– XII –
Out Of Trouble
"You are sincerely asking me to help you exhume and revive a dead vampire?!" Dr Henry Jekyll spat, both utterly baffled and enraged. "Are you out of your morphine addicted mind now, Victor? Should I better be preparing a cell for you here in Bethlem?"
"Spare me your cynicism!" Frankenstein hissed back. "This is our only option to regain your memories!"
"Maybe it is your only option," the chemist answered between gritted teeth. "This is mine!"
With that, he produced a phial filled with a green liquid, holding it up right in front of his friend's face.
"The counteragent to my serum," he explained in a haughty tone, before Victor had the chance to ask. "Created while you spent your days hunting supernatural spectres!"
The physician knitted his brow. "Truly remarkable," he acknowledged. "If it has an adverse effect, it could indeed cure amnesia, but is it safe to use? Have you tested it?"
Jekyll's hubris faded, as he admitted: "Only on the mentally ill, on healthy subjects not yet."
"Well, there are a lot of underpaid employees at the morgue I used to work, so I could introduce you to some potential subjects." A mischievous grin spread over Victor's features. "Under one condition: we try my option first."
"Alright," Jekyll mumbled, rolling his eyes. "Let's dig up your former study object."
His Mistress had been absent for five days now, which caused him both the misery he usually felt while being separated from her and a certain worry about his sustentation. There had been a second decanter of blood in the pantry – even more stale and viscous than the first, but still potable – which he had tried to save. Now, however, the nourishing crimson ran low, the last mouthful sticking to the bottom of the silver tableware like slushy, brownish ooze. A cold shiver ran down Renfield's spine at the thought that he would soon be forced to eat animals again – or try to get hold of the undead poet, whom he did not consider to taste any better.
While he brooded over his diet options, the sound of the doorbell reached his ears. Carefully he gazed out the kitchen window from where he could see part of the front garden, and a viperish grin spread over his features. Four policemen – two in uniform and two plainclothes – were standing before the main portal, scrutinising the facade with watchful eyes. Spurred on by gloating anticipation, Richard hurried to open the door.
I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl.
The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others.
Clarence, whom I, indeed, have laid in darkness, I do beweep to many simple gulls;
Namely, to Hastings, Derby, Buckingham;
And say it is the queen and her allies that stir the king against the duke my brother.
Now, they believe it; and withal whet me to be revenged on Rivers, Vaughan, Grey:
But then I sigh; and, with a piece of scripture, tell them that God bids us do good for evil:
And thus I clothe my naked villany with old odd ends stolen out of holy writ;
And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
But, soft! here come my executioners.
How now, my hardy, stout resolved mates! Are you now going to dispatch this deed?
John Clare laid aside his Shakespeare volume, when he heard voices coming from downstairs. Had Lady Godalming returned? No, the speakers seemed to be several men. Carefully, the poet glanced out the library window, only to behold an alarming sight. Drops of cold sweat appeared on his forehead and his heart almost stopped. There were policemen at the main portal, talking to Renfield.
"Good morning, Sir," the older plainclothesman greeted him. "Please excuse the disturbance at such an early hour. I am Inspector Fleming, and this is Sergeant Gainsborough."
"Good morning, gentlemen," Renfield greeted back. "How can I help you?"
"Lord Godalming, I suppose..." the inspector said, routinely determining particulars.
Richard's eyes widened at the wrong assumption seemingly induced by his exclusive clothing, but he did nothing to correct the mistake as the policeman went on.
"We are investigating cases of mayhem and murder on four respectable citizens, which have been committed in Soho several days ago and in which we already have a reliable description of the possible perpetrator. There was an anonymous hint at the same person being spotted near a backyard some blocks from here where we later found the body of a boy, also murdered. Yesterday we received a letter indicating the writer had seen a man in the neighbourhood of Hampstead Heath, matching the description quite well."
"And what kind of a description may that be, Inspector?" Renfield inquired, although he knew the answer all too well.
"The suspect is said to be tall, with long, black hair, a pale, scarred face and unusual yellow eyes," the young sergeant chimed in. "Have you seen someone with such an appearance?"
Richard let his face fall in false shock.
"My God, the man you are describing... is John Clare!", he whispered, himself astonished by the convincingly dismayed tone in his voice.
"John Clare, you say, Milord?" The sergeant scribbled something into his notebook. "Do you know him?"
