeable enough, despite his nature, but he did not care much for the coterie surrounding him, particularly the young Lord
Douglas. It was, felt Grayson, a dangerous association, especially given the
character of the boy's father.
His thoughts would prove prophetic. Within a year, the Marquess of Queensberry, outraged by his son's relationship with the notorious Wilde, would accuse Wilde of being a sodomite. And Wilde, urged on by the irresponsible Douglas, would ignore the entreaties of his friends and commit the greatest mistake of his life by suing Queensberry for libel, thereby placing the burden of proof for the accusation upon Queensberry's counsel, who would come to trial prepared to bring forward a number of young men to testify that Wilde had committed "indecencies" with them. Wilde would drop the suit on the third day of the trial on the advice of his counsel, but by then it would be too late. Like many artists who were ignorant of the subtler realities of life, Wilde never understood the importance of the distinction between what was widely known and more or less ignored in certain social circles and what was legally proven in a courtroom, where it could not be ignored. On the same day he dropped the suit; Wilde would be arrested and eventually sentenced to two years of hard labor. He would serve the full sentence and upon his release, would be shunned by the society that had once lionized him. Ile would spend the remaining three years of his life in exile and die in Paris, yet in spite of everything, he would retain his spirit to the end. On his deathbed in the Hotel d'Alsace, while suffering from the acute pain of cerebral meningitis, he would jokingly complain about the aesthetically unappealing wallpaper in his bedroom. "It is killing me," he would say with his last breath. "One of us has to go." As for Lord Alfred Douglas, the instigator of it all, he would emerge from the affair unscathed and go on to write a book about his relationship with Wilde. So much for the ironies of life.
But as Grayson left the Cafe Royal, his thoughts were not concerned with Oscar Wilde and his flirtations with disaster so had said. "possibly of Mediterranean blood." And Doyle had also hinted at the possibility of perversion being involved, secrets darkly kept. Some not kept so darkly or so well, thought Grayson. wryly. Douglas had not left much doubt as to the character of Tony Hesketh. Links were forming. A swarthy, foreign gentleman linked to Tony Hesketh. Hesketh linked to Angeline Crewe. Angeline Crewe was dead and Tony Hesketh was missing. And the last place any of them had been seen was the Lyceum Theatre. It was time to have another talk with Mr. Bram Stoker.
Tony Hesketh's sanity was hanging by a thread. He did not know where he was. He knew only that he was in a dark, damp cell, barely illuminated by a single torch set into a sconce in the stone iv-all. It was like a dungeon in a medieval castle: what little he had seen of it when he was brought here was in ruins. He heard the distant drip of water. He could not move to explore his surroundings because he was manacled to the wall, his arms chained to an iron ring above him. He could barely remain standing to support his weight and when he sagged down from exhaustion,
the chains sent a wrenching pain through his shoulders. His coat had been
removed and his white shirt had been ripped open, exposing his throat and chest. He was cold, but there was a burning pain in his neck, at a spot on his throat directly over the jugular vein.
He did not remember how he came here. The last thing he could recall was going down to Whitechapel with his new friend, his rich, exotic and exciting friend, and they had walked through the thick fog together, fog so thick that Hesketh couldn't even see where he was going, but his friend had taken him by the hand and led him, promising a wild. new experience and then somehow they were here, in this ruined castle— how could there possibly be a castle in Whitechapel!— and he was led down to the dungeon as his friend walked ahead of him, carrying a torch, and it looked as if no one had disturbed the dust of centuries, as if they had somehow stepped out of London and into another place in another, long forgotten time. And then the nightmare had begun.
The sun was going down. Tony Hesketh could not see outside but he knew the sun was going down as surely as if there were a window in the dungeon cell. After three weeks in this horrifying place, three weeks of the same, mind-numbing, terrifying routine, he knew. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light and on the far side of the cell; he could see the large black coffin carved from ebony and worked with intricate designs and silver filigree, resting on a marble pedestal. He remembered the chilling words that had been spoken to him the night he had been brought here and chained to the stone wall.
"I will sleep close to you now. I will remain with you until the change has taken
place."
He had not known what those words meant then, but he knew now and it frightened him beyond all measure. He could feel it happening. After the first time, he had been sick, retching uncontrollably, his stomach cramping his vision blurring. Then he became racked with fever and then chills. Sweat poured from every pore. He soiled himself repeatedly, but the chains were never taken off and now he stank, encrusted with his own filth. And he was starving. He wasn't given any food. From time to time, he was allowed a drink of water, but lately it no longer satisfied his thirst. His thirst now was for another kind of drink. It filled him with loathing but he could not resist the urge.
