- XXI -
For A Change
Dear Dr Seward,
hereby I seek your professional opinion and advice.
Meet me at...
Renfield's pale blue eyes went wide in shock, when he read the words the hatching on the blank piece of paper had revealed. Why the hell did Lady Lucy seek advice from that old crone of an alienist?!
He stared at the sheet for a long moment, before it dawned on him what could be the reason for such a meeting. It had to be about him! It had to be the things his Mistress had seen in his mind, the things she had needed time to think on! Oh god, no! If they would indeed speak about his misbehaviour and all the crimes he had committed, what else would Seward tell his Lady about him, about his weaknesses, about his shameful past?!
Biting down on his lower lip, Richard clutched the edge of the desk top, while pearls of cold sweat appeared on his forehead. He needed to somehow prevent their encounter! But how?! With shaking hands he held the paper to the sunlight which fell in through the window, but could not make out any more words. Only the first part of the disastrous letter had left impressions, the rest remained lost. He could only guess where and when they would meet.
Knitting his brows, he forced himself to concentrate despite his nervousness and the constant burning of thirst in his throat. Lucy would probably propose a time at night, for she would not risk being weakened by the bright sun when meeting a mortal. He exhaled in relief as a brief glance at his pocket watch told him that he still had more than an hour until sunset. The question now was whether his Mistress would visit his former employer's office. He assumed it would be rather unpleasant for Lady Godalming to speak about private matters in a place out of her own domain, however, he could not imagine that Seward, the hectoring hag, would approve of any other meeting point than her own practice.
With these deductions made, Renfield sprang from his seat and hurried to leave the mansion. His only chance would be to venture to his old workplace, wait outside the building, intercept his Mistress, and on his knees beg her for forgiveness and nourishment, before she could encounter the doctor!
John Clare was sitting in a small, dark room, hands chained to the wall, unnaturally yellow eyes cast down. For hours they were keeping him waiting now, without a word, without food or water. As if it had not been embarrassing enough to get arrested after being shot, falling off a train, collapsing on the rails in excruciating pain and suffering an agonising beating by the batons of raging policemen. The poet could have screamed in fury himself at this injustice fate was imposing on him. He had been so close to escape, so close to start a new life somewhere outside this accursed city! But John remained quiet, for he did under no circumstance want to give them any reason to substantiate their assumption of him being a madman.
In the late afternoon a doctor finally visited him, treating the bullet wound in his upper arm, wondering that it was already healing, then declaring him fit to be questioned. Thereupon two burly officers hauled him up and dragged him to an interrogation room just as small and dark as the cell, chaining him to a table. Again, he waited for what seemed like hours, until two inspectors entered. One of them Clare recognised as the young plainclothesman, who had led the intervention at King's Cross – the one who had shot him – and he could not help but clench his teeth.
"I have been told you are recovering fast, Mr Clare," he said, while they both sat down opposite the poet. "John Clare is your name, correct?"
John nodded curtly, an action the policeman considered a confirmation and professionally went on:
"I am Sergeant Gainsborough, this is Inspector Fleming. We are investigating the cases of capital offence in which you, Mr Clare, are the main suspect."
"The first incident in connection with which the press has obtained a description of a perpetrator perfectly matching your not quite unremarkable appearance, is the act of cruelty against animals in Hampstead Heath," Fleming began listing the accusations against him and shoved a photograph of the bloody scene over the tabletop.
The poet turned up his nose at the memory of that dreadful night, when he had encountered Lady Godalming's insane servant in the park but did not utter a word.
"Secondly, mayhem in three cases – and homicide in one – on the streets of Soho, witnessed by a man who was scarcely able to escape unharmed."
Four more pictures of injured men and one with his throat cut were laid out before him, causing pearls of cold sweat to appear on John's forehead, for these were the crimes he had indeed committed, albeit in self-defence.
"And last but not least, the dastard murder of a thirteen-year-old boy in a backyard, again with a description of your ugly face, delivered to us by mail." With that, Fleming showed him the photograph of a deceased adolescent, whose fragile neck was gruesomely lacerated by bite marks.
