- XI -

Off With Probation

"He is still out there, isn't he?" John Clare observed, brushing away the curtain of a rearward window in the Godalming library.

"He has not left the estate ever since," Lady Lucy confirmed in a bitter tone.

"And does this prove him to be loyal?" John asked further while in his thoughts he added "or simply foolish?"

"I do not know yet," the lady replied with a sigh. "I can sense that he is suffering severely, but I had to teach him a lesson, for he needs to learn the rules. I need to get him under control."

"You are considering taking him in again?" The poet seemed rather surprised that the disgraceful expulsion of Richard Renfield was apparently not irrevocable.

"Yes, Mr Clare, you may believe this or not," she looked up at his pitted face with a sad half-smile.

"But I care for him."

John remained silent thereupon, letting his hand and the curtain sink and staring to the floor for a moment. When he raised his head again, his features mirrored Lucy's expression.

"You truly are a good soul, Milady," he spoke in a mirthless whisper.

Her smile broadened slightly at this, and she let her cerulean gaze linger on him for a bit, before she announced: "I will be away on business for a few days, I hope you do not mind staying alone in the house."

Without waiting for an answer, she then turned to his desk and began gathering the loose pages of his latest poem. "Since this is finished and to my liking now, I will take it to a publisher."

John's eyes widened in awe. "A publisher...?" he repeated, astonished.

A bell-like giggle escaped the lady's crimson lips.

"Of course, Mr Clare. I am confident you will become a famous poet."

A happy smile spread over his pale features and a warm feeling rose in his chest when she patted his arm with her gloved hand.

"Thank you very much! I am so grateful for your patronage, Milady!"

She again looked at him for a long moment with that mesmerising blue eyes of hers, then turned to leave.

"Goodbye, Mr Clare," she said while elegantly heading to the library door. "Oh, and if I am not back in three days time, be so kind and let Mr Renfield in again, will you?"

With that she vanished in the dark corridor, the faint scent of flowers the only thing that remained behind, while John gazed at the door in both joyousness and bewilderment.

Dr Frankenstein had not needed his revolver, nor his scalpels, for he had found no night creatures. In the last days he had revisited all the places where he once had encountered them: the catacombs beneath the opium den, the old freighter, the theatre – nothing. It seemed that after Vanessa Ives's death they had vanished, leaving not a single trace behind.

Quite frustrated, Victor had written to Sir Malcolm, only to find out that his friend had left the country, traveling the continent together with Mr Chandler. Even that mysterious thanatologist, Ms Hartdegen, was currently unavailable – on an expedition, as he had been told at her fencing club. Her experience in dealing with death and dying, and the human reactions to such events, might have proved useful in trying to unravel the mystery he was currently consumed with. Apparently, like so often, he remained on his own, had to rely on his own research, knowledge and skills. And so, sitting at his shabby desk, he brooded over his notes again.

Then, in the third night of studying, when he trailed the sketch of a vampire's skull with his bony index finger, a bright idea sprang to his mind like an epiphany.

"Eureka!" Frankenstein exclaimed, clapping his notebook shut and heading for the door in hasty strides.

He had made a mistake, all those past days searching for unidentified, nameless vampires, when he had all along known where to find an old acquaintance! Hurrying across the street, Victor called for a cab to drive him to Bethlem. He had to report the good news to Henry.

The Dailygraph, feuilleton

A RISING STAR IN THE FIRMAMENT OF POETRY

With kind regards and upon recommendation of Godwin Publishers we have the honour of presenting to you a poem Sir William Wollstonecraft, respected literary critic, praises highly for its emotional depth. Utilising the beauty of our home landscapes and its destruction by industrialisation as a symbol for an upheaval of personal feelings, the hitherto unknown author, John Clare, accomplishes to prompt the reader to rediscover his primal connection to nature, a connection which sleeps in all of us.

Far spread the moorey ground a level scene
Bespread with rush and one eternal green...

John's eyes lit up in pure joy when he found his poetry published, the landscapes of his heart laid open to so many readers, his verses appreciated by the critics, all thanks to Lady Godalming's patronage. In an act of silent gratitude he pressed the newspaper to his chest, keeping it like a precious treasure, cradling it like a newborn child, the child of his mind and heart and soul. He had not been this happy since the day he had found his family. Sincerely believing the wonderful feeling would last longer than back then, he put the Dailygraph away and casually leafed through the other newspapers on the kitchen table, only to discover something gravely dampening his high spirit.

