Dracula's Ghost - Chapter 7
Part I - The Shadow of Carfax Abbey
Budapest
1893
He looks so frail, Mina thinks.
The Embassy chaplain performed the wedding ceremony that afternoon, and for the first time since her arrival in Budapest, they are alone. Mina is unsure how to proceed. In a traditional wedding night, he would carry me across the threshold of our new home, and we would - she finds herself blushing - become husband and wife. How does one spend a wedding night in the hospital?
“Can you help me sit up?” His voice is stronger today. Mina kisses his forehead and adjusts the pillow behind his back.
“The nuns say that you are improving rapidly,” she says, and he gives her hand an encouraging squeeze. “When you are strong enough, we can return to London.”
By the time she receives the letter from Sister Agatha, Jonathan has been in the hospital for six weeks. In his delirium his ravings have been dreadful; of wolves and poison and blood; of ghosts and demons; and I fear to say of what. Earlier this afternoon, she pressed Sister Agatha to expound upon the cryptic statements in her letter, but the nun had refused to say more. Questions continue to gnaw at her.
“John, what do you remember?”
“Nothing.” A shadow passes over his face. “At least, nothing that makes any sense.”
Mina cannot see her face, but the skin of her arms is peeling from the burns. She touches the top of her head – the long blonde hair, which her mother brushed and fussed over, has been singed to the scalp. Her mother forced her head down to stay under the smoke, and Mina remembers the crash of the falling beam but not her mother’s death. They will find little of her father, save for a few fragments of bone. At nine years old, Mina knows that she will be sent to the orphanage, or perhaps to the circus, where some cruel ringmaster will charge a half-shilling for passers-by to gaze upon her scarred visage. Between bouts of pain, she wonders what sin she has committed to deserve such a fearsome punishment.
“Tell me about the parts that make no sense.” Her fingers are interlaced with his own.
“I remember a castle, old but ornately furnished, and a ruined chapel where the dead are buried.” Jonathan hesitates. “I never would have believed had I not seen for myself.”
“Would have believed what, John? Mister Hawkins sent you-”
“No!” There is a wild look in his eyes, and for a panicked instant, Mina wonders whether she has pressed him over the threshold of insanity. She squeezes his hand.
Peter Hawkins, the man who will become her foster father, looks ancient to her young eyes. On the far side of the curtain that surrounds her hospital bed, the doctor speaks with a loud voice, as if she cannot hear through the veil that separates them. Make no mention of the fire, the doctor cautions him, or of her parents’ death. Her mind is frail, and the shock may cause her to break irrevocably.
Instead of the circus, perhaps they will send her to the madhouse.
“There was someone else.” Jonathan speaks with the precision of a solicitor, a man carefully weighing his words. He trembles, and Mina pulls the blanket around his shoulders. “Have you ever heard the old folk tales, where a traveler meets the devil on the road at midnight? If you look at him head on, you see an ordinary man. Catch him from the corner of your eye, and you see something completely different. A monster.”
“You don’t remember who it was?”
“No. The nuns have my journal, but I can’t bear to read it.”
“It’s all right,” Mina whispers. “You can tell me when you are ready.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” She draws him closer, and his breath tickles the hollow of her throat.
“There is one more thing. I swear that nothing improper occurred, but there were others - three women.”
Her laugh startles him. “You had carnal thoughts about them?”
“I’m not sure.” Jonathan’s eyes are distant as he tries to dredge up the memory. “I think so. I’m so sorry, but I don’t want anything to be hidden.”
“Mina? My name is Peter Hawkins, and you will be coming to live with me as soon as you get out of the hospital. Do you remember what happened?”
Mina nods gravely. Mr. Hawkins seems kind, and she doesn’t want to go mad in his presence.
“There was a fire at your home, and your mother and father are dead. Do you understand that?”
“The doctor said that you weren’t supposed to tell me. He said that I would go mad.”
“You will not go mad.” Peter Hawkins takes her hand, just below the burn on her arm. “Something terrible has happened, and you will carry that pain all your life. But you are a fine young lady with a strong mind. When you are ready, we will talk about things.”