Clare's eyes widened at this most horrifying of all images. It was now as clear as day that Renfield had framed him for the deadly sin of murdering a child as well!
"Do you recognise this boy, Clare?" Gainsborough asked, a threatening undertone to his voice. "Or these men? Or that bloodbath in the park?"
John bit down on his lip, balling his pale hands into fists and staring at the table. He dared not talk to them about any of these hideous events, he could not reveal anything that might lead them to Lady Godalming!
"No, I do not. I do not know what you are talking about," he growled in frustrated defiance.
Dear Dr Seward,
hereby I seek your professional opinion and advice.
Meet me at the eastern cemetery gate today, 5 p.m.
An old acquaintance
Florence raised an eyebrow at the strange, anonymous letter that had reached her private flat. She did not know who that "old acquaintance" might be, and in which matter they sought her advice. Had the words been written by a man, she surely would simply have discarded the piece of paper, but as she was experienced in graphology, she could tell this was clearly a woman's writing. Maybe a wife threatened by her husband, who had no other choice than meeting a psychologist in secrecy? Or a case of stalking?
The doctor leafed through her calendar, finding that she had another appointment at her office at six and the cemetery was on the way there anyway. And so, she decided to meet the "old acquaintance", whoever she might be. Before leaving, however, she retrieved her revolver from the drawer of her bedside table – just as a precaution.
The sun was already setting, but still cast a golden glint on the snow-covered trees and tombstones, when Dr Seward arrived at the cemetery. Due to the wintery weather, there were not many visitors present and after a few minutes of waiting, Florence was alone on the vast grounds. Her dark gaze wandered over the fairyland-like scenery, but she could not make out anyone approaching her. Promptly as a nearby bell tolled five, however, a voice just as clear reached her ear.
"Good afternoon, Dr Seward."
The psychologist turned on her heels to greet her supposed new patient, but then suddenly stopped in her tracks, eyes wide in astonishment. It was not an ordinary woman, no mistreated wife or harried damsel who had sought her out – it was an apparition! An otherworldly presence with an aura beyond human comprehension stood before her, her white dress and skin brighter than the snow, her ginger hair like a halo on her head, radiating to outplay the last rays of the sun. Awestruck and wordless, Florence blinked twice to ensure she was not dreaming or hallucinating, then however, she noticed some familiar features on the ghostly lady's porcelain face. The look in these azure eyes, it reminded her of...
"My God," Seward uttered, her voice raspy with shock. "You are Lucy, Lucy Westenra, are you not?"
"Lucy Holmwood, Lady Godalming now, but yes, indeed," the angelic figure confirmed in that bell-like tone of hers, faintly smiling at the older woman.
"I thought you were..." the psychologist began, but was unable to word the bizarre assumption that crossed her mind.
"Dead?" Lucy helped her. "I can assure you, I am not, I just live quite secluded."
Florence could not explain how this was possible. She had been at Miss Westenra's funeral, she had spoken to her grieving fiancé, here, right at this cemetery, beside her very grave. Upon the young woman's title, however, she assumed that they had gotten married at some time after that event. And had Lord Godalming not passed away as well...? But if there were such things as ghosts and spectres, would they arrange a meeting by mail? Swallowing the lump in her throat, she dared to ask:
"Have you written that ominous letter to me?"
"Yes, my dear Doctor, for I wish to speak to you," the lady in white affirmed.
Seward gazed at her opposite for a while longer, then decided to put aside her unscientific moment of superstition and treat this woman – as strange she might seem – like a patient of flesh and blood.
"Then why don't you make an appointment at my office?" the doctor inquired, a hint of her usual rough demeanour returning to her voice.
"Because this is not about an official session, nor is it about my own person," Lady Godalming said, still smiling sweetly.
"Well then, whom is this about?" Seward wanted to know.
"My servant," Lucy answered curtly.
Florence raised an eyebrow at that.
