"What's his game?" I cast about the room, trying to find a sign of what had happened. The bedcoverings were tossed around; other than that the place was in good order.
Jack's face was a prairie thunderstorm ready to cut loose. He crossed over to the bed and yanked on the bell pull next to it. Presently, Foster came up.
"Sir?"
"Where is Lord Godalming?" he demanded.
"The foreign doctor took him away, sir. While the rest of us were arming, he had two of the footmen carry his lordship down to your carriage, then he had the driver whip up the horses."
"While Mr. Morris and I were—oh, for heaven's sake, this is quite too much! Why did you not tell me?"
"I was given to understand that you already knew, sir."
"You should have stopped him!"
"It wasn't my place, sir, seeing as how he'd taken charge of things earlier, and though a foreign chap, he is still a doctor. I had the understanding that it was an emergency on behalf of his lordship and it seemed best not to hinder him. He promised he would see to his lordship's recovery."
"What else did he say?"
"I could not even guess, sir, as it was not in the Queen's English. He was most excited, though. In a great hurry."
"I expect he's taken off for Purfleet, then."
"Sir, may I ask if his lordship's relations should be notified of his condition?"
An exclamation broke from my lips. "Tarnation, yes! Someone needs to tell Ber—Lady Bertrice. I'll do it."
Jack stared at me. "You? But she heard you're—that is, she thinks you're—"
"Well . . . no, she doesn't. We sort of ran across each other in London; I'll explain later. But maybe it's best if you sent her the telegram, just make it quick, we have to get cracking to Purfleet."
"Quincey, it may be better for me to go alone. If I can talk to Van Helsing under less . . . upsetting circumstances I might persuade him to reason."
I could see the sense of it. "I'll want to be close by, though. I'll come along, but will keep out of sight."
"Of course. Foster? Telegram forms?"
"His lordship keeps them in his desk in the study, I believe."
"Fine. I'm going to have to borrow Lord Godalming's carriage for a day or so. Could you have it made ready?"
"I will have it seen to, sir." Foster left, and though his face was frozen as an old fish, I got the idea he was pleased to have Jack giving the orders now. He returned to the study, while I went after Foster.
"Did you see his lordship?" I asked. "What condition was he in?"
"Sir, it is not my place to make judgments on his lordship."
"If you don't tell me I'll gossip with the footmen instead."
That absolutely appalled him. "Sir, it—that is—"
"Just say it."
"Well, sir, to put it charitably, I believe his lordship was drunk. He was in a very good mood, but the doctors . . . they seemed to read something sinister into his behavior."
With all their dealings with lunatics I could see how they could make such a mistake. I hoped it was a mistake. Nodding a thanks to Foster, I went to the study. Jack was writing out the telegram to Bertrice. I browsed through the drawers and found a small leather-bound diary.
Nothing of note was in it, just addresses—including Bertrice's—and brief entries to remind Art of social appointments. My visit was one of them, written as Guest—?!—after dinner. Drinks. For tonight he had: Dinner, J. & V.H. Q. Later. Long talk!!! His handwriting for both was a little hard to decipher, wandering and uneven. His fist was usually very strong and readable, but I suppose when a man writes to himself he can be as careless as he likes.
When Jack had finished, I composed my own message to Bertrice. "Regret another unavoidable delay, must be in Purfleet with Seward to look after Art. Will write you from there soonest. Your faithful friend, Quincey."
After I'd quietly retrieved my valise of earth from the fir stand, Jack Seward and I got into Art's closed carriage and off we went. The ride to Purfleet proved to be long and uncomfortable compared to covering the same distance by train. The roads in England weren't much better than the tracks and trails in the wild back country of Texas, just a little less bumpy and with no prairie dog holes or bandits. Jack and I had shared rougher transportation on some of our travels with Art, but never passed the time with a yarn more strange than the one I spun now. It was more or less identical to what I'd told Art, with me being careful to leave out any hint about Dracula's survival, focusing instead on my helpful mythical hermit. The difference between this telling and the last was Jack's inability to keep from interrupting with dozens of questions, mostly of a medical nature, concerning my changed condition.