The sun was down. Tony Hesketh hung from his chains and whimpered. The lid of the coffin opened slowly, with a creaking sound. Like a wild animal, Tony strained against the chains. The manacles hit deeply into the soft flesh of his wrists and blood began to flow. In spite of himself, the sight of it excited him.
"It is almost finished. Tony,•• said the man standing before him, dressed in elegant black evening clothes and a long. silk-lined opera cape. "Soon now, very soon, your new life will begin."
"Oh, God," moaned Tony. "It hurts. It hurts so much, please, can't you make it stop?"
"Are you hungry. Tony?"
"No. no. please, no more, not again—"
"You are hungry, aren't you?"
“No!”
"Aren't you?"
"Yes!" Tony whispered savagely. "Yes, let me, please . . ." "Then give me what I need."
"Yes, do it." Tony whispered. "do it now!"
He bent
his head back exposing his throat. Warm lips caressed his neck and then he felt the fire of sharp fangs penetrating the soft skin of his throat and he moaned then shuddered as he exploded in a violent climax. His mouth was opened wide in ecstasy, revealing long, protruding teeth.
It was getting very late and Goodtime Gordy still hadn't found a customer. The night was chilly and her shawl was threadbare, but she could not seek refuge from the cold or even buy herself a nip of gin to warm up her insides. She had run out of money and there'd be no crib for her tonight unless she found a means of paying for it. The trouble was, it was a buyer's market and with every passing day, Gordy had less and less to sell.
It was the young ones, she thought miserably. More of them every day, younger and prettier, still with all their teeth, where did they all come from'? All that was left for her to do was to sell herself more cheaply. At this rate, soon she'd be giving it away. She didn't know what she was going to do. She was getting old and ugly and she looked worn out. The few teeth she had left were loose, her hack was hurting her, her eyes were sunken and bloodshot and her nose was veined with ruptured capillaries from a steady diet of gin. She was twenty-eight
years old.
A hunched over figure shambled inwards her through the mist and she quickly prepared to make a desperate pitch. She loosened her shawl and opened up her blouse, pushing up her breasts. She had to remember to smile with her mouth closed. so as not to reveal her missing teeth.
"'Ello. Ducks," she said, striking a saucy pose. " 'Ow's about a bit o'— "
Two hairy hands shot out and grabbed her by her shoulders with incredible strength. She felt claws sinking deep into her flesh. She heard an animal growl and saw a face more horrible than anything that she had ever seen in her worst nightmares. She had time for one, brief, piercing scream.
Steiger poured himself a shot of straight Scotch whiskey and tossed it down, then refilled the glass. There had been two more killings. First the actress, Angeline Crewe. drained of almost all her blood, and then a Whitechapel streetwalker named Glynnis Gordon, "Goodtime Gordy" to her friends, found in an alley with her throat torn out. They had been unable to keep that one out of the papers. Her body had been discovered by two of her neighbors and they had spoken to reporters. One paper had run the story under the headline, "Return of the Ripper?" Another proclaimed. "Whitechapel Murder in the Style of Springheel Jack!" And there were no leads. Nobody had seen a thing.
It was maddening. The file search of recent depositors at the Bank of England and recent real estate leaseholds had produced a large number of correlations which Rizzo and Ransome were busy checking out, but it was taking too much time. Brant and Craven were now on full-time surveillance duty, watching H. G. Wells, but he was going on about his normal routine and nothing unusual had happened. For all they knew, nothing would. It could be simple coincidence that Wells had foreseen so many future developments, coincidence that he had written about a scientist named Moreau who was engaged in biological experimentation, coincidence that he had written about time travel. And there had been nothing unusual in Conan Doyle's behavior. either. He kept consulting with Inspector Grayson, but otherwise, he did not seem to he involved in any temporally anomalous events. Only Neilson had come up with any signilicant information as a result of his cover position at the crime lab. What he had come up with wasn't much, but it was cause for worry.
"I think we've got at least two of them." Neilson was saying. "The Crewe murder was different from the other two. She fits the classic profile of a vampire's victim in fiction. Whatever happened to her, she apparently went along with it willingly, or at least willingly in the sense that she wasn't assaulted with the same physical force as the other victims. There may have been some other form of duress, perhaps psychological, maybe even biochemical, because
she apparently never complained about what happened to her."