"It's rather unusual for a lady to consult a psychologist about her servant's health, isn't it?"
"Maybe, but is it not just as unusual for a psychologist to commit her secretary to a prison for the criminally insane?"
The lady's words bore a criticising undertone now.
The doctor furrowed her brows in bewilderment.
"How do you know..."
"My servant is Richard Mortimer Renfield," Lucy explained, fixating Florence with her mesmerising gaze.
An alarming realisation rose in the psychologist's chest and her eyes again went wide with unease at the mention of her former secretary.
"My Goodness!" she breathed. "You are the mysterious visitor Henry Jekyll talked about! You are the one who befuddled his mind and spirited away his patient!"
"You are a clever woman, Doctor Seward," Lady Godalming observed with a deadly serious tone to her bell-like voice. "It is true, I have made use of that chemist's mental and emotional weaknesses to save Mr Renfield from that dreadful institution."
Now it also dawned on Florence what kind of being the young woman before her was – not a ghost or heavenly apparition, but one of the night creatures she had fought to save Vanessa Ives! A vampire! She remembered that, while she had tended to Lucy at her sickbed, Professor Van Helsing, the haematologist she had consulted, had fabulated about some bloodsucking demons being responsible for her illness. Back then, they all had deemed the old man insane, but it appeared as if he had spoken the truth! Automatically, her fingers closed around the handle of the revolver in her skirt pocket.
Seward had to clear her throat, before she could utter a tartly remark at the lady's avowal to the incident at Bethlem Royal Hospital.
"And now you regret your act of charity towards a diagnosed madman?"
Just as the sun had disappeared behind the trees, Lucy's smile faded entirely, when she replied:
"This is not about what I regret or not, for no one can undo what has been done. I came to you, for I seek your constructive advice on how to treat my servant, on how to approach certain affairs."
With the warm rays gone, the vampire woman's eyes lit up in an icy glow, and Florence's misgiving grew with every further moment she looked into these unnaturally blue flames.
"Well, I'm not sure if I can give you the advice you're looking for, however, I can definitely not evaluate your situation without a bit more insight, Milady. Since I have another appointment soon, maybe we can talk while walking to my office?" she suggested, wisely intent on her own safety.
The lady in white gave her consent with an elegant nod of her porcelain doll-like head, and so, they left the dark, abandoned cemetery and together headed for more busy streets.
Pretty Pretty Robin
Under leaves so green
A happy Blossom
Hears you sobbing sobbing
Pretty Pretty Robin
Near my Bosom.
– W. Blake
As the winter sun set behind the roofs, Renfield lurked in the shadows of the trees opposite his former workplace, waiting for Lucy to arrive at Dr Seward's office. The gaslights behind the second-floor windows were lit, so he assumed the psychologist was in, as well expecting her newest patient.
Richard committed to throwing himself at his Lady's feet, as soon as he would spot her. Yes, he would again truckle to her, and, drenched in tears promise her to from now on obey her every command! Surely, this would dissuade his beloved from consulting the manipulative old witch, who without doubt was able to destroy their holy bond with her viperish words. His determination to his impending act of submission, however, did not eliminate the burning thirst, the flames of which still violently licked the inside of his throat – on the contrary, his need for blood grew with every moment he waited in the cold, with every second that elapsed unused.
While his glowing eyes fixated the building across the street, a faint chirping reached his sensitive ears, and his gaze flickered to a nearby garden fence, where he beheld a robin singing its last song before retreating to its sleeping hedge, its ginger feathers reflecting the rays of the fading sun. What a lovely little fellow! In a quick reflex action, Renfield's hand shot forth, seizing the innocent bird, and in a just as swift motion he shoved it into his mouth and swallowed it whole. It tasted dry and gristly and did nothing to alleviate the pain in his parched intestines, nothing to ease the agonising ache that was pulsating through his entire body.
With the consumption of this little life, however, something inside Richard's tormented mind snapped, making him abandon his commitment to wait for his Mistress and instead driving him to cross the street, enter the office building and climb the stairs to Dr Seward's practice.