The Westminster Gazette

HAMPSTEAD ANIMAL ABUSER A MINDLESS MURDERER

POLICE INVESTIGATES NEW CASE OF HOMICIDE

Shocking news concerning the case of animal cruelty in Hampstead Heath reached our editorial office. Monday night, an individual perfectly matching the description of the swan killer – the Westminster Gazette reported – was seen involved in a brawl on the streets of Soho. The witness confirmed to our interviewer that a tall man with long black hair, a pale, pitted face and yellow eyes assaulted him and his friends. He killed one of them by slashing his throat with a knife and injured the other three severely, our witness being the only one able to escape unharmed. The fact that the assailant attacked at random and was able to easily overpower four healthy young men proves him to be extremely dangerous and presumably maniac. Since the Hampstead Heath monster is now not only accused of atrocious animal abuse, but also the prime suspect in a case of horrifying homicide and mayhem, Scotland Yard started investigating these disturbing events. As soon as new information on the case or the individual is revealed, the Westminster Gazette will report.

John's eyes scampered over the article in unease. So the man who had fled from him had not been scared enough to go into hiding. Instead, he had told both the press and the police a lie that only drew the poet deeper into the abyss of false accusations. Taking a deep breath, he also folded up this paper and put it back to the unread mail. As eager as he was to hear more reactions to his publication and gather more impressions for new verses, he would do better not to leave the Godalming mansion in the near future.

He had seen the sun setting three times – or was it four? – since he lived, nay, vegetated in the labyrinth of the garden. His Mistress was not at home, he could sense it, for her absence had created a black hole in his soul, a tenebrous abyss bereft of any light. Their connection severed, he was left behind in constant longing, abandoned in endless yearning, not only for proper nourishment, but also for a person to turn to, to cling to, to feel safe with. Almost as devastated as back then in Bethlem, he could see only a minor difference between those dark times and today: While he had been imprisoned at that time, he would have been free to go wherever he liked now – theoretically speaking; practically, however, he was nearly unable to move a limb, weakened by burning thirst and the stabbing pain in his broken heart.

Lying on the cold, moist grass, he stared at the white facade, unfocussed, imagining a peaceful afternoon in the sitting room behind those windows, by a warm fire, on a comfortable sofa, close to her. A single tear blazed a salty trail through the crust of foul filth on his face as his tormented mind clutched at the fictitious image like a drowning man at a straw – drowning in misery, in an ocean of grief.

The pattern of white window bars blurred before him and his eyes were about to flutter shut, when the sound of keys turning in a lock, followed by the creaking of a door and footsteps on the stairs reached his sensitive ears. Laboriously he turned his head and the faint hope for his Mistress returning rose in his chest, but it could not be, he did not feel her presence. It was a dream again, it had to be! All the more bewildered was he, when he beheld the scarface of John Clare looking down at him with an unreadable expression in his yellowish eyes.

"Good evening, Mr Renfield," he greeted him in a neutral, emotionless tone. "I am here to inform you of your reappointment as Lady Godalming's servant."

Richard blankly stared at the undead poet.

"My... what?" he murmured.

"You are allowed to come back in now," Clare specified.

As Renfield still motionlessly lay on the ground, apparently too deranged to understand his words, John decided to overcome his antipathy for the little lunatic and stretched out his hand to help him up. After another moment of uncomprehending hesitation, the servant finally took it, staining the hem of his sleeve with bloody grime in the process. Gritting his teeth at this, Clare hauled him up to his feet, but he was barely able to stand, and so John felt impelled to dirty himself even more by supporting him with his arm. Step for step he led the apathetic figure to the door and to the kitchen, then lowered him onto a chair and went to the pantry to fetch the silver decanter the lady had left for her servant.

When the smell of blood crawled up his nostrils, Renfield's flaccid body tensed up at once, all his muscles stretching, nerves tingling, and with the last remains of strength he sprang from the chair, stumbled towards the man on the threshold and reached out for the salvational carafe, the Holy Grail in John Clare's hands. With trembling fingers he received the silver vessel, brought it to his parched lips and drank, drank, drank until there was no drop left.

The stale liquid was of a brownish colour, thick and bitter, but it still had the longed for effect, satisfying his ravenous thirst, restoring his body and mind to their usual state. When he put down the empty decanter, panting, hands shaking from the exhaustion, he noticed the undead poet was still standing at the doorstep, scrutinising him with his ugly eyes.

"What are you looking at, you twat?!" Renfield hissed at him, his grime stained features contorted in animosity.

Clare replied nothing at that provocative question but could not prevent a pitying half-smile appearing on his pale face.

"You find this amusing, don't you?! All my pain and suffering, the hell I have been through?!" The lady's servant bared his bloodied, predatory teeth, which seemed to have become much sharper with the meal he had consumed.

"No, Mr Renfield, I am not amused by anyone else's misery, not even yours, believe me," John answered dryly. "What amuses me is your lack of reason."