"I shall have to get a blood sample from you," he said at the end. "It's not my specialty, but I'm sure I can find someone conversant in—"
"But isn't Van Helsing a specialist?"
"I don't think he will be especially amenable at this present time. He's in quite a state to make him resort to kidnapping Art. I'm sure he thinks he has the best of reasons, but . . ." Jack left off with a shrug. "Van Helsing can be an eccentric fellow. This is very disappointing to me that he should go to such an extreme, but perhaps later we can bring him around. If I propose your case to him as something to be treated as a rare disease in need of a cure, that might turn the trick with him."
"How can you cure death?" I asked.
"You did," he pointed out, with a meaningful look that shut me down for some time. "There must be some taint in your blood that has the capacity to . . ." His face screwed up from some hard thinking.
"What?"
"Well, I could speculate that whatever was introduced into your blood by Miss Jones brought about a drastic change in your entire physiology. Obviously it was very subtle, else you'd have noticed something odd in the years since. It may lie dormant, then during the ordeal of your wounding it kindled to activity. The effect of it dropped you into a profound trance while you were on the brink of death. You lay in this state until your injury healed. To us you had passed on, but instead you were in a coma so deep as to be indistinguishable from complete expiration."
"That's a possibility, but for my own admittedly nonmedical judgment, I'm positive I died."
"How can you be sure?"
"You were there. You saw how much I bled out after the fight. Have you ever seen anyone recover from the kind of cut I got? I haven't, and I've been around and seen some pretty awful things in this world. When I felt the cold take hold of my feet and legs and start creeping up my chest I knew I was gone. All that was left was a quick prayer and sing a hymn over the body. But I had no regrets, not after seeing the good we did for Miss Mina." I tapped my brow to remind him of the burn that she had taken when Van Helsing had touched her there with the Host. Only when she thought Dracula had died had it vanished. "How does science explain that?"
Chagrined, Jack shook his head, spreading his hands. "It was a matter of faith, something beyond science."
"So maybe there are other things around as inexplicable as faith. Meaning myself."
"Well, whatever is behind this, the price you paid for your . . . recovery—once awake—is this terrible addiction to blood-drinking."
I took exception to that. "It's not terrible to me!"
"Neither is the pipe to an opium slave."
There were several more objections I could make to his assumptions, but held them in. He'd have to run with his theories first before being ready to hear the facts. I was certain my condition was quite supernatural and modern science would not stand. How else to explain the lack of a reflection and my ability to vanish? Those were well outside the natural order of things.
He looked all earnest. "Will you let me help you, Quincey?"
"I'm in no need of help. I'm just as fine as I was before, better even." Especially in regard to fleshly pleasures, one of the advantageous facets of my state I'd not confided to him. I'd distracted him with the vanishing business and that had been fascinating enough—if tiring to me.
Jack seemed almost hurt. "But you must surely want to be free of this affliction."
"You think of it as an affliction. I don't."
This was a new notion to him. A troubling one. Enough to give him second thoughts to Van Helsing's warnings?
"This isn't a disease, Jack." I did my best to sound reassuring. "And if it is, then it's a benevolent one. I'm more hale and hearty than I've ever been in my life. The only drawback is how it shuts me away from dawn to dusk. Dracula could get out and about during the day. For some reason, I don't have that freedom. If you can find a way to restore the day to me, then I should be much obliged for your help."
"I can but try. We'll make a start as soon as may be."
He wanted to conduct an examination right there in the rolling carriage, but I persuaded him against it, as it was really too dark for him to see anything. We'd have to go through the whole business again later. I did allow him to take my pulse, and since I had none he was fair flummoxed.
"You must have a heartbeat," he said, very unhappy. "You simply must."
"Well, maybe that's why we're called `Un-Dead.' "
"But it is physically impossible for you to be walking about with no heart to pump your blood or respiration to—it's not natural."