For the first time since the accident, Mina begins to cry. Perhaps, she thinks, things will be all right after all.
“It’s all right. We are together again, and everything will be all right now.” She kisses him, savoring the moment that, a mere fortnight ago, she believed lost forever. “Now, move over while I get undressed. I’ve missed you for so long, and it’s time to become husband and wife.”
I.
Berlin
1933
Rudolf Diels kissed his wife goodbye and headed for the office. With the arrival of Adolf Hitler in the Chancellery, Berlin had become a hotbed of intrigue, but Diels considered the newcomers to be little more than rank amateurs. All the same, he established a few precautions to ensure that no one got the wrong idea about Lena’s – or his own – loyalty. Mail from London was routed through a forwarding service in Stockholm to a post office in Aachen and delivered weekly to Berlin via private courier. The cutout ensured that there were no traceable links between London and Berlin, but he needed to be there when the courier arrived - it simply would not do for someone else to open his mail.
The note was brief, but Diels read each word carefully. The whole thing could be a coincidence, but Diels thought otherwise. First, there was his own informant in Munich. According to Herman, the Belgian passports and the shipment to India were funded from a single bank account. The same account that funded the debacle in London. Sigmund had quizzed him thoroughly on this point, since one account surely funded multiple projects, but Herman had been adamant. The account, unknown to all but a few, was used for a single purpose.
Second, the fools who carried out the bloodbath in London hadn’t ended up dead in a field. The boys in Munich weren’t always competent, but they were ruthless, and Diels had expected them to cut their losses. Instead, both men had quietly arrived from Lisbon and departed from Berlin a few weeks later, still very much alive. He read the note again. The office in Munich had, via the London Embassy, purchased two second-class tickets for the RMS Southern Cross. Two men and two Belgian passports.
It made sense, in its own way. If they could reach the English Channel and drop the motor launch over the side, they could bypass British customs on their return trip to London. Assuming, of course, that they don’t drown before they get picked up by the Royal Navy. Diels wondered which possibility was more likely - perhaps Sigmund would be open to a friendly wager.
II.
London
Jonathan Harker paid his respects to Mina and John Quincy, then wandered among the graves. Others might find the cemetery a morbid place, but to Jonathan, the stone monuments were comforting. Give thanks for death as well as life. He paused at Arthur’s tomb, as he did each week, and pondered how, if the events of 1893 had not affected them so deeply, their lives might have turned out. Jonathan imagined himself with Arthur, Seward, and Quincy, fox hunting on the moors and sipping whisky in smoke-filled rooms. We’d reminisce about the Boer War as our grandchildren played at our feet. In the far corners of his memory, Katherine Holmwood’s voice answered in protest.
“Arthur and I lost a child when he was in South Africa. Did he ever tell you?”
No, Kat. By the time he died, I wonder if he even remembered.
He took the road to the west cemetery, skirting the catacombs and taking the less-traveled path through the trees. Tucked away in the trees, near the southwest wall, was a lone mausoleum. He stood, pondering the stone angel that guarded the entrance. She is on my mind always. A woman I never knew, who died at my own hand. Jonathan Harker had signed a bill of sale in Romania, and half a world away an innocent girl had suffered. When it was over, Jonathan had gone over every record, and the owner of Carfax Abbey, the location of Lucy’s tomb, and above all, the location of that damned castle, had been carefully excised. Mina, Seward, and even Van Helsing, had questioned the necessity. But not Arthur. Did he have the same fears that I did?
His foot slipped, and Jonathan cursed his clumsiness as he fell. Falls were no laughing matter at his age. If he hit his head or twisted an ankle, he could be stuck out here until -
Until after sunset.
Shivering in the warm air, he stood and cleaned the dirt from his trousers. Jonathan returned by the path that he had followed, limping a little, and the paper that had fallen from his pocket lay forgotten in the soft earth.
III.