"What do we know about her?" Steiger said.
"From what Grayson told Conan Doyle in my presence." Neilson said, "all I know is that she had recently arrived in London from Richmond Hill. Her family is very well off. They weren't very pleased about her wanting to become an actress. She was seeing a young man named Tony Hesketh, who has apparently disappeared. Hesketh may have been bisexual. Ile was close to some of the young men in Oscar Wilde's circle and he was last seen at the Lyceum Theatre in the company of a dark, foreign looking man dressed in elegant evening clothes and an opera cape, described as a Mediterranean type, a gentleman, elegant and striking looking, with a title."
"Sounds like Count Dracula." said Finn Delaney. Steiger gave him a sharp look. "You don't think . . ."
"I was only kidding." said Delaney. An anxious expression crossed his face. "I think."
"Let me see those lists," said Andre. She grabbed the lists of recent bank depositors and real estate leasehold transactions and started scanning them.
"Oh, come on," said Steiger. "Drakov would never be that obvious."
"I don't know," said Delaney. "It could be just the sort of thing that would amuse him, throwing down the gauntlet that way. Jesus, a genetically engineered vampire. And if such a creature's genetic makeup was also contagious—"
"It would be, knowing Drakov," Steiger said.
"How about that for temporal terrorism?" said Delaney. "Unleashing a plague of vampires and werewolves on Victorian London. And the timing is positively macabre. Just one year before Brain Stoker started work on Dracula. One year before The Time Machine was published."
"And it was always believed that Stoker based his character on the historical Dracula from the 15th century," said Andre, still scanning the lists. "Drakov might just have decided to make the character truly historical. And the similarity of their names, that would only be one more thing that would make the idea appeal to him."
"Anything?" said Steiger, watching her scan the lists. She shook her head.
"You know, we may be overlooking something, sir." said Neilson. "What about rentals?"
"Jesus, rentals!•• Steiger said. "How the hell would we ever track down rentals? There's just no way!"
"Possibly not, sir," Neilson said, "but on the other hand, would Drakov really go in for a bed-and-breakfast sort of deal? I mean, it doesn't seem very likely that he'd rent ordinary moms like your average London boarder. He'd want something bigger, probably, more private. An unused estate, maybe, or a warehouse—"
"A warehouse!" said Delaney. "And all the killings so far occurred within the same general area, the East End of London, within easy access of the docks on the Thames."
"Neilson, you seem to be the only one who's doing any thinking around here." Steiger said. "Start checking the warehouse district on the docks during your off-duty hours from the crime lab. I'll try to get you some help. There can't be that many warehouses standing empty, so you can automatically eliminate the ones in active use. Maybe we're finally getting somewhere. Christ, it's like looking for a goddamn needle in a haystack. Somehow, we've got to get a break on this."
"What about the newspaper reports?" said Andre.
"Not much we can do about them now," said Steiger. "I'd rather have them writing about a new series of Ripper murders than vampires and werewolves loose in London."
"There's one more thing, sir,•" Neilson said. "The man who's missing, Tony Hesketh. It may not be a bad idea to stake out his apartments. If he returns, he may no longer be the same if you know what I mean. He's been missing for about three weeks. I don't know how long it would take for the viral genome to bring about a mutation, but if he's not dead, he may provide us with our first real lead."
"Good idea," said Steiger. "I'll pull Rizzo off the estate search and assign him to watch Hesketh's rooms. Have we got an address on him?"
"Not yet, sir," Neilson said, "but I might be able to sneak a look at Grayson's files and get it."
"All right, do it. But be careful. Don't get caught. We can't afford to have you sacked from your job at the lab. It's been our only source of information so<
br />
far."
"I'll be careful, sir.–
"Okay. get going." Steiger checked his watch. "Who's watching Conan Doyle now? Craven?"
"Yes. I had her relieve me for about an hour so I could make the briefing." Andre said.
"All right, get back there. She'll have to relieve Brant at Wells' house in several hours and I want her to be fresh." "How are you holding up?" said Delaney.
"I'm not getting much sleep, if that's what you mean," said Steiger. "But then holding down the fort has never been my style. I'll be glad when something breaks and we can stop stretching ourselves so thin. But until then, it's got to he a waiting game." He tossed back another drink. "I only hope we won't have to wait too long."