Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 4
The Shadow of Carfax Abbey
Aboard the Demeter
1893
The second mate pulls the watch cap over his ears and stamps his feet to keep the cold at bay. Two of the crew are missing, and he has not slept for two nights. The disappearances remind him of stories of the strigoi, troubled spirits who rise from their graves, though he knows this cannot be true. Strigoi are bound inexorably to their own tombs and cannot follow him to sea. The first mate, his superior, believes the crew to be malingering but cannot explain the missing men.
Something about the cargo bothers him as well. The boxes, fifty of them, are said to be filled with nothing more than common soil, perhaps destined for the garden of some English lord. The second mate finds this odd, but not especially remarkable – kings and nobles have odd tastes, and it is hardly surprising that a wealthy foreigner would order a cargo of common dirt. But there is something else, isn’t there? The aroma that emanates from those boxes reminds him of sweat and tears, of sour milk left too long in the sun. Of his mother’s anguish at his sister’s grave. Of death. The second mate’s eyes widen, and he whispers a desperate prayer to the saints. Strigoi are bound to the grave, but what if they carried their graves with them? A sudden feeling of doom settles over him, even before he sees the thin man standing at the foredeck.
The ship arrives at Whitby eleven days later. The captain is dead, one hand lashed to the wheel, and the entire crew, all eight men, are nowhere to be found. Later, Jonathan Harker and the others will assume that the unfortunate crew members were drained of blood and cast into the sea. They could not have been more wrong.
I.
London
1933
“Are you from the coroner, sir?”
Rupert Holmes shook his head. “Home Office.”
Holmes stood to one side as the doctor began the examination. He was tall, with medium brown hair slicked back from the forehead and receding slightly at the temples. His thin frame was matched by the face, with its prominent cheekbones and thin Greek nose. At forty-four years old, he was in good health, though his left leg troubled him – an unwelcome souvenir of his time at Ypres. A dour-looking man with a wandering mind, he was unremarkable until the blue eyes fixed on an object of interest – a detail, a landscape, or a guilty expression. Those who fell under that stare found the gaze disconcerting, the accompanying smile rapacious. Holmes gazed wistfully at the gray overcoat hanging in the corner, where his pipe was tucked away.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
The doctor glanced up from the table. “I was asking why the Home Office was interested in a house fire.”
“It’s tied to an old case,” Holmes said. “He looks surprisingly good for a burn victim.”
The doctor noted two broken fingers on the right hand and a bruise on the upper arm. “Hot gases tend to rise, so most of the heat goes to the upper floors. They found this chap face down at ground level, so there’s not much damage to the skin. Even his hair is in good shape – hope I look half as good when I reach his age. First autopsy, sir?”
“Hardly.”
“Good. I can count on you not to vomit when I slice him open.”
The doctor made a Y-incision, slicing the corpse from collarbone to pelvis, and pushed away the layers of skin, fat, and muscle. He examined the organs inside the peritoneum, then used a pair of shears to cut through the rib bones. The shears made Holmes smile – he used an identical pair to trim his rose bushes. The doctor removed the individual organs for examination, and liver, kidneys, and great loops of intestine were piled on the metal table. Holmes thought through the police report. The fire was discovered when a constable observed a red glow on the horizon, and by daylight on Monday, a thick pall of smoke was visible for miles. The old asylum had burned for a day and a half.
“There’s no sign of hemorrhage in the abdominal cavity and no other indication of injury, tumor, or disease.” The doctor’s eyes twinkled as he spoke. “In fact, the most interesting thing is what I didn’t find. Take a look at the lungs.”
“What about them?”
The doctor prodded at the pink organs. “When a man dies in a house fire, you expect to see a fair amount of soot in the lungs. This fellow? Nice, healthy lungs. Same with the skin. Bluish pallor typical of death, but no sign of carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“So the fire didn’t kill him?” Holmes asked.
“I’d say he was dead long before the house burned.” He probed the curly hair with a gloved hand. “Let’s have a look upstairs.”
Holmes peered over the doctor’s shoulder as he made a second incision at the base of the skull. Working upward, he peeled away the scalp until the wound, a neat hole to the front of the coronal suture, was clearly visible in the bone. Using a large saw, the doctor cut through the bone and removed the top of the skull. Holding the skullcap in his left hand, he tilted the head backward with his right, and Holmes winced as the brain fell into the makeshift bowl. A pleasant aroma, not unlike fresh bread, mixed with the sharper odor of blood.