Lady Godalming had narrowed his search, Holmes thought, but not by much. How many graves in the west cemetery? 10,000? 20,000? A weekend visit to Highgate convinced him that the solution would not be found by wandering through thousands of unmarked plots. Follow what you know. And Jonathan Harker, he knew, was a regular visitor to the cemetery.
A twig snapped underfoot, and he froze in mid-step. A hundred yards ahead, Jonathan Harker made a slow quarter-turn and peered into the trees. Holmes had followed him on three separate occasions and had never seen his quarry move with such caution. He’s also never visited this part of the cemetery before. For the most part, Jonathan Harker kept to the east cemetery, where his wife and son were buried. After several agonizing seconds, Jonathan Harker resumed his walk, and Holmes allowed himself to relax.
The side path to the right was overgrown with age and nearly hidden by the undergrowth. Holmes watched as Jonathan Harker paused at the edge of the cobblestones, like a man lost in thought, then disappeared into the trees. Ten minutes later, when Harker emerged and continued his walk on the cobblestones, Holmes did not follow. He waited a little longer to be sure that the old man would not return, then followed the trail into the woods.
The tomb was in the southwest corner of the old cemetery. The statue of an angel guarded the entrance, a trumpet in the left hand and the right hand raised upward. The implacable posture contrasted sharply with the angel’s melancholy countenance, as if the horrors of the grave had marked the stone face. The entrance to the tomb was sealed with an iron gate, and Holmes was seized with the notion that, by his command, the rusted bars would swing open, and the tomb would show him its innermost secrets. The copper-plated inscription was corroded to a deep green, and Holmes brushed it clean before silently reading the inscription.
LUCY WESTENRA
1874-1893
BELOVED DAUGHTER
Beyond the low wall that marked the cemetery boundary, he could see the expanse of Hampstead Heath. Rupert Holmes lit his pipe and noted the sun’s position. He stared at the open heath, smoking and thinking, until his eyes caught a flash of white that was out of place on the forest floor. If any monsters watched from the tall grass, they remained well-hidden as Holmes examined the note and tucked the paper into his pocket.
IV.
The German was waiting in his parlor when he returned home. Jonathan’s impressions had been formed by the War and reinforced by the newsreels, and he was taken aback by the balding man on the couch. He held a fedora in his left hand and an ornate cane between his knees.
“Good afternoon, Herr Harker,” the stranger said. May I have a few minutes of your time?”
“I’m afraid you have the better of me,” Jonathan said. The stranger’s resemblance to the girl from the cemetery was disquieting. “You know my name, but who are you?”
“Yes, of course.” The cane tapped absently on the tiled floor. “My name is Leopold Von Hoesch, and I work for the German Embassy in London. I heard that you were contacted by one of our citizens last year.”
“I was.” Jonathan’s face soured. “I told Herr Strauss that I am not interested in his business. If you came to collect his retainer, I will gladly write a cheque for the full amount –”
“Eugen Strauss, as he called himself, came to you about a journal, something found on your son’s body at the Somme.” Hoesch pointed the tip of the cane at him, like a duelist in the ready position. “When you refused his offer, two men came to London to seek more information, perhaps through burglary or blackmail, and your friend was murdered as a result.”
“The note in the cemetery.” Jonathan rubbed at his dry lips. “I know who killed your friend.”
“Passed to you by a brave, and somewhat rash, young woman.” Hoesch shook his head. “The politics in Germany are… interesting at the present moment. A few honest men hope to rebuild the old Reich, and a great many self-seekers attach themselves to the regime for power and influence. And then, there are men like Herr Strauss - what do you suppose they want?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Jonathan said. “I threw him out of my office after he brought up my dead son.” And the old castle, of course.
“Nonetheless, from your brief meeting, you had some measure of the man, yes?” Hoesch looked at him thoughtfully. “The war brought forth something dark and bitter in Germany. Some say that it was defeat, and others think it a defect in the character of the German Volk. I suspect that, whatever it is, it lurks in every human heart. Would you agree?”
“Yes.” Jonathan thought of the camps on the veldt, filled with hunger and disease.
