by Mark Hodder
Burton reached up and massaged his temples. “How quickly are the un-dead made?”
“By a nosferatu, if he need much sustenance, many in a single night. But a strigoi morti, it must feed again and again on the same individual to make that one un-dead, too.”
“But, nevertheless, they proliferate?”
“Like the black plague.”
“That, at least, might help us to locate Perdurabo. I shall alert Scotland Yard to look out for any reports that might indicate such activity. By Allah, how am I to convince Chief Commissioner Mayne that a vampire is on the loose?”
“The police, they must see it with their own eyes, I think.”
For the rest of the weekend, the two men studied.
Monday, the last day of October, was the first cold day of the autumn; so much so that Burton had the fire lit and he and Levi sat around it, with books piled beside their chairs.
A letter arrived from Isabel. She reported that preparations were almost complete at New Wardour Castle and the first houseguests, her friends Mr. and Mrs. Beeton, had arrived.
Sadhvi has been of splendid assistance, and her stories of the hardships you all endured in Africa have certainly improved your standing in my parents’ eyes. Perhaps they are beginning to understand, as I do, that your thorns function to preserve and protect the rarest of blooms: a courageous, honourable, and sensitive man; the only man I could possibly marry. Oh, Dick, if you could see how supportive Papa, in particular, has become; how much he has thrown himself into decorating the ballroom, organising the rooms to accommodate the guests, hiring the extra staff, planning the menus, and so forth. It has been quite simply wonderful. I must say, however, that of all of us, nobody has worked harder than Tom, our remarkable groundsman. As you know, Capability Brown landscaped the estate back in the late 1700s, and none is more “capable” of maintaining the gardens than good old Tom, but my goodness, what a task he faced after last week’s atrocious storm! Trees were down, there were branches, twigs, and leaves strewn all over, fences had fallen, and even bits and pieces from the nearby villages had blown onto our lawns and flowerbeds. In his typically quiet and efficient manner, our man enlisted a force of locals and had the place shipshape and Bristol fashion in the blink of an eye. He’s an absolute gem! But what a strange thing; as I sit here by the window and look out at his marvellous handiwork, I see ravens gathering by the hundreds in the trees and, in the distance, they blacken the tops of the old castle’s walls. You know what a superstitious thing I am, Dick. What with that horrible omen uttered by Hagar Burton and now these wicked-looking fiends “tapping, tapping at my chamber door,” I am overcome with uneasiness and a sense of foreboding. Bless my soul; your bride-to-be is a quivering bag of nerves! Perhaps it is normal. Dear Isabella says she felt the same way before she wed Sam Beeton. I should consider her happiness a far better indicator of our future than silly auguries and squawking birds!
To Burton, it was inconceivable that his engagement party was already just five days away and he’d be at New Wardour Castle by tomorrow afternoon. He was so engulfed by uncanny events that the mundane prospect of a social occasion felt strange and out of place.
He put Isabel’s letter aside and opened another. It was from Buckingham Palace and signed by the king’s personal secretary: The converted stables in the mews behind numbers 13 & 14 Montagu Place have been purchased in your name. Keys enclosed.
Mystified, Burton went downstairs, out into the backyard, passed through the door into Wyndham Mews, and crossed to the two buildings in question. In the first, he found two brand-new rotorchairs, in the second, a new steam sphere and two velocipedes. A note lay on the seat of the sphere. It read: With compliments, His Majesty King George V.
Burton was speechless.
At three in the afternoon, a falsetto screeching drifted up from the street below. It continued for five minutes and was followed by the jingling of the doorbell. The stairs creaked as Mrs. Angell ascended. She knocked, entered, and stood with hands on hips. “A small hobgoblin has invaded our hallway.”
“Does it have red hair?” Burton asked.
“Oh, is that what it is? I thought the creature’s head was on fire. I was going to throw a bucket of water over it before chasing it away with my broom.”
“Resist the temptation, please, and send the apparition up. He is one of our dinner guests.”
“Very well, if you think it wise.”
She departed and half a minute later Algernon Swinburne bounded in.
“Swindlers!” he shrieked. “To a man! Swindlers all! To perdition with them!”