The brain went onto the table with the other organs. The grayish pink, Holmes noticed, was marred by an unhealthy blotch on one side. The doctor probed the occipital lobe with a long pair of forceps, and when he found what he was seeking, he held it up for Holmes to examine. To Holmes, who had seen more wounds than he cared to remember, the bullet looked like the 7.65 used by the Germans on the Western Front. More than a few British soldiers brought them home as souvenirs. The doctor placed the bullet into an envelope.
“I’ll log this as evidence with the rest of my report. Should I address it to you?”
Holmes shook his head. “Leave it for the local police.”
“Suit yourself. What exactly are you working on?”
Holmes was already putting on his coat. “It’s a missing person case.”
II.
Dover
The abandoned warehouse was damp and infested with rats, an even worse accommodation than the old house in Purfleet. They were alive and free, but the failure rankled him. Otto’s instructions had been straightforward, if somewhat cryptic: journals, correspondence, maps of Central Europe, all dating to the end of the last century. A burglary carried out quickly, and we could have moved on to London. Instead, we murdered the owner of the house and announced our presence for miles. And for what? They had uncovered nothing of value in the old asylum.
Still, the trip had not been totally fruitless. Hans thought about the purloined letter, which he had returned to Jonathan Harker’s letter box after carefully noting its contents. It’s a riskier operation, but if Otto doesn’t fire me when we get back to Berlin, I’ll see what he thinks. The freighter to Lisbon had been pre-arranged if they needed to leave in a hurry, and they would be on that freighter by midnight. In a few days, Hans would find out whether he still had a job.
III.
London
The body was delivered from the morgue in mid-afternoon, and Katherine Holmwood met him at the chapel of rest. Horace stood at the far end of the room, watching them in silence. We’re the last ones left. Arthur, Quincy, Mina, and now Seward are gone. Only you and I remain.
“I had Horace pick up his suit from a laundry service in Purfleet.” Katherine spoke with the resigned acceptance of mourning. “I thought about buying him a new one, but the old one wears well on him.”
“Thank you.” Jonathan, who had expected their meeting to devolve into a reopening of old wounds, was touched. “Jack would have appreciated the kindness.”
“Jack was a good man,” she said. “A drunk and a libertine but always kind-hearted.”
“Indeed he was,” Jonathan said. Better than you will ever know.
He had visited the coroner that afternoon to ensure that Jack’s final wishes were carried out. In accordance with the last will and testament of John Wesley Seward, MD, the heart was removed from the body, along with the spinal cord between the first and third cervical vertebrae, to be preserved for scientific study and educational purposes. Jonathan understood his rationale well enough – if Arthur had been bitten without their knowledge, then who knew what other mischief Lucy had carried out?
Just to be certain.
IV.
The office of Francis Wilson was next to a dingy pub called The Black Lion. These days, his best work was done from the comfort of a barstool, so he bypassed the office completely and ordered his usual. The whisky went down in a single swallow as he pondered his case. Funny how things circle back on themselves. He had been a competent investigator once, and the single black mark of his professional life now provided him, somewhat ironically, with a comfortable semi-retirement. Jonathan Harker might have escaped justice, but information on the man’s character, habits, and whereabouts had proven quite lucrative. Time to write that report. He swallowed another shot, paid the bartender, and returned to his own office. Wilson’s employer had an exacting schedule, and there would be hell to pay if he was late.
He sat at his desk, and hunting through the keys with an index finger, Francis Wilson began to type, his second report in less than a week. The death of Jack Seward was an unexpected development, and his employer’s reply would doubtless include a number of detailed follow-up questions. Wilson did a quick mental calculation and guessed that he could look forward to another six months of paychecks from Seward’s death alone. Before sealing everything in an envelope, he attached an itemized list of expenses to the report. Francis Wilson was paid generously for his work, but there was no reason for the two pounds he had slipped to the coroner’s assistant to come from his own pocket. Money well spent, since we have the news of the murder before anyone else.
V.
The thin man politely declined a cup of tea, and Mrs. Cobham left him in the parlor to wait. Mr. Harker, she explained, was away for his weekly visit to the cemetery, but he would be back shortly. The visitor studied the portrait on the wall, an attractive blonde woman, until the front door opened.
“You know, it’s not good for an old man to sit alone in a big house like this.” The thin man spoke without looking up. “Ever consider moving?”
Jonathan was taken aback. “Are you a realtor?”
“Oh no, I’m just thinking that a flat in Piccadilly would be a nice place to live. You could be closer to the office and spend your evenings at the clubs drinking whisky and swapping war stories with the other old men.” He smiled, slightly abashed at the look on Jonathan’s face. “Sorry, sir. Good manners don’t run in my family.”
“If I ever move, I’ll go back to Exeter. Are you interested in buying an old townhome?”