“This man Strauss, I doubt that he truly understands what he is, or at least not yet. But this unusual story in your son’s diary, it points the way to some treasure that he seeks, and he will go to great lengths to lay hands upon it.”
My God, he already knows, Jonathan thought. “Do you believe the story?”
“No.” Hoesch’s eyes did not waver from his own.
“Then why are you here?”
“Herr Strauss’s real name is Heydrich. Reinhard Tristan Eugen Heydrich. A former naval officer, he was drummed out of the service for conduct unbecoming an officer. Now he makes a living as a thug and blackmailer for the National Socialist German Workers’ party. Two of his men booked a passage from India to England, on an ocean liner that sailed ten days ago. The reason for such a roundabout path is beyond me, but they are fond of intrigue and big plans.”
They sailed from India ten days ago. Jonathan spoke slowly, taking care to maintain a neutral tone. “What was the name of the ship?”
“The Southern Cross. Does it mean anything to you?”
Jonathan shook his head. Hoesch nodded politely, though Jonathan was certain that he had seen through the lie.
“I wish you the best, Herr Harker. Please leave out my name if you talk to the authorities. I am taking a risk by talking with you, and my replacement is unlikely to be so helpful.”
“Hoesch.” The German paused at the door. “Did you lose anyone in the war?”
“A brother at Verdun. They never found his body, and my mother grieved herself to an early grave.” The German placed the fedora on his head. “Every day, I miss them both. Good day.”
Ten minutes later, Jonathan was shouting into the telephone, desperate to reach someone at the Admiralty who would listen to his story.
V.
RMS Southern Cross
Mediterranean Sea, Near Calabria
Sarah put Archie to bed at nine o’clock. She was tired herself, and she considered breaking her nightly routine and going directly to bed. Instead, she slipped into her shoes and ascended the stairs to the lounge. She ordered her drink, one of papa’s favorite whiskies, and sat near the window. Outside, a few lights from the Calabrian coast were visible in the distance. Another passenger, a stocky man of medium height, ordered a drink and sat at the bar. His back was turned, but Sarah glanced in his direction and caught his eye in the mirror behind the rows of bottles. He saw her watching and turned away quickly. Sarah half-expected him to saunter over to her table, but he finished his drink and left without looking back.
They passed through the Suez Canal two days ago, and they would reach London in another week. Six more months, and Arch will be out of the navy, she thought. She was too young to be counted with the war widows or the teenage girls whose would-be suitors had died at the front, but Sarah always assumed that the miasma surrounding her family would limit her marriage prospects. Instead, the War’s carnage dissipated the black cloud as society’s upper echelons buried husbands and sons and quietly forgot about the Harkers. Perhaps her marriage to Arch Spencer, a stolid naval officer twelve years her senior, lacked excitement, but his steadiness was ample compensation, and Naval life, short stretches of domesticity punctuated by long absences at sea, provided a comforting routine of its own.
I should get back, she thought. Archie was not prone to bad dreams, but it made Sarah uneasy to leave him for too long. Their room was below on the promenade deck, and she descended the stairs carefully, one hand on the railing as her footsteps echoed in the enclosed space. The stairwell was poorly lit, and on the landing below, the spandrel beneath the staircase was dark, like the half-open closet of a child’s bedroom. She reached the landing and placed one hand on the knob of the joiner door, her back to the spandrel. Light appeared around the doorframe as she turned the knob and pushed outward.
The man in the hallway must have been quite clumsy, for he shoved the door inward as Sarah stepped across the threshold. The metal bulkhead struck her temple, and she staggered backward as a green haze clouded her vision.
“Oh, no! Please excuse me, I am so sorry!” His speech, an accented English that she could not place, was difficult to understand over the throbbing in her head. The stranger from the lounge grasped her wrist, steadying her, as Richard slipped from the spandrel behind her.
“I’ll be all right. Just give me a moment, and I can make it to my room and lie down -”
The grip on her arm tightened as something clamped over her mouth and nose. A sweet taste burned her throat, and Sarah fought the urge to retch as she struggled with her free hand against the rag that covered her face. The haze in her vision turned red and then black, and she sank into a dreamless sleep.