“À qui faites-vous allusion?” Eliphas Levi asked.
“To whom do I refer? Why, to cab drivers, of course! The villains are forever altering their charges!”
“Depending on the distance travelled,” Burton explained.
“Twaddle and bosh! A cab ride is a shilling! A shilling, I tell you!” Swinburne surveyed the room. “I say! Are you planning an army or a library, Burton? Swords, pistols, a spear, and books, books, books!” He capered alongside the shelves, his eyes running over the many volumes, then let out a sudden howl of dismay—“Walt Whitman? Walt Whitman?”—and yanked a leather-bound book down. “Leaves of Grass? How can you possibly inhabit the same room as this mess of voluminous and incoherent effusions? My hat! You must be liberated at once!” With a violent swing of his arm, he hurled the book across the study. It hit the corner of a desk just above a waste-paper basket and rebounded, spinning with perfect accuracy into the fireplace.
“Oops!” the poet said. “I was aiming for the bin. But it’s for the best. Burn, foul putrescence!” then to Burton, “Are you going to stand there with your mouth open, old chap, or offer me a brandy?”
Burton cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, Algy. How pleasant to see you again. Do come in. Make yourself comfortable. Can I interest you in a drink? Perhaps a small brandy?”
Swinburne plonked himself into the armchair Eliphas Levi had occupied before standing to greet him. “Small?”
Burton rolled his eyes and moved to the bureau. He poured the poet a generous measure, and lesser ones for himself and the Frenchman. After handing his guests their drinks, he indicated that Levi should take the unoccupied armchair. “I have a question for you, Algy. If I placed you among staunch Catholics and asked you to behave yourself, would you be capable?”
“Of politely curing their delusions?”
“No. Of keeping your mouth shut. I’m inclined to invite you to accompany me to New Wardour Castle tomorrow but not unless you can do as Monckton Milnes does, and keep your paganism to yourself. Could you give recitations for the benefit of the guests without causing them offence?”
“Sir Richard, my poems are by no means confined solely to anti-Christian declamations. If we are to celebrate your engagement, then surely verses that eulogise love and affection would be more suitable?”
“Quite so, and certainly more likely to be appreciated by the audience,” Burton confirmed.
Swinburne gazed upward, his eyes taking on a dreamy expression, and chanted:
The shapely slender shoulders small,
Long arms, hands wrought in glorious wise,
Round little breasts, the hips withal
High, full of flesh, not scant of size,
Fit for all amorous masteries;
The large loins, and the flower that was
Planted above my firm round thighs
In a small garden of soft grass…
“Stop!” Burton commanded. “That sort of thing is also best avoided.”
Swinburne giggled. “Testing the boundaries, old thing! Testing the boundaries! I have a rather lengthy piece, unfinished, but I can improvise. It tells the story of the ill-fated lovers Tristan and Isolde.”
“But, mon Dieu!” Levi put in. “Such tragédie—at une célébration?”
“We English glory in the juxtaposition of opposing sentiments, Monsieur Levi. Nothing makes us more conscious of the glor
ies of love than a tale of its obstruction, loss, or sacrifice,” Swinburne answered.
“Ah! Romeo et Juliet!”
“Indeed so.”
The poet knocked his drink back, gave a satisfied sigh, and said to Burton, “I assure you, I shall be the shoul of dishcretion, old shap!”
A loud hammering sounded at the street door.
“By thunder!” Swinburne exclaimed. “Thunder!”
“Trounce,” Burton corrected. “He appears to have a blind spot where doorbells are concerned.”
Crossing the room, he went out onto the landing and looked down the stairs in time to see Mrs. Angell admit Detective Inspectors Trounce and Slaughter.
“Come on up, gentlemen,” he called.
His housekeeper glared at their police-issue boots as the two men ascended the stairs.
“Would you bring up a glass of milk, please, Mother Angell?”
“What ho! What ho!” Swinburne cheered as the detectives entered the study.
Burton introduced Slaughter to the poet and to Levi, arranged chairs, poured drinks, lit another cigar, waited until his housekeeper had delivered Slaughter’s milk, then gave the group an account of his discussion with Levi.