"Indeed," Renfield confirmed. "He is a homeless writer, a needy poet who is currently patronised by my... wife..."
He had to swallow a lump in his throat at his insolence of calling Lady Lucy this.
"And do you also have knowledge of his current whereabouts?" the inspector asked furthermore.
Richard threw a hasty glance at the windows to his left and took an uncertain step towards the policemen.
"I believe, Inspector..." he spoke under his breath as if in true disquiet now. "I believe he is here, right now, in our library!"
Fleming sucked in the air forcefully, but then instantly returned to a professional calmness, placing a reassuring hand on Renfield's shoulder.
"Don't worry, Milord, you stay here with Sergeant Gainsborough while the men and I will detain him."
With that he gestured for the uniformed pair to follow him inside, but they did not get all too far, before a loud sound, like cracking wood, could be heard from their left. Their heads jerked to the side, where they beheld the burly figure of John Clare scrambling out of the hedge he had jumped into from the high library window, staring at them with agitated yellow eyes and then running away towards the street.
For a disturbingly long moment everyone stood still, dumbfounded, before Fleming exclaimed: "What are you waiting for, you dullards?! Get him!"
And all four policemen hurried to run after the fugitive, leaving Renfield on the threshold of the white marble mansion, his astonished expression soon turning into a nasty sneer. No matter if those dabblers would manage to catch Clare or not, this would have been the last time he had to look in that undead scarface!
Dr Jekyll groaned frustratedly while giving Dr Frankenstein a leg up the cemetery wall.
"I am doing this out of pure, sympathetic friendship, you know?"
"I know, Henry," Victor replied with a mischievous smirk and, reaching the cope, added: "Now hand me those shovels."
The chemist did as he was told, then climbed the wall himself.
"What a moronic idea, breaking in a cemetery after midnight..." he grumbled, when they both leapt down, landing in the shrubbery near the paupers' graves.
"Shush! Better be silent!" his friend reprimanded him, patting his knee. "I saw the keeper making his rounds. We should wait here until he is gone."
Jekyll only growled at that, then leant his back against the bricks, crossing his arms. If someone had foretold that tonight he would sit under some cemetery hedges, huddled up to Frankenstein and worried not to get caught committing an act of... defilement, he would have instantly committed that person to his institution.
After some time, the flickering flame of the keeper's lantern had disappeared in the blackness of the vast graveyard, the crescent moon the only source of light remaining and everything silent.
"Let's go, quick!" Victor prompted him, and they rose from the thicket, crossed the path, then carefully moved along the endless rows of simple burial places.
"Which one is it?" Henry whispered, his dark eyes scampering over the myriads of identically withered wooden crosses.
"I am sure it is in the second row, next to a tree," the physician answered.
"Brilliant! Which still leaves about fifty to choose from!" Dr Jekyll hissed, his nails digging into the handle of the shovel, but his anger turned out to be unfounded, for Frankenstein soon pointed at the grave in question.
"This one, see?"
The cross on the grass overgrown grave seemed a bit newer than the others, the name on it still legible.
"Fenton..." Henry read aloud. "Only a last name?"
"We did not know his full name," Victor explained while approaching the place and taking another vigilant glance around.
"Well then, Mr Fenton, seems like it is your lucky day," the chemist attempted a joke in the face of the bizarre situation.
Frankenstein, however, did not even smirk at this and instead rammed his shovel into the muddy ground.
"Seems like it is our lucky day," he corrected his friend's wisecrack. "The soil is not frozen anymore."
And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray
Then purer spread its gentle flame,
And dash'd the darkness all away.
Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook
There's more in one soft word of thine
Than in the world's defied rebuke.
– Lord Byron
It had been two days since he had run out of supplies, another two days with his Mistress gone. As much as he was relieved to finally be rid of John Clare, he could not rejoice in his triumph, for the hideous feeling of suppressed thirst gnawed at him, at his intestines, at his nerves, but most of all at his mind. As he restlessly wandered the dark corridors of the Godalming mansion, the Master's voice in his head was more present than ever since he had left Bethlem, taking advantage of his weakened state, of his devastating loneliness and desperate longing.
Do not delude yourself by pretending to be an honest person, little one... Dracula whispered to him. You are a bad boy, you proved that often enough! So why don't you go downstairs and read that diary? Don't you want to know more about her past?
I am not supposed to know anything she does not voluntarily tell me! Renfield hissed back. The late Lord's diary is private! It's none of my business!
