TW08 The Dracula Caper NEW (21 page)

"War," said Wells reflectively. "Do you know what Oscar Wilde said about war as it may take place in the future? He said, 'A chemist on each side will approach the frontier with a bottle.' And from what I understand, he was far closer to the truth than he ever realized.
I
don't think
I
will tell him. He would be aghast at the thought of one of his cynically ironic observations reduced to a mundane reality." Wells shook his head. "And now it is I who am becoming cynical. I, who have sought to kindle a love of science in students, look about me now and
see
that we in this time are in the midst of a sort of 'disease' about technology and industry, that we are not certain what to make of it exactly, that it frightens us more than a little, and then I look at you and think perhaps that it should frighten us a great deal more. The forceps of our minds are clumsy forceps and they crush the truth a little in taking hold of it. That is why every scientific generalization is tentative and every process of scientific reasoning demands checking and adjustment by experiment. But you seem frightened by the process, afraid that the truth may not justify the risk. You would rather pulverize the truth in your clumsy mental forceps rather than take the chance that it may not bear out your hypothesis. What would I do if I were in your place, Mr. Neilson? I tell you frankly that I would take the risk, because to destroy a life so casually, merely on the
chance
that it might endanger others, whether it be millions, billions or even trillions, is to place all those other lives in jeopardy of the direst sort merely by the fact of setting a precedent for such a draconian philosophy."

Neilson sat silent for a moment. "You argue most persuasively. Mr. Wells," he said at last. "However, the decision is not mine to make. I am a soldier and I am under orders to shoot Moreau on sight."

"In that case," said Wells, "I shall have to make certain that Moreau stays out of your sight, at least until I am able to convince your superiors of the truth."

"But how do you
know
it is the truth?" said Neilson. "Have you any
proof?
Isn't it possible that Moreau is actually in league with Drakov, as we suspect, and that they are using you as a pawn in their plan? Either way, we have to find Moreau. I have explicit orders concerning you, as well. You have been exposed to things that you have no business knowing. I have to take you back with me to my superiors."

"Only it seems that you do not know where they are,” said Wells. "That would appear to pose something of a problem."

"And I can think of only one solution." Neilson said. "We have been keeping your house under surveillance. Unless something has occurred to change that, we're sure to encounter at least one of our people there. Whatever happens, I can't let you out of my sight. You know too much and you could be in danger.”

"Am I to take it, then, that I am your prisoner?" said Wells.

"I would prefer if you thought of me as your bodyguard," said Neilson. "At least for the time being, until we can sort things out."

Wells nodded. "It really makes no difference. We both want the same thing. You want to deliver me to your superiors and I want very much to speak with them. I will put myself into your hands. Shall I direct the coachman to take us to my home?"

The curtain had already gone up on the play by the time the coach pulled up in from of the Lyceum Theatre. Bram Stoker led Conan Doyle backstage, to a place where they could stand in the wings and peck out from behind a curtain at the audience in the theatre. Stoker pointed up towards a section of box seats to stage left.

"We're in luck," he said. "'There, you see? Third one over. in the well-tailored evening clothes and opera cape, the chap with the downward pointing black moustache and widow's peak."

"I see him," Doyle said.

They spoke in low voices while Henry Irving declaimed his lines as Becket, performing as usual in his highly idiosyncratic, mannered style, his voice rising to the rafters, his gestures elaborate and flamboyant.

"Your count does not look very dead to me." said Doyle wryly. "However, there is, I must admit, a certain malevolence about him. The intensity with which he stares down at the actors...”

"He has seen the play half a dozen times, at least," said Stoker, "and yet he keeps returning, seeing it again and again."

"An avid theatregoer?" Conan Doyle said. "Or is there something about this play in particular which so impresses him?"

"I cannot say," said Stoker. "Henry noticed him about the third time he came back and asked me to find out who he was. When I discovered that he was a nobleman. I suggested to Henry that it might be a nice idea to invite him to the Beefsteaks. Henry thought it a capital idea, but the chap refused. He gave no explanation, he simply declined. He did so politely, but, well, after a response like that, one simply does not press the issue. I mean, after all-- “

"Yes, I quite understand." said Doyle absently, staring up at the man intently.