The policemen reacted with blank faces.
Slaughter mumbled, “A vampire? Really, sir, I’m a martyr to indigestion and this manner of hoo-ha doesn’t help it at all.”
“I must confess,” Burton said, “I’m finding it hard to swallow, too. Have you made any progress with your side of things?”
“Not a great deal, unfortunately. No further abductions and no sign of John Judge. Wherever he went after he escaped Anglesey, he’s so far evaded the police.”
Trounce said, “We’ve kept a round-the-clock watch on the League of Enochians Gentlemen’s Club—a very odd place. The lights come on at night. We see shadows pass across the curtains. We’ve even listened at the door and heard voices within. However, no amount of knocking or shouting has solicited a response, the place remains locked, there have been no deliveries of food, drink, or anything else, and not a single soul has been observed coming or going from either the front or the back of the building.”
“Puzzling. What of Edward Vaughan Hyde Kenealy?”
“I spoke to William Grove, the King’s Counsel under whom Kenealy worked in defence of the poisoner William Palmer. Grove declared him a nightmare to deal with. Extremely erratic. Apparently he considers himself a direct descendent of Jesus Christ and Genghis Khan. He’s a complete lunatic.” Trounce glanced at Swinburne. “There’s a lot of ’em about.”
Burton smiled. He turned to Slaughter. “I want you to have a look at passenger lists for the transatlantic liners. A man named Thomas Lake Harris is due to give a talk at the club on the ninth of November. He’s either already in the country or will be arriving soon. Get on his tail.”
Slaughter nodded.
“Well, then, gentlemen,” Burton said. “Mrs. Angell will be serving dinner at seven. Until then, I suggest we relax and go through the events again. Certain aspects of this affair are beginning to make sense—if ‘sense’ is the appropriate word for such extraordinary circumstances—but we are still faced with many enigmas. Let us, as they say, chew the fat.”
Slaughter looked distraught, and Burton added, “That most definitely is not a reference to my housekeeper’s cooking.”
On Tuesday the 1st of November, Burton, Bram, Levi, and Swinburne travelled seventy miles southwest by atmospheric railway to Salisbury and from there a further ten miles by steam landau to the village of Tisbury and on to New Wardour Castle. After being dropped at the estate’s entrance gate, they tugged at the bellpull and waited. Two minutes passed, then the large wooden portal creaked open and a slightly built man greeted them. His brown moustache was flamboyantly wide, waxed, and curled upward at the ends; his lacquered hair was parted in the middle; and he possessed grey eyes with small pupils. Though dressed in tweeds, with gaiters over his calves, he somehow managed to wear the rustic outfit with a foppish air—every button being polished and every seam perfectly stitched, without fraying or wear and tear in sight.
“Sir Richard and guests?” he asked, in a clipped and precise tone.
“Yes, good afternoon,” Burton replied.
“Good afternoon, sir. Thomas Honesty, groundsman. I’ll drive you to the house.”
They entered, followed the dapper fellow to the lodge house, and waited while he stoked a steam carriage’s furnace.
“My fiancée speaks very highly of you, Mr. Honesty,” Burton said. “Your flower beds are the pride of the county. I hear you had your work cut out for you after the great storm.”
“Shambles,” Honesty replied. “Place in disarray. Bad timing. Had to work fast. Clear up. Big party and lots of guests coming.”
They mounted the conveyance.
“Are there many already arrived?” Burton asked.
Honesty climbed onto the driver’s seat. “Some, sir. Miss Raghavendra. Been here a while. Mr. and Mrs. Beeton came last week. Mr. Monckton Milnes this morning—”
“Ah, old Monckton Milnes is here already!”
“Yes, sir.” The groundsman pulled a lever on the tiller and the carriage started across the grounds, steam pluming from the funnel at its rear.
“I understand the master of the house is of the Bible-thumping variety of Catholic gentleman.” Burton made this statement with a loaded glance in Swinburne’s direction. The poet grinned happily, held his fingers up to either side of his hat like little horns, and pulled a devilish face.