You have not answered my question, servant! The Master growled. I did not ask if you are supposed to know, I asked if you want to. They were lovers, they were married. What if decent young Arthur Holmwood wrote down some smutty, explicit details?
I do not care what he wrote about her! Richard cried, his features contorted in a mixture of anger and fear.
Oh yes, you do! Dracula countered in cruel amusement. Remember how you enjoyed secretly listening to all the private things Vanessa told Dr Seward!
I was not myself back then! Renfield tried to defend himself. You bewitched me, you made me do all those iniquities!
And you truly believe you are yourself now? The devil's brother laughed at him gloatingly.
Reaching the end of the corridor, Richard stumbled to the window and hurried to open it, in desperate need of oxygen. He deeply inhaled the misty London air, filling his lungs with the polluted smog until he had to cough.
I am myself! I am myself! I am Richard Mortimer Renfield!
In the very moment he leaned out the window, a cab stopped in front of the mansion. He sensed her before he saw her, as his heartbeat accelerated ere the driver climbed down to open the door. Finally! Finally, his Mistress was returning! And then he beheld her, the heavenly white apparition, descending from the black coach like an angel from the rainy sky, bringing light into the greyness of the estate, into the dark night of his soul.
He watched her in awe as she walked through the front garden, and mesmerised as he was, only noticed the strangely shaped bundle of cloth she was carrying when she had already reached the stairs to the main portal. Renfield wondered what it was she had brought from her long journey.
Oh yes, you want to know more about her, blood of my blood... The cajoling voice crawled into his mind again. You crave to uncover her secrets!
Shut up! Richard hissed back, retreating from the window, and heading downstairs to greet his Lady, but Dracula did not vanish from his head.
Come on, ask her what is in that bundle. Ask her where she has been, why she left you alone!
No! I will not reproach her for anything! Snarling defiantly, Renfield stopped halfway down to the entrance hall, clutched the handrail.
Ask her why she punished you for feeding on a mortal, for simply acting out your nature, for being what you are! The Master's baritone grew louder with every word he spoke, eventually roaring through his mind like a thunderstorm.
"No! I will not obey you! Never again will I obey you, demon!" Renfield cried, pressing his hands to his aching temples as his head started spinning, nauseating vertigo blurring his sight.
Lucy had already stored her souvenir in its allocated place and was about to head to the sitting room when she first felt a stabbing pain to her head, then heard a scream from halfway up the stairs.
"Leave me be! Please, Master! Your suffocating presence... I can't bear it anymore! Please!" The despairing cries of her servant eerily echoed from the white marble walls.
Knitting her brows in unease, the lady in white gathered her skirts and hurried to ascend to the first floor. And there he lay, collapsed on the stairs among the long, dancing shadows cast by the flickering flames of the dim gaslights, his face buried in his hands, his whole body trembling in sheer agony. For a moment Lucy beheld the bizarre scene, aghast, but then she was at his side with two confident steps and carefully touched his shaking shoulder.
"Richard?" she addressed him, and he flinched, lowered his hands, and stared at her with wide, wild eyes, befallen by derangement.
"Can you hear me? Tell me what happened," Lady Godalming spoke, her tone steady, both demanding and calming.
"Mistress..." Renfield's voice sounded hoarse and broken, as if he had not used it in days – or screamed for hours. "He is here again, right here... never gone, never leaves me in peace..."
"He talks to you?" Lucy inquired. "What does he say?"
An agonised wail caused his chest to quiver.
"Horrible things! Disgusting blandishments!" he rasped, eyes now scampering to and fro, unfocussed.
"Does he command you to do anything you do not wish for?" His Lady seized his shoulders in a firm grip.
"Always! Every time he speaks to me! He wants me to disobey you, to distrust you, to commit all those dreadful deeds... I tried to resist him, I tried... but he is twisting my words, twisting my mind, oh God, I am going to lose my mind!" With trembling fingers he attempted to unfasten his tie, gasping for air.
"Calm yourself, Richard," Lucy said, still even-tempered, unperturbed by his breakdown. "You are not going to lose your sanity, I will see to that."
However, her servant apparently did not listen, for his lids fluttered shut and he raised his hands again, running them through his hair in a gesture of black despair. In a fluent motion, she seized his wrists and forced his arms down, then got a hold of his chin, making him face her.
"Look at me!" his Mistress demanded, and he obeyed, opening dull, pale blue eyes, filled with fear.
