Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 2
The Shadow of Carfax Abbey
Somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains
1893
The mirror lies shattered in the courtyard below his bedroom window. Last night, he cut himself while shaving, and Jonathan Harker realized, to his horror, that his host cast no reflection in the mirror. He duly notes this fact in his journal but does not dare to remember what he did glimpse in the instant before the glass was torn from his hand.
I.
Purfleet
1933
Seward rolled out of bed shortly after nine. This morning’s headache was bad but not debilitating – he had seen worse over a full life of debauchery. And not anything as bad as morphine withdrawal. Now that was a circle of hell that he did not care to revisit.
His staff had departed with the closure of the asylum, and Seward saw no need to replace them. He engaged cleaning and laundry services somewhat haphazardly, when the smell of rotting food or the odor of unwashed linen became too strong. Art would feel pity, he supposed, at the sight of a once-prosperous gentleman doing his own domestic chores, but Seward paid no attention to his diminished status. He was an old man, and the cares of this world would be finished soon enough. The old clothes went into the car, and Seward slid his bulky frame into the driver’s seat.
He headed down the long drive, along the stone fence that marked the border with Carfax Abbey. Seward passed the rusty gate, and the brakes gave a loud squeal as he stopped in the middle of the road. What in hell? The gearbox protested with a loud grinding noise as he shifted into reverse. The gate was standing wide open, and Seward wrestled the steering wheel to the right and drove up the path to investigate. The parked car was newer and better cared for than his own, and the balding man by the driver’s door turned slowly as Seward pulled alongside.
“Horace. Where is Kate, and what the devil is she doing here?”
Horace raised an eyebrow at the pile of laundry on his front seat, and Seward read the thought in the servant’s mind. Wash day, sir? He pointed, and Seward followed the weed-choked lattice of stones to the rear of the house. The path ended at a small lake, where Katherine Holmwood stood at the water’s edge.
At fifty-seven, she was no longer youthful but age, Seward noted, had not dimmed her beauty. The gray hair retained a healthy sheen, and the skin around her face was unblemished, save for a hint of crow’s feet around the green eyes. And John thought her plain, he thought, frowning at the memory. Panting a little from the exertion, Seward hurried to her side.
“Kate. What brings you here, of all places?”
“Why shouldn’t I be here?” She regarded him with a neutral expression. “It is my house, after all.”
“It’s an old ruin, not fit for an afternoon outing.”
“Arthur clearly thought otherwise. Perhaps his solicitor talked him into the sale.” Katherine Holmwood bent at the waist, and exquisitely manicured fingers plucked a pebble from the mud. She watched the ripples spread outward as the stone landed in the water.
“Kate, don’t start again.”
“Don’t start? I gave seven years of my life to that man, and for what? Arthur always favored his mistresses – a pair of ugly ladies named Harker and Seward.” She picked up another pebble. “Perhaps I was the mistress, since he spent so much time pining for his real love. Do you remember what happened while he was in South Africa?”
“I remember. I’m so sorry, Kate.”
She looked into his eyes and her countenance softened. “You have a good heart, Jack. I shouldn’t be so harsh with you. Come with me – I want to show you something.”
Lady Godalming headed for the stone fence, and Seward followed, wading through the sprawls of field rose and St. John’s Wort. Pedunculate oak saplings sprouted among the weeds. Another forty years, and this place will be a forest, Seward thought. Katherine Holmwood kept her eyes on the ground as she walked.
“There.” She prodded the dirt with her shoe.
The cigarette end was discolored, but the fragile paper was still intact. Two, perhaps three days old. He looked up. The asylum grounds were clearly visible through the trees.
“A foot patrolman reported a light in the front window,” she said. “Horace checked the house and found a broken door leading into the old chapel.”
They found more cigarette ends further along the wall.
“A vagrant, perhaps? Someone seeking shelter from the elements?”
“Perhaps,” he said, and a feeling of disquiet wormed through his belly. The trail of discarded cigarettes vanished once the asylum grounds were no longer visible. “Let’s go back.”