After he had tended to the wounds the nasty vampire boy had inflicted, Lord Hyde had been rifling through his late father's correspondence, files and books for hours, hoping to find any hint to the white lady's family, but it seemed the old man never had had contact to this noble house. From a history tome he had learned that the Godalmings' roots lay in the seventeenth century, but was not able to deduce who they were and where they lived now, nor had he discovered any hint to them being supernatural creatures.
Gritting his teeth in rage, he banged his fist on the richly decorated wooden desk. An entire day wasted on nothing but dusty paper! In a vigorous motion, he sprang from his seat and retreated to his quarters, entering the bathroom to wash his face. The icy water was refreshing and cooled down his boiling anger a bit, but when he looked up and into the gilt-framed mirror, another disturbing emotion rose within his chest – utter shock!
Aghast, Lord Hyde stared at his reflection. It seemed as if the colour had faded from his face, his features appearing more like those of a pale Englishman than of an Indian. Was this some bad trick of the light?! No... A short glance to the side told him that the bathroom lamp emitted the same faint glow as always. Moving closer to the mirror and touching his cheek, he noticed that also his eyes and hair had changed their colour and turned to a light brown instead of jet-black. Altogether, he suddenly resembled his loathsome father more than his own self!
Was he hallucinating?! A moment ago, he had seen everything clear, been able to think straight, and now... Taking a shuddering breath, he stumbled backwards, out of the bathroom and almost collapsed on his bed, desperately trying to conjecture what in all the gods' names had happened. Could this change of his physical appearance – or at least his changed perception of it – be some bizarre side-effect of his new serum?! Then why had none of the men he had tested it on ever described such a phenomenon? Had they not experienced it because of their mental disorder? Did the elixir work so different within a sane mind? Or was he himself going mad?!
He could not answer these questions, could not catch a logical thought. His wide-open eyes fixated on the ornate ceiling, trembling hands clutching the cover, breath ragged, Hyde lay on his luxurious bed and did the only thing possible to him in this abstruse situation: Wait until the drug's effect would subside.
As soon as he had set a foot in the office building and ascended the stairs to Dr Seward's practice, unpleasant memories assailed his mind. The days and weeks he had spent at his old workplace, faking courteous smiles, pretending to still be an ordinary mortal, claiming to feel totally normal, while the night creature inside him had grown and grown and ravenous thirst had gnawed at his intestines like a chronic disease.
Tonight, his need for blood was just as intense, however, it was not mere primal urges that had befallen him, but a kind of obsessive curiosity as well. For some reason, he craved to behold the old slut's reaction in the face of his return, he wanted to see what she would do when a supposed madman on the loose suddenly entered her office. Would she try to flee or fight? Or would she call for the police? Oh, he would have loved to be given a reason to silence that sharp, gruff tongue of hers! Now that he thought about it, killing Seward appeared to him an even better solution to his precarious situation, for a dead psychologist would definitely tell no false fabrications about him to his Lady.
When Renfield had reached the second floor, where the psychologist's office was located, dim lamplight leaked out from the ajar anteroom door. He opened it without knocking.
"My Goodness!" The girl at the reception jumped, almost sending the penny dreadful she had been reading flying across the room. "You startled me, Sir!"
Richard blinked at the unexpected sight. He did not sense any presence other than hers, neither mortal nor vampire, and so he assumed that neither Seward nor Lady Lucy had arrived yet. Or was it possible that they had met somewhere else?
While thinking about if he should wait for them or better leave, he let his gaze scrutinisingly wander over the woman he had just encountered. He was not surprised that his old seat at the secretary's desk was taken, however, he raised an eyebrow at the young age of his replacement. The doctor's new employee was not yet twenty, thin and not all too pretty, but she smelled delicious and she had full, curly hair. Ginger hair. Renfield decided to stay.
"Please excuse my intrusion at such a late hour, but I hoped for the possibility to see Dr Seward." He still did well in faking courteousness.