Stoker suddenly had the impression that Doyle wasn't even listening to him, that he was completely absorbed by the man in the box "I want to speak with him."

"Perhaps we should wait until the intermission," Stoker said.

"It might be a bit awkward in the crush," said Doyle.

"Not at all,” said Stoker. "The Count has yet to leave his box during an intermission. He either remains there and converses with some guests or, more often, sits there by himself, staring fixedly at the curtain until it goes up once again. I'll take you up and introduce you."

They waited, watching from the wings. The audience was highly receptive to the play, and Irving's performance in particular. Irving's formula for success at the Lyceum was historical themes and the story of Thomas Becket was a familiar one to the English theatregoing public. He had adapted the play with Stoker's help from Lord Tennyson's work and Stoker had consulted with the great man himself in the process of bringing the drama to the stage. Irving spared no expense when it came to set design and costumes. His productions were lavish and the effort paid off in packed houses Shortly before the curtain came down for the intermission, Stoker led Conan Doyle around to the lobby and up into the tiers of box seats. They waited outside until they heard the audience applaud as the curtain came down, then went into the box. The sole occupant heard them enter and rose to face them as they came in.

"Good evening. Count," said Stoker. "I trust you are enjoying the performance? It has not palled on you by now?"

"Good evening, Mr. Stoker." said the vampire, inclining his upper body forward slightly in an abbreviated bow. "No, the play is as fascinating to me now as when I first saw it. There is something noble and compelling in its theme, the redemption of the soul. Mr. Irving's performance is inspired, as usual. I seem to find something new in it each time I attend."

"I am sure he will he pleased to hear that," Stoker said. "Allow me to introduce a friend of mine, Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle. Dr. Doyle, Count Dracula.—

"How do you do, sir," Doyle said, extending his hand.

Dracula took it and repeated his short bow. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Doyle, Are you, by any chance, the same Arthur Conan Doyle who wrote those fascinating stories about the consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"I am," said Doyle. "I am surprised that you would be familiar with them. To my knowledge, they are not available in the Balkan countries and I perceive by your name and accent that you are from Transylvania."

"An excellent deduction, Dr. Doyle." the vampire said, smiling wry slightly. He did not bare his teeth when he smiled. "No. regrettably, your work is not available in my homeland, but I have read your stories here, in the editions published by George Newnes, Ltd. I was sorry to read about the unfortunate demise of Mr. Holmes. Perhaps he may yet return from the dead, no?"

Doyle smiled. "An interesting turn of phrase," he said. "Return from the dead. No. I do not think so. After all, once people die, they stay dead don't they?"

"Except, perhaps, in fiction or in legend," Dracula said. "And the abilities of your Mr. Holmes are certainly legendary. Dr. Doyle. It would
not
surprise me if you were to inform us all that he had somehow cheated death and come back from the grave."

Doyle pursed his lips, maintaining eye contact with the Count. "Indeed. Speaking of legends, I am familiar with one from your own homeland, that of a certain Wallachian prince whose name you share. Vlad Dracula, also known as Vlad Tepes, the Impaler."

"An ancestor of mine," said Dracula. "Much maligned by history. I am afraid."

"You are saying that he did not kill all those thousands of people he is reported to have done away with so savagely?" Conan Doyle said.

"My ancestor lived in savage times," said Dracula, "and savage times demand savage measures. There are times when it is necessary to kill in order to survive. My ancestor was at war against the Turks. How many people has your British Empire killed in its wars for survival and colonial expansion?"

"A great number. I am sure," said Doyle. "Still, there is a difference between killing in wartime, on the field of battle, and torturing people in dungeons and impaling them on wooden stakes. I would find it difficult to justify such barbarous acts."