I had to chuckle, which annoyed him. "In the scientific world, that must be so. But the professor introduced us to a different kind of world, a hidden one that should be impossible, but is not. Took him a long time to do it, too, which he did by showing, not talking, to you about it. He sets a great store over giving you something to look at, then asking you to draw a conclusion, doesn't he?"
"That is his very method of teaching, yes."
"Well, I tried it on him tonight, so why didn't it work?"
"I cannot say."
"Then I will. Van Helsing's a stubborn old coot who can't bear to be proved wrong."
"Quincey! Really now!"
"Then what else would you call it? I was standing there big as life holding the Host itself and bellering out the Lord's Prayer without one hitch and he accuses me of blasphemy and calls me a devil."
"I'd no idea. That's so unlike him. I've never seen him that way before. And attacking you with that lance, like one of my patients gone berserk."
"He's a smart fellow, I've never seen his match when it comes to his kind of book learning, but he's got himself a little too set on being right all the time. In this case he doesn't dare allow that he might be wrong about me."
"Why is that? If you're a different breed . . . what harm could there be for him to be wrong? I should think he would delight in the research possibilities."
I gave out a heavy sigh, taking my time before drawing breath to answer. It was an ugly answer, painful to me, and would be doubly so for Jack. He'd not had time to walk along next to the idea and get used to it.
"Quincey?"
"All right. I won't dress it up in varnish, but the plain fact is he has to have me as foul as Dracula . . . because of Lucy."
His face fell at mention of her name. He puzzled a moment, trying to work out the connection, then shook his head. "What about Lucy?"
"You saw the terrible change Dracula's touch wrought on her, and how she was freed afterward. Well, Van Helsing has to believe that I am in the same devil's thrall as she was. If he admits that I am different, that I am truly a safe sort to be around, then he might have to admit he was wrong about her."
Jack went white to his lips. "No . . ."
"But he wasn't! He was not wrong, neither were we. If not for our intervention she'd have gone on hurting those innocent little mites, and possibly killed one or more of them. What we did was necessary, and don't you ever think otherwise!"
He took a flask from his coat pocket and drained off a healthy swig. He tilted it toward me; I declined with a shake of my head. He put the flask away, oblivious. This told me much about his acceptance of me.
"Poor Lucy," he said. "If we'd waited. Talked to her as I'm talking to you—"
"No!" I snapped. I had to be sharp to pull him out of that pit. I'd been there too many times myself. "That . . . creature was not Lucy! Not the gentle little girl we loved. It was all that was left of her, like that photograph on Art's desk. It wore her face and form, but the sweetness of her soul was gone or held prisoner. We freed her."
"Yes . . . I know. Truly I know that. But sometimes I doubt. Then I see that awful scene all over again, her sufferings . . ." He bowed his head.
"Then don't look at it any more, old partner. Remember instead the peace on her beautiful face when it was all done." I was having trouble speaking, now. My throat was trying to choke up. How I wished I could have the use of a jigger's worth of Jack's liquor.
He straightened up a bit. "You're right. I should not dwell on the darkness. I tell that to my patients often enough; far be it from me to ignore my own advice."
"That's the right trail to take. You've a tough time ahead with the professor. I hope he sees sense, but you've got to be mighty careful."
"What are you on about? He wouldn't hurt me."
"He could—if he thinks I've got you under my influence. Just don't back him into a corner of any kind. Always give his sort a way out. If a man thinks he's got no escape he gives up all and drags anyone next to him down as well."
"Quincey, he's a highly-educated, well-respected scholar who wouldn't hur—"
"He did his damnedest to skewer me like a chicken not two hours past! Don't ever forget that. You talk to him, but keep a distance between you. I know you set a store by him, but so long as he's this het up he could do you some serious mischief."
Jack was none too pleased by my talk, but he needed to hear it. Maybe he'd forgotten that it was Van Helsing who had gone into Dracula's sanctuary and driven stakes through the hearts of his three mistresses. He it was who had then severed their heads. Dreadful task, but he had done it. Jack would be cautious, but I worried that the high regard he held for his mentor might work against him. Van Helsing could be persuasive and was as dangerous as any man I'd run up against, and that included Dracula himself.