"I'm sorry, the doctor's not in," the secretary replied. "but I can make an appointment for you on Friday, if you like."
He sighed, mimicking a disheartened patient. "Not necessary, not necessary..."
The girl eyed him rather pryingly. "Are you sure, Sir? You look... jaded."
"Oh, do I?" A crooked smirk appeared on his unhealthily pale features.
"Sorry, Sir," his successor cleared her throat, leafing through the file cards. "If you tell me your name, I'll see if I can fit you into the doctor's schedule tomorrow."
"Richard Mortimer Renfield," he introduced himself, his grin broadening, but not yet revealing anything unnatural.
The sound of his name, however, was enough to startle the girl again. With light green eyes widened in shock, she slowly rose from her seat.
"My God, you are..." she whispered, searching for words.
"Your predecessor, indeed," he helped her, while he himself could not help his senses tensing up at the sweet unease emanating from her.
"You are the man who attacked Dr Seward, the one she had to commit to a..." the girl's voice broke again, and she had to swallow the lump in her throat.
"A mental hospital, a lunatic asylum, a nuthouse," he suggested in a low growl, his eyes now lighting up in an opalescent blue, and his features contorting in disgust, altering his noble appearance to that of a madman. "Whatever you may call it, Bethlem is a prison, you know? And a testing laboratory for psychoactive substances at that! But their drugs did not work on me! And they could not keep me there, they could not hold me there, no, they could not!"
With that he clutched the edge of the desktop, leaning over it and closing the distance to the young woman, who had stumbled away from him, her back against the wall now, trembling in fear. He remembered that yesterday the mere presence of the lower-class mortals on the streets had appalled him, but this one was now attracting him. He was well aware that he should better refrain from approaching her further, for in his thirsting state, the temptation of her young life would surely overwhelm him. He knew that it was only a matter of time until either Seward or his Mistress or both would arrive, and he still had to find a way to prevent their meeting, but at this very moment his primal urges were reigning over his reason, his instincts prevailing his rationality entirely. And so, Renfield approached even closer to the object of his desire.
"What is your name, little secretary?" he demanded in a dangerous tone.
"M... Mary," she stammered, blinking nervously.
"Ah, lovely!" he drawled, licking his lips. "Mary, like the Virgin..."
Her eyes grew even wider at that comparison, her heart rate accelerating dramatically, and this reaction fully drove him over the edge of sanity and made him grin an insane grin again, now showing his elongated, predatory canines.
"I always wanted to know if virgins taste different," he growled, slowly crawling over the desk like a cat circling a trapped bird.
As soon as he had reached the horrified girl, he seized her chin, forcing her to look into his blazing eyes.
"Are you a virgin, Mary?" he asked in a surprisingly melodic whisper.
She was now shaking in sheer deadly terror, pulse fluttering, pearls of sweat appearing on her forehead.
"N...No, Sir..." she mustered to utter in a hoarse voice.
Renfield furrowed his brow at that.
"Pity," he sighed, the lunacy almost gone from his gaze.
There was a hint of relief evident on Mary's features, a false hope for escape, before he bared his fangs again and the flames in his eyes returned.
"But don't worry, I'll eat you anyway!"
That gruesome announcement seemed to wake a certain survival instinct in his hitherto weak and frightened prey, for she suddenly began struggling in his grip, desperately trying to fend him off.
"Let go of me, you pervert! Get your dirty hands off me!" she cried aloud.
Renfield narrowed his eyes. As much as he liked his victim fighting for her life, her clamour was not quite to his advantage, for even at this hour mortals would surely be present somewhere in the building and might come to her rescue. Did he wish to dine tonight, he had to quieten the girl.
"My fiancé will be here to pick me up soon!" Mary tried to intimidate him. "You don't want to mess with him, believe me!"
Tell her what she wants to hear, show her what she wants to see... Although the disturbing voice was long forgotten, in this very moment Dracula's advice crossed his mind.
"I am sure he is a sightly man, your fiancé..." he drawled, leaning in even closer to her.