“Not at my salary.” The thin man handed him a business card. “I’m here in a more formal capacity.”
“And what can I do for the Home Office, Mr. Holmes?” Jonathan’s tone was polite but formal, an arm’s length distance between himself and English officialdom.
“I need to talk to you about your friend, Doctor Seward. “Do you know how he died?”
“Not much. My guess was that he dropped the lantern when his heart gave out.” Jonathan said. “He was an old man with a young man’s habits, and I’m surprised he lived as long as he did.”
“Of course. Young men become old men, and old men grow frail and die.” Holmes pulled a pipe from his coat and filled the bowl. “Doctor Seward drank heavily, and I talked with several acquaintances, young ladies from the East End, who assessed him to be of, shall we say, unusual vigor.”
“Yes. His drinking would kill an ordinary man, and he had an appetite for carnal pleasure. What is that to the Home Secretary?”
Holmes tamped the contents of his pipe into a nearby ashtray. “Can you tell me when you last saw Doctor Seward?”
“A week ago at the cemetery. I was visiting my wife’s tomb.”
“What did you discuss?”
“Inspector Holmes, are you familiar with the investigation of 1908? If you are, then you’ll understand when I say that it’s none of your damned business.”
“It is my business. Jack Seward was in perfect health when he died.” Holmes fidgeted with his tie, the tell of a card player with a winning hand. “The coroner pulled a bullet from his head, right about here.”
Holmes touched him with a thin finger, just above the eyebrow, and Jonathan blanched.
“Why would anyone kill Jack?”
“The local police believe he ran into a wronged husband,” Holmes said. “But since you raised the subject, I keep wondering about the investigation of 1908. Scotland Yard was looking into the death of a young lady and an old man, purportedly a Continental lord who purchased the estate next to Doctor Seward’s madhouse. Do you know why they closed the investigation?”
“No,” Jonathan sighed. A heavy weight settled into his chest, and he found it difficult to breathe.
“Scotland Yard sent a man to Romania to ferret out the identify of your missing nobleman. His last cable to London stated that he had found something of interest. No one knows what, because he disappeared shortly afterward. Vanished, like dew in the morning sunshine.”
“Impossible.” The narrowing of Holmes’s eyes was barely perceptible as the word slipped from Jonathan’s mouth.
“And why is that?”
“We were under police surveillance for a year, inspector. If we travelled across the Continent to have a man murdered, they would have hanged us long ago.”
“You don’t have anything to add?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“All right. I’ll follow up if I need you again.” The eyes made a final sweep around the room. “Seriously, you should consider my suggestion. A big empty house is no good for one man.”
Jonathan watched from the front window as Holmes disappeared up the street. Young men become old men, and old men grow frail and die. He thought of Arthur Holmwood and Quincy Morris. Not always, inspector.
VI.
London
1904
At Van Helsing’s insistence, and against Jonathan’s better judgement, they visited Arthur’s tomb. Jonathan thought the whole thing pointless - Lucy never visited Arthur in the night, and even if she had, Lucy was no more. If the grave was but a doorway to the next world, Arthur’s passage through that portal marked the conclusion of his story, and there was no reason for a nighttime excursion to the cemetery. Still, the old Dutchman wanted them to be certain.
They sheltered behind a tombstone and sipped from Seward’s flask as they watched the mausoleum. The kukri, eighteen inches long and wickedly curved, remained hidden in his bag, but Jonathan took comfort from its presence. The knife had a gift from his own father, picked up during a sojourn to India and Jonathan used it to draw blood only once. Ghostly women floated through his dreams as Jonathan nodded off, and half-awake, he almost missed the shadow that moved among the graves. Jonathan had time for a single panicked thought – It’s true, she has returned – as he jolted Seward awake. The big man’s eyes widened at the sight, a lone figure limned in moonlight, then the fat fool stood, right in the middle of the bloody cemetery, for God’s sake, and called out as Jonathan fumbled for the crucifix about his neck. Their eyes met, and the surprise and fear in her expression matched his own.
“Kate, what are you doing here?”
“Mourning my husband. And I might ask you the same question.”
“Please excuse us.” Seward’s voice was touched with an alcoholic slur as he took a swig of cheap gin. “Arthur’s funeral service was a great comfort, but I felt compelled to honor my friend’s memory in a more personal way. Jonathan graciously came along to prevent me from cracking my head on a tombstone.”
"I'm very sorry Kate." This seemed too little, and Jonathan added, "Arthur loved you very much."
“Did he?” Kate whispered in his ear as they embraced. “Arthur and I lost a child when he was in South Africa. Did he ever tell you?"