Until the professor was won over, I would never be safe.
We could not have been too far behind Van Helsing. At each turning we'd half-expected to catch up with him. Riding singly on a couple of Art's fast hunters, we might have done so, but had chosen the carriage in case we needed to remove Art home again. Purfleet was mostly asleep by the time we arrived. We rattled over the deserted roads before finding the even quieter lane that a few miles later led to Jack's asylum.
The building, with its tree-shaded grounds, was nearly as big and rambling as Ring, but more plain. Once it had been a grand country house for someone with more money than sense at the gambling tables. Sold off to pay the debt, it was eventually converted into its present state as a haven for lunatics, and Dr. John Seward put in charge.
He was very young for the job, I understood, but no one could find fault with him on his energy or abilities. There was also the consideration that perhaps no one else wanted the position, but that was unfair to my friend. Taking care of mad people wasn't nearly as prestigious as purchasing a fine practice on Harley Street, but such things didn't matter to Jack. He was ever a student, ever a researcher, more devoted to his patients than his social position. This was the perfect post for him.
Jack had some very modern ideas about how to deal with mad people. Rather than just keeping them shut away as hopeless cases, he was willing to listen to their ravings to find clues to their delusions and hope for a cure. He was a kindly keeper, which sometimes worked against him as in the case of Renfield, who had on occasion been very violent. Fortunately most of the other charges were of gentler temperament.
The place had a sinister reputation locally, though, which was only to be expected. Few people could welcome the placement of a madhouse in their midst. The necessity of high walls, barred windows, and isolation from the rest of the world gave rise to all manner of rumors, from ghostly hauntings by dead patients to human vivisection with bodies stacked like cordwood in the cellars.
Jack's reaction was that of distress tempered by amusement. In an effort to quell local fears he once opened the doors to a select group of the town elders inviting them to inspect the facilities. Of course, they were far more interested in gaping at the lunatics than anything else, but Jack would not indulge their morbid curiosity, citing the necessity of respecting the patients' privacy. If somewhat disappointed, they departed, full of sweet-cakes and good feeling from the sumptuous tea Jack provided instead.
That helped his relations with the neighbors, but mothers and nannies would still point him out on the street to their children with the cheering warning: "If you're not good, he'll lock you away with the loonies." He felt badly about that and opined that such maternal manipulations were likely to supply him with more patients in the future once the terrorized infants were grown.
Like some of his Continental colleagues, he leaned (quietly) toward the radical idea that how we're treated when very young dictated the kind of adult we'd become. It made sense to me. A drunken wife-beater usually fathered another drunken wife-beater. Jack said that was what the Bible really meant about the sins of the father being passed down through many generations, in terms of spiritual and emotional punishment.
That also made powerful sense, as I wasn't one to believe that God would have much use for holding a grudge for so long. If my great-grand pap had robbed a bank, what was that to me that I should suffer for his crime? But if he decided to take a buggy whip to his wife and kids, that was something else to consider. There are some family traditions that should never be passed down.
The patients' wing was dark, but the central area where Jack and others of his staff had living quarters was lighted up and active. We peered through the carriage windows, curious, at the goings on. Two orderlies were posted at the outside of the entry, holding clubs. A number of other staff members within were busy at the windows, vigorously scrubbing at them.
"What do want to wager that that is garlic being rubbed around the frames?" Jack asked with a sigh.
"Not one penny," I replied. "Did I mention to you that garlic doesn't hurt me?"
"I suppose it wouldn't, if you don't breathe except to speak. My poor asylum will smell like a French kitchen for weeks."
"Considering the cook you've got it might be an improvement."
"What's wrong with my cook?" He was suddenly querulous.
"It's not my place to say a word against her, but why do you think Art always takes you out to the local hotel to eat whenever he comes for a visit?"
"He was just being—well, really! I've never complained about his cook."
"That's 'cause she knows what she's doing."
"But—oh, the devil with it!" He leaned out the window and called for our driver to stop before reaching the front door, then turned back to me. "I think it's best that you stay out here for the time being."