VI.
Not much time left. Hans waved his right arm, impatient, and Richard stepped from the stairwell. He carried the limp form over one shoulder as Hans used his trench knife to slit the lifeboat cover. As he had predicted, their preplaced cache - inflatable boat, motor, fuel, and a heavy rope - was undisturbed. Hans tied one end of rope around the rail in a bowline knot as Richard placed the woman into the lifeboat. They would remain aboard the ship, working the hand-cranked winches to lower the lifeboat, and use the heavy rope to abseil down the hull. Once they were free of the ship, the inflatable would carry them to shore. Hans checked his watch. Now each man grabs a crank, and we turn at the same rate so that we don’t dump everything into the water. We have ten minutes, and in a real emergency, we’d all drown if you couldn’t lower the lifeboat that quickly, we just need -
“Hey! What the hell are you doing mate?” Hans felt a cold stab of fear as the watchman approached at a fast walk. He changed his route. “Bloody lifeboat’s covered for a reason, you can’t just take one for a sail!”
Richard wrapped a meaty forearm over the man’s face, pulling up and back at the base of the watchman’s nose as he slipped his left hand over the Adam’s apple and squeezed. Unable to scream, the watchman stared at him with bulging eyes as Hans delivered a blow to the spleen with his trench knife and twisted the blade. The watchman’s body spasmed, nearly knocking Richard to the deck, then went limp. A few drops of blood spattered the deck as Hans withdrew the knife.
“Come on.” Hans gestured to the body on the deck. “Throw him over the side and let’s get the hell out of here.”
The watchman failed to report at midnight, and the missing lifeboat and the blood were discovered almost immediately. By the next morning, when the boy was found wandering belowdecks, a full search of the ship was already underway.
VII.
Romania
He descended the stone steps to the village, when the moonless night rendered the crumbling houses of the village invisible to even the keenest mortal eyes. He saw everything brightly, albeit in monochrome hues of gray.
Gabriela slept in the castle above, protected by whatever charms she kept on her person. He had devoured the reports from London, and in an unusual fit of loquaciousness he expounded at some length on the implications of Seward’s murder. The others are dead, and only Jonathan Harker remains. I think it is time that we meet again. He had pondered a return to London on more than one occasion, but the logistics were challenging. It was better if Harker came to him, and if he put Gabriela to the task, he was certain that her keen mind would come up with something. Just like her father, both worth their weight in gold.
She had been twelve in 1916, when the King of Romania had foolishly taken on the Germans. The boy, one of the deserters that wandered the ravaged countryside, wore a haggard expression that suggested days of walking and held the girl firmly by her upper arm. They arrived at sunset, and as the great door swung outward on its hinges, the boy dragged her across the threshold. He met them at the door and waited patiently as the boy found the courage to speak.
“They said you were dead.”
“Well, they were wrong, weren’t they?”
He observed the girl, tall and slender in the awkward way of adolescents, as the boy talked. Her hair, the blackest he had ever seen, hung nearly to her waist. She was afraid, certainly, but her eyes searched the room for exits, hiding spots, weapons. His own memories were amorphous, little more than a red haze of hunger, but those eyes awakened something within, two decades old and nearly forgotten. Lucy? The boy continued to babble - I need food, shelter, and a place to rest with my new wife - with the confidence of a rabbit who believes himself a wolf. When he had heard enough, he had grasped the boy’s shoulders in a strong grip - I’m sorry, but I can’t help you - and uttered a single word to the girl. Sleep.
Two days later, Gabriela was found wandering alone in the mountains. She was taken first to the doctor and then to the village priest. The following week, her father found the note on their door. You are now in my debt. Come when I call for you. Alexandru de Cel had served him faithfully until his death in 1929, carrying out tasks that he could not accomplish on his own. Most importantly, he covered over that damned cemetery - a small service that ensured no undue attention from outside.
The boy was never seen again.