They meandered along the water’s edge, and Katherine warmed a little as they chatted. She suggested moving into Carfax Abbey – we could be neighbors - and the idea made him smile. Save for the occasional sojourn abroad, Katherine was inextricably linked to Arthur’s sprawling estate west of London. Blood ties, he thought, glancing back at the old house, and the smile vanished.
A fish rose in the center of the pond, a flash of silver that left concentric ripples in its wake. Katherine Holmwood stared at her reflection on the water’s surface.
“People ask why I never remarried,” she said, and a shadow passed over her face. “Whatever the three of you were hiding, the police never found it, did they? They were circumspect enough with me – deference to my position, the delicate sensibilities of a lady, and all that – but they interrogated me all the same. There was no talk of arrest or trial, but it was enough for a jury of my peers to whisper my guilt to one another.”
Katherine Holmwood gave him a quick glance, perhaps expecting a reproach, and laughed nervously.
“I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out loud.”
“Sometimes it’s good to say what’s on your mind.”
“It’s good to see you, Jack. Clean yourself up and come to London more often.”
Seward tipped his hat and returned to the car. Horace acknowledged him with a polite nod as he cranked the engine. Seward gave a final wave to Lady Godalming, but she was facing away from him, watching the pond.
We are grains of wheat ground in the millstone of destiny, he thought. I am so sorry, Kate.
II.
London
“No, sir, the ambassador cannot see you without an appointment.” The receptionist cut off the voice that buzzed in the earpiece. “I can give you… fifteen minutes Friday afternoon… Sir, if your request were time-sensitive, it would have gone through official channels. An English bureaucrat does not simply barge through our doors and demand an audience. The ambassador will see you at three forty-five. Yes, thank you.”
She rang the switchboard and told them to hold all calls for the next ten minutes. Outside the window, pedestrians passed the south entrance and continued toward St. James’s Park. She watched for a moment, then passed into the inner office.
“What is it, Lena?”
Political neophytes, perhaps expecting a shouting, mustachioed Prussian Junker, often found themselves disarmed by the soft-spoken man behind the desk. For experienced diplomats on either side of the Channel, Leopold Von Hoesch was admired and respected.
“The Home Office requested a meeting. They are looking for the men from Dublin.”
The ambassador smiled. “But we are the German embassy, Lena. Did you suggest that they contact Dublin instead?”
She ignored the joke. Last month, a pair of criminals sailed from Kiel to Dublin and illegally crossed the border into Northern Ireland. Arrested in Belfast for possession of false passports, the pair had promptly escaped, and the English were in an uproar, as if their incompetence was her problem. The fugitives were believed to have stowed away on a freighter to Liverpool, and if they weren’t killed in a tavern brawl or shot by a wary farmer, the authorities expected them to make their way to the Embassy on their way back to Germany. The Ambassador, in her opinion, was far too sanguine about their fate. There are criminals in every nation. We will ensure that our citizens are treated fairly If the English catch them. Otherwise, they aren’t our problem. It was all nonsense - he knew full well that these were no ordinary brigands.
“What do you plan to tell them?”
Leopold Von Hoesch sighed. “I have no desire to be drawn into the squabbles of our leaders. I understand that you want to do the right thing, but I prefer not to attract the attention of the Chancellor, and I’m not sure that we can trust the Crown.”
“The English are honest –” The ambassador held up a finger.
“Perhaps too honest. Do you really want them calling Berlin to complain?”
“Fine.” She drummed her fingers on the desk. “What do you suggest?”
“I think we’re better off to resolve the problem through less official channels. In fact, something of the sort is already underway.”
“All right, papa. Do what you think is best.”
Lena Von Hoesch left the office, closing the heavy door behind her.
III.
He had worked all morning on his correspondence, and by midafternoon, Jonathan found himself famished. He tucked the morning mail into his coat pocket and headed for the pub. What did Seward say? Some men cry and others pray. You work - an astute observation. Jonathan’s reputation had been at a low ebb after 1908, but the War wiped out young men and old traditions, and he had stumbled into a lucrative career settling claims to the Empire’s war debt. Most of the work dried up after the crash of 1929, but by that time, it no longer mattered. Because of the war, I lost a son and gained a fortune, he thought bitterly.