"I'm for that, but you might be jawing with the professor all night. If that happens, I will have to find a safe place to lay out my roll for the day."
"The hotel in town," he suggested.
"I'll wait a half-hour, then skedaddle. Don't tell the professor that I'm here. If there's any news leave a message for me at the town telegraph office. I'll come by after sunset tomorrow."
"Good."
We shook hands for luck, then he opened the carriage door himself and went stalking off to the entry. He spoke calmly to the two men there, who were a lot more animated, pointing this way and that as they answered his questions. The impression they conveyed to me over the distance was vast relief at Jack's arrival.
After some head-shaking, Jack gestured toward the building, and all three went inside.
"Sir?" The driver called down to me.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Beg pardon, sir, but the horses are steaming and will need a cooling-down walk after that long road . . ."
"You're right on that, old partner. I'll get out and you take them along to the stables and look after things."
"Thank you, sir."
I emerged from the carriage on the side facing away from the building. "The stables are around the back."
"Yes, sir. May I inquire if his lordship is planning to return home tonight?"
"I doubt it, being so late. Someone in the house will look after you, though."
"Yes, sir. My old mum said I'd end up in one of these lunatical places. Never took her serious." He shook the reins and urged the blowing horses forward.
I stood alone in the ensuing quiet, travel valise full of my hard-earned Transylvanian soil secure in hand. I'd not informed Jack what I carried. Another evening would suit to tell him about this other supernatural link of mine to the grave. Maybe.
After finding a place to stow my earth, I slowly made my way around to Jack's study, keeping to the shadows. It was on the ground floor, and light showed through the curtains. Pressing my ear to the window, I heard nothing within, though I expected to, shortly. When a man is being social, he takes his guests to the drawing or billiards room; when a man has business, they go to his study.
Van Helsing would have a study of his own. That's where Jack would likely find him. Where would it be? This was too a big place to go searching around haphazardly.
Recalling that Van Helsing had chambers on the second floor, I vanished and floated up, reappearing inside an empty guest room. No sound came from the hall without, so I chanced remaining solid and tiptoed along, trying to remember which of the many identical doors might be the right one.
Then I heard their voices, Van Helsing and Jack, both sounding very heated. And after I'd warned Jack to caution.
I went to that door and shamelessly listened. The argument was about me, and neither of them giving an inch either way at this stage. Van Helsing had taken full charge of the asylum and set everyone to work with the garlic to prevent my entry, particularly in the patient's wing. Any one of the poor wretches there might be seduced into inviting me inside as Renfield had with Dracula. Thankfully, Jack did not disabuse Van Helsing of the notion that I required an invitation to enter a home.
The professor was in high form, apparently having had plenty of time to think out his arguments on the journey from Ring. He had answers for every objection, and good ones. I'd not want to face him in a debate. Jack could be stubborn, too, though, and would not be swayed.
"If he was as evil as you maintain, then why did he avoid harming us when you were trying to attack him?" he demanded.
"He will have aims yet of which we know not," the professor countered. "Like him who must have created him, he makes long plans. His child-brain is most clever, we must not let our affection from the past allow him to do present mischief."
"What mischief? What could he possibly want from us?"
"I know not for sure, but it will be to no good for the world."
"Professor, you have only vague assumptions that fly in the face of fact. With my own eyes I saw Quincey holding the Host and coming to no harm. He is not the evil creature you—"
"He is Un-Dead! There is no such thing as harmless Un-Dead! Can you not see? They use any means they might to beguile us to good feeling, to pity, thus do they always find more souls to feed from, who then rise in turn to march ghastly in the night. He must be stopped!"
This outburst rang through the room. Jack was silent for a long time. Lord knows what he was thinking, but it could not have been pleasant.
"How do you propose to stop him, sir?" His tone was very mild. I did not sense that he'd given in, though.
"That will come to me in time. He knows you here have arrived?"
"He was with me when the butler reported you'd gone. I guessed that you would return here."
"What did Quincey do after? What did he say?"
"He was as astonished as I. He wanted to come along, but I persuaded him to leave things to me."