"He may be your creator, but you are not in his service, you are not obliged to follow him any longer." Her voice had lost its bell-like sound, instead resembling a relieving chant, an incantation of hope. "Dracula has no power over you anymore, for you do not belong to him, do you understand?"
An opalescent spark returned to Richard's eyes again as her words softly snaked into his ear, dispelling the Master's oppressing spirit, banishing him from his mind, and he opened his mouth, taking a shaky breath.
"You belong to me now," Lucy declared, her tone heralding the most bittersweet delights. "You are mine!"
And so, looking up at her calm porcelain features, framed by firm fire, into her cerulean orbs, so determined and unwavering, he believed her. A tear ran down his cheek, bedewing the fine silk of her white glove, then another, and a third.
"Yes, I am, Mistress," he sobbed, dissolved in relief. "I am yours."
"Good boy," she praised him, her beautiful crimson lips curling up into a sweet smile.
Overwhelmed by this expression of pristine grace, he couldn't help but let himself fall into her arms, resting his aching head on her shoulder, while her soothing presence engulfed his tormented senses. His fingers dug into the opulent brocade of her skirts when he felt her cool breath on his forehead, followed by a gentle kiss.
"He cannot hurt you while I am here," his Lady whispered to him, stroking his back until he eventually stopped trembling. "I will protect you."
Enchantedly listening to her words, Renfield could not believe his luck. He had disobeyed and failed her so often, and still she showed him such forgiving kindness, like a saint absolving him from all his sins.
Raising his chin again with another elegant motion of her delicate but firm fingertips, she scrutinised his blushing face and observed: "You are thirsty, aren't you?"
He had to swallow the lump in his parched throat before he was able to answer: "Yes, indeed, Mistress. Very much so, to be honest..."
Richard would have expected her to offer him a sip from her silver goblet, but to his great surprise, she instead removed her gloves and rolled up her left sleeve, presenting her milky wrist to him. Behold, the angel of mercy had descended upon him again, generously donating him her life! He must have stared at her rather raptly, for an amused, bell-like giggle reached his ears.
"Drink, my dear," she encouraged him.
Like in his dreams, he did not know the number of times he had tasted her, how many times it been pure fantasy, but he knew this time everything was real. Her flowery scent was real, the coolness of her skin beneath his fingertips was real, the softness of her flesh against his lips, her steady pulse against his tongue, the sweet sound that escaped her lips at the sensation of his fangs penetrating her veins! Oh, how he savoured her nourishing nectar, bringing such lucidity to his mind! – As if the purity of her lifeblood cleared away all the confusing thoughts, all the disturbing images, all stains on his soul.
"Thank you, thank you so much, Mistress," he breathed as she withdrew her wrist, the bite mark healing ere she put on her gloves again.
"No need to thank me, Richard," Lucy said with the loveliest smile. "It is my custom to care for what is mine."
She then elegantly stood up from her uncomfortable seat on the stairs and ascended to the first floor, he following on her heels with clumsy steps.
"I assume you gathered the mail while I was away," Lady Godalming casually remarked. "Have you kept the Dailygraph with Mr Clare's poem?"
He looked up at her, wordlessly and rather bewildered, which caused her to knit her brow.
"Speaking of whom, where is he?" she asked.
Richard opened his mouth, then closed it again, swallowing the lump in his throat.
"Mr Clare, oh, he... left the house yesterday morning, yes, yesterday morning it was," he babbled, drops of sweat again forming on his temples. "Hasn't returned since, Milady, no, he has not, I fear."
It was not a lie, he kept telling himself. He had just omitted one or two details. And indeed, despite her ability to read his feelings, Lucy did not suspect him of any dishonourable deed, seemingly attributing his nervousness to his breakdown. And so, to his great relief, his Mistress did not interrogate him further on this, only raising an eyebrow instead and proceeding to her study.
"You must tell me about your progress in real estate matters," she went on.
A cold shiver ran down Renfield's spine. Oh, no! The devastating letter! He had completely forgotten about that! There was no way he could omit this. Sooner or later she would find out, so, although struggling with his tendency to avoid trouble, he decided to confess and face the consequences. Stopping at the threshold, he cleared his throat.
"Mistress..." he addressed her in a meek whisper.
"Yes, my dear?" she replied, already about to go through the letters on her desk.
"There is one thing, one tiny little thing I need to tell you..."