Richard's eyes lit up in an angry blue and he took a vigorous step towards Clare, but the poet just crossed his arms, not bothering to budge.

"I do not know what happened to you in Bethlem, or during your mortal life. I can tell, however, that since you are here, nobody caused you any inconveniences. You have brought them all on yourself, consider this."

Renfield could only utter an enraged growl at this and watch John turn around to head for the library. On the threshold Clare paused to add: "And better get presentable before the lady returns..." Then he disappeared in the corridor.

Dr Jekyll stood at his workbench, scrutinising the phial of watery green liquid in his hand, then holding it into the faint light that leaked in through the window, turning it between his fingers. He had done it! He had created the counteragent to his serum within mere days.

Once his calculations had been finished, synthesising the substance had not been all too complicated. He had already produced several doses and begun testing them on his patients: An injection of the original elixir, whereupon raving madmen became as meek as lambs and seemingly hopeless cases of amnesia; then, an injection of his new serum, recovering the patients' memories completely, but also restoring their state of violent mania. Before he could dare to consume his new creation himself, however, the next logical step would be a study on sane probands to observe the effects on the healthy mind. Unfortunately, Henry had no access to such subjects here in Bethlem.

While musing about other options, a knock on the laboratory door startled him out of his thoughts and after he had called for the disturber to enter, the old janitor popped his head in to announce a visit from Dr Frankenstein. Jekyll sighed, but then decided to bid his old friend welcome.

"You look terrible, Victor," Henry remarked, noticing the dark circles around the physician's grey-blue eyes.

"I have worked more than I slept in the last days, indeed," Victor confirmed, the raspy tone of his voice matching his appearance. "but I did this to help you, my friend."

"I did not ask you to do anything for me," the chemist growled, an unpleasant feeling of guilt rising in his chest, as if he was responsible for Victor's condition.

"Forget about it," Frankenstein ignored his remorse. "More important is that I found someone who might lead us to your absconded patient."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You have? Who is it?"

"He is a vampire I once..." Victor paused in search for a fitting verb, before eventually adding "...studied."

"Fine," Jekyll approved, shrugging his shoulders. "Let us talk to him, then."

"Well," the physician hesitated again. "At the moment this might prove a problem, and to render such a conversation possible I may need your help."

Henry stared at his friend in disbelief, arms crossed. "Why?"

A crooked half-smile appeared on Frankenstein's unshaven face when he answered: "He is dead."

Thou bleedest, my poor heart! and thy distress
Reas'ning I ponder with a scornful smile
And probe thy sore wound sternly, tho' the while
Swollen be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland?
Or list'ning, why forget the healing tale,
When Jealousy with fev'rish fancies pale
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?
Faint was that Hope, and rayless! – Yet 'twas fair,
And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest:
Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest,
And nursed it with an agony of care,
Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir,
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!

– S. T. Coleridge

Richard stared at the departing figure of John Clare, his eyes two burning blue flames. How could that soulless, undead ghoul talk to him about reason?! He wanted to pursue that animal, pounce on it like a nighthawk, savage it like the predator he was, but he remained where he stood. Another act of violence would only prove the would-be poet right. Did he not wish to cause himself any more trouble, he had to swallow that bitter pill for now. And so, he only gritted his teeth and retreated to his room, careful not to stain the expensive carpets on the stairs.

An unpleasant feeling of déjà-vu crept over him when he discarded his ruined suit and washed away the foul filth from his pale skin. Not long ago, he had been going through exactly the same procedure, which had helped him to restore a certain degree of normality, which then again had been devastated by various circumstances, including John Clare's presence in Lady Lucy's sitting room. This time the monster would not derail him, this he vowed to himself.

Opening the wardrobe, he was again astonished to find another black suit – the third his Mistress had provided him with – even more elegantly tailored and including a brocade waistcoat and tie. Gazing at his reflection in the mirror, to his great surprise he beheld not the image of servant. It rather was the image of a nobleman – a gaunt and tired one, but a nobleman nonetheless.

Why, after all his misdeeds, had his Lady made him such a present? What had he done to deserve looking like this? While he combed his hair, an awful mixture of emotions rose in his chest. He felt both grateful and worthless, overwhelmed by both Lucy's clemency and his own guilt. When he put back on his glasses, a single tear protruded from underneath them, and he had to quickly dry it away with his new silken handkerchief to prevent it from falling onto his neat, white collar.

His Mistress had not left any task list for him this time, so he began his reappointment at her desk, going through the pile of mail that had arrived during his... garden leave. The topmost letters were real estate offers, rather unimportant compared to the Hampstead Heath mansion Lady Lucy intended to buy – speaking of which, there was also an envelope with the seal of Sir Danvers Carew. In a skilled motion, Renfield broke the red wax and unfolded the sheet within.