Very neatly done, I thought. Jack had managed to avoid a direct lie.
"Where now could he be?" asked the professor.
"Obviously not within these walls. You seem to have safeguarded all the entrances."
"For now, for this night if God is with us, and we know He is. If the Un-Dead try to make the assault, then for him we are prepared to rebuff."
"I am not going to do Quincey any harm. You, however, should sit down and think things through."
"Ha! Still you believe not, my young friend. Did I teach you nothing? Or does the Un-Dead already have him a hold upon you?"
"Don't be ridiculous, of course not . . ."
This sounded like they'd be worrying over that bone for a good while to come. Easing away, I continued down the hall to another guest room where Art usually hung his hat when he stayed on overnight visits. I listened and determined that someone was within and softly knocked on the door.
"Who is it?" asked an unfamiliar man's voice.
"Dr. Seward asked me to check on the patient," I replied in a low tone, aiming for an English accent and probably mangling it. I could have sieved under the door, but wanted to conserve my strength.
"We're fine here."
"I also brought you tea. You'll want it before it gets cold."
Had I offered a bag of money the ruse would not have worked better. I was rewarded with the sound of the key turning. The door swung open, showing me the startled face of one of the larger orderlies. His mouth popped wide in surprise; he had no time for anything else. I focused all my will upon him, fully capturing his attention.
"Be quiet and listen to me . . ."
He did just that, obeying my request that he back into the room and not do anything. I closed us in and turned. Art was fast asleep on his bed. He still wore evening clothes, but his collar and coat were off, his dress-shirt partly open, his shoes neatly tucked under a chair.
I went to him. His brow was dry and cool, his heartbeat slow. I didn't know if that was good or not. At least his face had relaxed, smoothing out the lines of care. His breathing was labored and sodden, as if he struggled in some dream. I hoped he'd not been given a sleeping draught on top of his drink. There was a coverlet folded up at the foot of the bed. I pulled it over him. I wanted to do more, but Jack would be along soon to look him over, and I'd informed him that our friend was more likely to be in his cups than out of his mind.
The orderly yet stood by, his eyes dull. He was a massive fellow, hired on to deal with the more cantankerous patients. Art was in no condition to give trouble, but perhaps Van Helsing thought he needed protection from me in case the garlic permeating the room did not work. Sure enough, there was a sturdy walking stick propped against the wall by the door. A good wooden weapon that would knock me senseless; not all of Van Helsing's lore was erroneous.
I questioned the man, confirming my assumptions. Instructed to guard Lord Godalming, he was to invite no one in. Strictly speaking, he'd been faithful to his duties, having only opened the door to me. No formal invitation had been spoken.
He knew nothing of Van Helsing's plans.
A disappointment, but not unexpected. I told him to resume his guard duty and to completely forget my intrusion. He did so, and by then I was back out in the hall.
The argument in the study had not progressed in either direction. Jack was a fair hand at debate himself and trying to pin the professor down onto what specific threat I posed. Of course, he could not get a proper answer. Van Helsing did launch into one of his lengthy call-and-response lessons, though, where he'd ask a question about some unrelated subject, and Jack's replies would lead through to a meaningful conclusion. That conclusion would somehow relate to the current situation, and require Jack's agreement in the end.
Such manipulation worked fine when Van Helsing was in the right. When he was in the wrong it was just blamed annoying.
I'd heard its like before. Soon after I'd inherited the ranch a fellow came by there to get me to invest in some sort of shares he was selling in a new business. He was quite good at painting a picture of the huge profits I would reap, but less than clear on the exact nature of his merchandise. Every time I tried to get him to spit it out, he'd slide away onto the profit potential and the shortness of time the opportunity would be available. As I was in a kindly mood that day, I only set the dogs on him to chase him off and did not play target practice with his toes.
Not that I was tempted to do the same toward the professor, but the idea did make me smile.
As they would probably still be fighting until sunup, I decided I'd best go looking for a safe place to bunk for the day.