"Would you find it easier to justify the acts of your English privateers, pirates with a license from the Crown to pillage, rape and torture on the high seas and in the West Indies?" said Dracula. "And what of the acts of your English kings, such as Henry VIII and Richard III? Or the acts of your crusaders, for that matter? What of all the implements of torture that I have seen in your Tower of London? The thumbscrew: the rack: the iron maiden. Is your English history so free of bloodshed that you can throw stones at that of my own country?"

Doyle cleared his throat. "Your point is well taken. Forgive me. I did not mean to be rude. It is only that the senselessness of violence has been much on my mind of late, becoming something of an obsession. Apparently, I cannot even enjoy an evening at the theatre without dwelling on them. I am referring to these crimes in Whitechapel, the hideous murders the police have been investigating. I have been consulted by them, in a purely medical capacity, as they have been quite baffled by the manner in which the unfortunate victims met their deaths., As it happens, one of them was a girl who was a member of this very company. You knew her, Stoker, what was her name again?"

"You mean Miss Angeline Crewe?" said Stoker, picking up his cue.

"Yes, that was her name." said Doyle. “I understand you knew the young woman, Count Dracula."

"Yes, I knew her slightly," said the Count. "I had the pleasure of her company at dinner with some friends. A charming creature. A tragic loss. So young. So beautiful. So innocent. Have the police made any progress in their investigation'?"

"Well, I am not privy to all the details," said Doyle, "since they consulted me only in my capacity as a physician, but I understand that they are seeking several of her friends to question them about the case. A Mr. Tony Hesketh and a Miss Violet Anderson, I believe. I do not suppose that you would be familiar with them'?"

"Miss Violet Anderson was the other young woman in the aforementioned dinner party," said the Count, “and Mr. Hesketh was the other gentleman. I have attended the theatre with Mr. Hesketh on a number of occasions, as I think you knew already. Dr. Doyle. However, I have not seen him in some time. I think that he has gone abroad on business of some sort."

"And Miss Anderson?" said Doyle. "Have you seen her recently?"

"No, I have not," said the Count. "And I have already said as much to the police. Or are you pursuing your own investigation, Dr. Doyle?"

"I was merely making conversation," Doyle said. "It was you who asked me if the police were making any progress.”

Stoker pulled out his watch and held it up in front of him. "The second act will be starting in a moment," he said, holding the watch out almost level with his eyes. A small silver crucifix dangled from the watch
chain.

"How interesting.” said Dracula. "You are a Catholic, are you not, Mr. Stoker?"

"I beg your pardon?"

“I was merely noticing the little crucifix upon your watch chain." said the Count, smiling slightly. "It is of Eastern Orthodox design. A lovely little cross, may I see it?"

He reached out and touched it as Stoker held on to the watch, staring at him. He turned it slightly.

"Beautiful engraving. Was that purchased here in London?"

"I . . . I found it in an antique shop," Stoker said, his face flushed. "I took a fancy to it and . . . and had my jeweler attach it to my watch chain."

"Yes, well. I see the play is about to start." said Dracula. "Perhaps we shall speak again later."

The lobby emptied as the signal for the conclusion of the intermission was given and Stoker and Conan Doyle stood outside alone, Doyle smiling slightly.

"Couldn't resist, could you?" he said.

Stoker grunted. "I feel like a bloody fool.”

"Perhaps you should have eaten some garlic before we came and worn some wolfsbane in your buttonhole,” said Doyle, grinning.

"All right, no need to rub it in," grumbled Stoker. "I was obviously wrong, carried away by my own imagination. I made myself out to be an utter idiot. I hope you're satisfied."

"No need to be so hard on yourself. Stoker," Conan Doyle said. "I believe your instincts were correct. I strongly suspect that Count Dracula may be our murderer. However, what we lack is proof and that is what we must obtain and soon. We are dealing with a savage, brutal killer, a maniac, one so certain of himself that he plays at word games with us, teasing us like a coquette. I think we should follow our Transylvanian friend when he leaves the theatre tonight. Whatever we do, we must not let him out of our sight.”

"Who are you people?" Amy Robbins said. "How dare you force your way into this house! Get out this instant or I shall summon the police!"