Jonathan ordered a sandwich from the bar and retired to a corner table. The first letter came in a plain envelope and was addressed in neat handwriting, and Jonathan crumpled it into a ball. Perhaps I should have ordered something stronger than tea. Perhaps his reaction was unreasonable – after all, plenty of Germans had lost sons in the War – but the resentment rose of its own accord, giving no quarter to rational thought. Besides, the last German that I dealt with left a bad taste in my mouth.
He brightened considerably as he opened the second letter. Sarah Harker Spencer, formerly of London, currently residing in Bombay. Married to a naval officer, husband finishing a last tour at sea. Mother of His Majesty Archibald the Second, the amateur herpetologist and professional spoiled brat. My beloved daughter who is returning home after five long years abroad. He read through the details of her travel arrangements a second time: RMS Southern Cross, sailing from Bombay to Liverpool.
Jonathan glanced at the envelope again. Damned postal service. Is it so difficult to read an address? At least the recipient, God bless them, had carefully resealed the envelope and returned it to the letter box. Feeling better, Jonathan placed the letter in his pocket and went to the bar to collect his lunch.
IV.
London
1932
Jonathan disliked him from the beginning.
The letter came from a firm in Berlin, one of Germany’s most prestigious, and included a modest retainer. Would Herr Harker be willing to assist a client from Munich with a matter of some importance? Jonathan, believing that professional ethics mandated a fair hearing, swallowed his bile and reluctantly assented. The visitor was tall and thin, with a high forehead and slick, red-brown hair, Harker guessed his age to be around twenty-five. Too young for the War. Close-set blue eyes, intently focused, completed the stern countenance.
“Good afternoon, Herr Harker, my name is Eugen Strauss.” The mouth turned up in the cursory attempt of a smile, but the visitor proffered no handshake. “I am a former officer in the Reichsmarine and an activist for a small political movement.”
“Please sit,” Jonathan said. “How can I help you?”
“My… political party… has certain interests on the Continent, which require the services of a competent English solicitor. The proper development of these interests could be helpful in the continued rebuilding of the Fatherland, and, I will be perfectly honest, would benefit the movement of which I am a humble servant.”
“There are many solicitors in England that could be of service,” Jonathan said. And many of them are no longer bitter over the War. “How did you choose me?”
The German’s eyes drifted closed, and for a moment, Jonathan had thought him asleep.
“You lost a son in the War, Herr Harker? Killed at the Somme?”
"Please explain.” Jonathan’s tone was formal, but he spoke through gritted teeth. “What exactly does my son’s death have to do with your business?” The answer chilled his blood.
“Because your son kept a diary.”
His right hand began to tremble, and Jonathan pressed his fingers into the desktop. What did John Quincy find out, and for the love of God, why did he write it down? Even worse, did he find something that I overlooked?
“Such a waste of young life,” Eugen Strauss sighed. “This journal discussed your family in some detail, including an odd series of events involving the death of a young woman. Sadly, it was not repatriated with your son’s body, and it disappeared for several years before coming to the attention of our movement.”
“And you came all the way from Munich to blackmail me?”
“Of course not. Such terrible allegations cannot possibly be true, and it would be silly to assume that this journal would find its way to the English press. We merely require assistance with a few legal issues, and because of your son’s journal, your name was the first that came to mind.”
“How kind of you.”
Jonathan pulled the address book from his desk. It would be terribly unethical to cover up evidence of any misdeeds, so he offered Herr Strauss the addresses of both Scotland Yard and the Crown Prosecution Service before throwing the German out of his office. The firm in Berlin refused to take back the retainer, and Jonathan spent the rest of the week in a state of near-panic as he searched the house, desperate to find what John Quincy had discovered.
V.
Purfleet
1933
Seward dropped off the clothing with a laundry service and filled the car with petrol. When he was not puttering about the old house, he normally headed to London. I’m a regular visitor, Kate, just not to the good parts of town. Tonight, however, he was not up for a night out, so he parked at the edge of the Thames and began walking. On the opposite bank, the lights from the shipyard glimmered on the water’s surface, and behind lay the asylum and Carfax Abbey.