“Not for me to say, sir,” Honesty answered. “Lord Gerard is a good employer. He’s not here. Called away on business. Will be back for the party.”
Their vehicle rounded a small grove of oak trees and New Wardour Castle came into view.
“Mon Dieu! Il est magnifique!” Levi exclaimed.
“Cor!” Bram Stoker added. “Would ye be a-lookin’ at that, now!”
The Palladian-style manor was, indeed, a majestic edifice. Comprised of a huge main block with flanking pavilions, it was nestled among trees in a wide expanse of parkland, meadows, and lakes—a scene of exquisite pastoral beauty—that gently sloped up southeastward to a low peak, upon which, about one and a half miles away, the ruins of the old castle stood outlined against the grey sky. Even at such a distance, Burton could see the ravens Isabel had described, but more so, he could hear them. The entire estate was filled with their cawing and croaking.
“Great heavens, Mr. Honesty, you appear to have been invaded.”
“The birds, sir? Often have them. Never before in such numbers. Displaced by the storm, I suppose.”
Having followed a path across a wide lawn, the carriage eventually drew to a halt before the manor’s entrance, a modest door beneath a very large Venetian-style arched window. Honesty jumped down and, as he did so, the door opened, a clockwork footman glanced out, ducked back in, and a moment later reappeared with another of his ilk, both following the household butler, who gestured for them to take the new arrivals’ bags.
“Good day, sirs. I am Nettles. The family and guests are currently gathered in the music room. Would you care to join them immediately or shall I have the staff escort you to your rooms first?”
“I think we’d like to splash water on our faces and change out of our travelling clothes,” Burton replied. He turned to the groundsman. “Thank you, Mr. Honesty.”
Honesty touched his finger to his temple.
Nettles led Burton and his fellows through the elegant reception hall and into a grand rotunda, dominated by a double staircase that rose some sixty feet through the entire height of the building up to a beautiful domed skylight. Gazing in admiration at the stunning architecture and decor, the three men and disoriented boy—such surroundings were totally alien to Bram—trailed after the butler past the colonnaded first floor and onward up to the third, where they were shown to their adjoining rooms.
Nettles indicated one of the clockwork footmen and said, “Clu
nk will wait at the top of the stairs, sirs. He’ll guide you to the music room at your convenience.”
Burton, accompanied by Bram, entered his room and found soap, flannels, towels, and a basin of water on a table beneath a mirror.
“Unpack my portmanteau and lay out the clothes, would you?” he said to the boy.
Opening an inner door, he saw a small valet’s room and said, “This is where you’ll be sleeping, lad. The lap of luxury, eh?”
“I ain’t seen nothin’ like it afore, sir, so help me, I ain’t. What’ll I do with meself?”
“You’ll attend me when I require it, which’ll be first thing in the morning and just before bed, for the most part, and for the rest of the time you’ll perform whatever duties the butler assigns to you. Don’t worry—they will be light. As my valet, you’ll be treated with the proper respect by the manor’s servants, despite your youth.”
While Bram got to work unpacking, the explorer washed his face and changed his clothes. He’d just finished buttoning his waistcoat when someone knocked on the door.
“Come.”
Swinburne pranced in, his arms flapping.
“What a place, Richard! My hat! Your fiancée’s great-uncle inhabits a palace! Are you ready? Shall we say hello to the rabid Catholics? I say, they’ll offer us a drink, won’t they?”
“We can but hope.”
Monsieur Levi joined them and Clunk led the guests down to the first floor—where Bram left them to accompany a second footman to the servants’ chambers—and along to the music room, from which the tinkle of a piano could be heard. As they stepped through the double doors, Blanche saw them first, stopped playing, and gave a cry of pleasure. Her audience turned and Isabel jumped up and ran to Burton. With her family watching, she was more restrained than usual in her greeting of him, but the explorer noticed something else, too—she was pale, seemingly tired, and had a faraway look in her eyes, as if daydreaming.
“Are you all right, darling?” he murmured.
“Yes, yes, now that you are here at last!” she replied. “I haven’t been sleeping well the past couple of nights, that is all. Come and say hello to Mama and Papa.”