My Lady,

I thank you for your kind interest in my estate and the friendly meeting last week. As your agent proposed a postponement in signing our purchase contract in order to view another property of compromise, I have on your Ladyship's behalf also delayed further viewings with other potential buyers. Today, however, an offer by a very generous gentleman has reached me, which contains, unfortunately, a sum I could not reject. I am very sorry to inform you that I have now sold my estate to another party. I wish you all the best for your future endeavours and remain, my Lady,

yours faithfully,

Danvers Carew

Renfield did not trust his eyes, while drops of cold sweat appeared on his forehead and the unreal feeling of failure caused his stomach to turn. This could not be! His tactic to beat down the price had been airtight! All the real estate agents he had known while working at the solicitor's office had used it. There had never been another offer in the short time they had kept the vendor waiting …the short time! No, oh God, no! He had been locked out for three days or even more, unable to act in this matter! And he had caused his Lady so much trouble that she, too, had forgotten to contact Carew. It was all his fault! He had failed her yet again!

Lips quivering, he sucked in the cool air of Lucy's study, then sprang from his seat to pace the room, restless like a trapped animal. What could he do to save the day, to save his hide? Could he pay the old vendor a visit and force him to...? – no, for the letter clearly said, he had already sold the mansion. Could he bring the buyer to resell it? – he did not even know his name. His hands were tied and all his abilities, both intellectual and supernatural, useless! He could do nothing, nothing at all!

He ran a trembling hand along his scalp, dishevelling his hair he had so neatly parted not an hour ago, and a desperate cry made its way up his dry throat. She had liked that mansion so much, had found it so beautiful, all the luxury, all the ornaments and details so perfectly to her liking. And she had been so proud of him that day! He could not think of what would happen the moment she learned about this miss – his miss. What would she think of him, how would she reprimand him? Oh, what a fool he was! He would do well to voluntarily go back outside right now and hide beneath the hedges in the garden again!

Pull yourself together, stripling! Dracula annoyedly hissed at him.

When he buried his face in his hands and his own nails dug into his skin painfully, the swirl of panic in his head paused for a moment and he could muster a clear thought again. The Master was right, he could not bear another breakdown, he had to calm himself and try to handle this situation, carry on with his work!

Still panting, he sat back down at the desk and started shoving around the remaining mail rather randomly. Among the newspapers, a certain gazette caught his attention, the headline of which read quite lurid. Suddenly, his guilt driven anxiety turned into malicious joy and a nasty grin spread over his unhealthily pale features. John Clare was suspected not only of animal cruelty, but of murder now! And seemingly the hypocrite poet had brought this on himself. That monster should better take a good look in the mirror before accusing him of being responsible for his own trouble. While Renfield bathed in a pleasing sea of gloating, a hellishly good idea sprang to his mind, even more devious than his first coup against the undead ghoul. This would break his rival's neck once and for all!

Pulling out all the drawers of Lady Godalming's desk, he frantically searched for blank sheets, but it seemed they had run out of paper. He thought about leaving the house to buy some new, then he remembered where there still might be some pieces left: In the music room.

Heading down the corridor in a hurry, he noticed that he had never before been in said room next to the library, and, beholding a piano through the ajar door, only deemed it a music room. Now, as he stepped over the threshold, he became aware that it was more of a second study, with shelves full of folders and a desk more massive than his Lady's. Had this been the late lord's workspace?

Carefully, he walked around the expensive pieces of furniture, which a thick layer of dust proved to be unused for a long time. Renfield did not dare to sit down on Arthur Holmwood's chair, instead he again searched the drawers for paper and in the third indeed found some sheets. He took them out and already was about to close the drawer when something golden caught his eye. It was the letters impressed on a leather book cover, almost magically shimmering in the twilight like ancient coins in a wishing well. As of their own, his fingers reached for the conspicuous object, retrieving it from its secret hideout. The golden letters read: Diary.

Aghast, Richard dropped the book and hurried to close the drawer. His Lady's late husband's private notes were things he definitely was not supposed to read! Quickly, he gathered the blank pieces of paper and fled the room.

Back at Lady Lucy's study, Renfield prepared two pens, each with ink in a different colour, and wrote two letters, one in a neat, the other in a scratchy writing, but none of them in his own hand. Afterwards, he put them both into envelopes and addressed them TO SCOTLAND YARD. In the afternoon, he went for a stroll, posting one of them near Hampstead Heath, the other several blocks away, close to a dark backyard with a freshwater tab.