God, I hate that place. Scotland Yard had combed through the old wreck in 1908 but found nothing. Twenty-nine boxes at Carfax Abbey, with the rest scattered at Mile End, Bermondsey, and Picadilly. In 1894, they had gathered all of the boxes and burned them. They shoveled the ashes into the pond, finally removing every trace of Dracula’s presence in London. Not quite, he thought. I told John we should have burned the papers as well. Seward had insisted as the illness gripped Arthur’s mind, and Jonathan’s refusal led to a series of arguments that became downright vicious. Bloody solicitors, saving every scrap of documentation. Seward had appealed to Mina, and to his consternation, she had sided with her husband.
“Jonathan believes that we overlooked something. He’s afraid, and he can’t, or won’t, explain what’s on his mind.”
In the end, Seward reluctantly acceded to her wishes. In 1903he had hidden the papers away, and when Jonathan asked about their location, Seward had replied with a single cryptic hint.
“I put everything in the one place where Arthur will never look.”
Seward retraced his steps to the car, thinking of dead companions and cigarette ends. The watchman saw a light in the window of Carfax Abbey. Someone seeking shelter from the elements? Those cigarettes were packaged, not the hand-rolled smokes of a vagrant. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll talk to Jonathan about it next week. Just to be safe.
VI.
London
1904
His position and reputation kept the loose talk to a minimum, but everyone knew that Arthur Holmwood committed suicide. And though Arthur was the most guileless man that Seward had known, he was clever enough at the end - the guns were neatly arranged around a cleaning kit, and he lived just long enough to call out to his valet. Just enough doubt for the inquest to rule an accidental death. If only he had taken the same care elsewhere.
The inquest found nothing directly incriminating, but enough information was present among Arthur’s papers to turn the entire process into an ordeal. They interrogated Jonathan Harker the day before Seward’s own testimony, and he emerged pale and shaken. A moderate imbiber under most circumstances, Jonathan had immediately retired to the nearest pub to drink himself to a stupor. So naïve, Seward thought, the trick is to start drinking before you testify. For the most part, he sailed through his own testimony.
The only bad turn came when they asked him about Lucy Westenra.
Lord Godalming’s journal entries about his former fiancé were extensive and troubling. Had Lucy not, they asked, been Doctor Seward’s own patient? They questioned him at length about the manner of her death, and Seward answered as truthfully as he dared. Miss Westenra had been ill for an extended period before her death and had shown signs of anemia or suppuration of the blood. Then what do you make of this entry? With deliberate slowness, the coroner thumbed through the pages of an old journal, his eyes never leaving Seward’s face, to a page marked well in advance. Seward was careful to answer in a neutral tone, even as he seethed at his dead friend. Mad ramblings of blood magic and necromancy and travel along the ley lines - damn you, Arthur. You’re going to get us all sent to the gallows! He noted that Arthur – Lord Godalming, the coroner corrected him – had been somewhat reclusive since his return from South Africa. Although he had not, to Seward’s knowledge, been irrational, Lord Godalming’s troubled state might have been exacerbated by the lingering effects of his wounds. Regarding Miss Westenra, however, her early death had been tragic, but unremarkable.
When he finished his testimony - by the end, not even the old news clippings about the Demeter could rattle him - Seward met the others in Jonathan’s study. Mina, heavily pregnant with little Sarah, stared into the darkness for a long time before asking the question that had been on her mind all day.
“What did you tell them?”
“As much as necessary and as little as possible,” he said, slightly dizzy from the liquor.
Mina’s fingers brushed the old wound on her throat, a gesture that broke Seward’s heart, and sat in silence, her head on Jonathan’s shoulder. Finally, Jonathan broke the silence.
“Show him the letter.”
In his last years, Arthur’s handwriting had degenerated into a scrawl, but his final letter was written in the clear script of a man resolute in his purpose and in control of his faculties. Seward read, then re-read, all four pages in disbelief. Impossible. The following morning, Mina cabled Van Helsing, but the old man was too ill to come in person. They would have to attend to the matter themselves, and Seward spent the afternoon in a daze with Arthur’s final words replaying in his head.
He is alive. We must go back.