When they made their excuses and left, they walked in silence until they were far from the cemetery. Jonathan was livid. What in hell was Jack thinking, standing and waving his arms like a bloody fool? They were already under suspicion - what if she had learned of their visit and brought the police? Even worse, what if Van Helsing was correct? If Arthur had returned – which, Jonathan pointed out, he did not accept for a moment – but if he had, he would have visited his wife first - what if he called her back to the tomb? Seward listened, saying nothing.
“For Christ’s sake, Jack, what if she had been one of them?”
“What indeed?” Seward’s brown eyes flashed in anger. “And what if she were a poor widow, visiting her husband’s tomb because she is sleepless and half-mad with grief? Would you want her to be alone if Arthur did come back? Would you want her to see him that way?”
Over the next month, they returned on four separate nights and saw nothing.
VII.
London
1933
Inspector Rupert Holmes stood in the glow of the streetlamp and pondered the meeting with Jonathan Harker. His visit had been an exploration, a tactical probing of enemy territory that yielded valuable information. The police were searching for a jealous rival, and perhaps the theory fit with the reported break-in at Carfax Abbey, but after tonight’s visit, Rupert Holmes had his doubts.
Harker’s shock over the missing inspector had been genuine, but his strong reaction had given way to a non-sequitur. I never asked if you committed a murder, Mr. Harker. Edward Harding could have broken his leg on a forest road, or he might have been waylaid by bandits – there were a hundred possibilities. Jonathan’s Harker’s blanched face, the panic in his eyes, and the near-instant calm as he collected his wits, suggested more, some hidden knowledge that he kept closely guarded. Still, the Harkers and Jack Seward had been under close surveillance in 1908 and could hardly have arranged a murder. Then what is the connection?
Holmes tried to look at the case as a unified whole. There were four persons, dead or missing – Lucy Westenra, Quincy Morris, a nameless Continental nobleman, and Edward Harding. What tied them together? Think of money, sex, and revenge, Rupert – the three motives for murder. Money? Scotland Yard’s working theory had been that Messrs. Harker, Holmwood, and Seward had lured an aging Lord to England and siphoned off his fortune. Holmes weighed the idea and found it wanting. A conspiracy carried out by an independently wealthy nobleman, a solicitor with an inherited fortune, and a doctor with little interest in material gain.
Sex, going by the more acceptable moniker of love, and revenge seemed better motives to Holmes. Three men were rivals for the same woman. It was easy enough to concoct a hypothesis in which Arthur Holmwood, or perhaps Jack Seward, murdered Lucy in a jealous rage, and a dalliance between Miss Westenra and Quincy Morris might explain the American’s disappearance. If evidence of murder could be found on Lucy’s corpse, a competent solicitor like Jonathan Harker might scrub the location of her grave from the official records. Then how does Mina Harker fit into the puzzle? Does she cover up her friend’s murder for the sake of her husband? A more likely explanation, Holmes thought, was the murder of Lucy by Quincy Morris. Harker, Holmwood, and Seward, discovering the crime, could have lured Morris abroad and carried out a sort of rough justice. It was even plausible that Mina Harker would accede to the crime for the sake of her friend’s honor. In that case, why conceal the location of Lucy’s tomb?
The missing nobleman fit into neither theory.
Holmes paused to light his pipe. The easiest solution was to dispense entirely with the owner of Carfax Abbey. Perhaps Scotland Yard, through an improper assembly of the puzzle pieces, had invented a man that did not exist – a phantom. Lucy Westenra had been murdered by persons unknown - Holmes thought Quincy Morris the best suspect, though Arthur Holmwood and Jack Seward could not be ruled out. If Morris was responsible for the murder, then his own disappearance, and the participation of the Harkers, fell neatly into place. Still, the known facts did not explain the missing inspector. Edward Harding had cabled London from Bucharest, a vague report of an important finding, then vanished like smoke. They also did not account for the birth records, pored over meticulously by the Harkers for twenty years. Children born in London between 1885 and 1890 - another oddity that I’ll take up with Mr. Harker when the time is right.
His belly growled, and Holmes crossed the street toward the nearest pub. The first step was to locate the grave of Lucy Westenra. The chances of an exhumation were low after four decades, but he could use the missing tomb, along with the birth records, to convince Jonathan Harker to talk. Holmes, born in 1889, wondered idly whether Harker had seen the record of his own birth. Tomorrow’s problem, he thought. For now, he needed hot food and a strong drink. He would rest tonight, and tomorrow, the search for Lucy Westenra would begin in earnest. The missing grave, Holmes was certain, would provide the answers that he sought.