I awoke, unperforated by wooden stakes, but chilled to the bone. I had to force myself to stretch the warmth of movement into my arms and legs. My chosen shelter was an empty house bearing a worn "To Let" sign propped in a dusty window. No fire had been lighted inside for years, and the winter air had done a good day's work on my inert body. A hotel would have been more comfortable, but too much a risk. If Van Helsing had gotten Jack to change his mind, or struck off on his own, he'd scour every inn, hostel, and pub for miles around trying to find me.
As before at Ring, I picked the attic over the basement, though I'd checked out the latter. It possessed a stale, moldy reek that reminded me of Dracula's burial vaults. Not wanting that clinging to my clothes, I went for the higher ground. The small dormer windows here were so begrimed with soot as to make midnight of noon, so I was very safe from the sun.
The town was more active at this earlier hour, but showing signs of slowing down for the night. No one marked my materialization outside the house or my stroll up the high street to the telegraph office. There I ascertained that a number of messages had been delivered to Seward's asylum that day. With no twinge of guilt I extended my influence over the clerk to inquire on the nature of their contents, but he knew nothing, and the man who had taken them down had already gone home.
I could guess that Bertrice had likely sent some reply or other to Jack and, hopefully, me. Knowing her devotion to Art she might have come up to see him. She could even be here. That gave a lift to my spirits. They had not been in the best of form while I lay in the cold attic waiting for the dawn. I had much to worry over what would be happening with my friends during the day. Thoughts of Bertrice were cheering, but I was concerned that she would be aggravated with me for absenting myself. True, I had been dragged off for an excellent reason, but she might not see it that way. When a man's been with a woman as we had been together, she's like to take it very amiss when he doesn't make a point to see her again as soon as possible.
With this in mind I hurried along the lane toward the asylum, passing no one, meeting no one. The miles went under me quick enough, even at the last where I had to go by Carfax Abbey. The decaying old pile still seemed to emanate an evil atmosphere. All in my head, of course, all dark memories. Dracula's presence was long gone, if not the boxes of Transylvanian earth we'd sterilized. Those were still scattered about, ownerless at the present time. It occurred to me that I could make use of such a huge cache of soil. I had a very adequate supply of my own, but more might be handy. Dracula was unlikely to return for them.
I'd easily rejected Carfax as a resting place. If he took it into his head to hunt me down, Van Helsing would certainly look there first. The same went for all the outbuildings surrounding the asylum. They might have been more convenient to me in terms of travel, but too dangerous to my health. When one is so absolutely helpless for so many long hours, one has a perfect right to be particular about accommodations.
I marched just a little more quickly, eager to find out how Jack had fared and to see if Art was feeling better.
The asylum was beginning to settle for the night. Lights showed in the patients' wing, but not many. Their waking hours were regulated by the sun, as many of them were not to be trusted with candles. Everything seemed normal, or as normal as could be expected for such a place. Still, I wasn't about to ring the front bell without a little scouting around as someone had been doing a passel of extra work that day.
Every blessed window on the whole of the building had had a cross whitewashed onto it from the inside.
Each door had likewise been embellished on the outside and was wreathed with strings of garlic.
I had no doubt that holy water had been sprinkled everywhere.
This did not bode well.
It took only a moment to slip up to the window of Jack's study and sieve inside. The chamber was empty. I sniffed. The air was still and stale, except for the taint of garlic from the window frames, and no fire burned in the grate. The unswept ashes there were at least two days old.
That wasn't right. Jack was a dogged worker. Even in the midst of the worst of all our troubles with Dracula he'd be in here scratching away on patient histories, or speaking reports into that phonograph machine that was his pride. It wasn't like him to be away. Maybe he'd taken Art back to Ring, but if so, then he'd left no note here for me to find.
I went next to Van Helsing's rooms, listening outside a moment, but no one was there either. Going in—it was unlocked—I found ample signs of recent occupancy, but not the professor himself. It was a liberty, but I searched through his desk, rooting out a journal. I recognized dates and time notations at intervals on the closely written pages but nothing else as it was all in Dutch.
The latest entry was for this morning at ten o'clock. He had a strong hand, but spiky to the point of illegibility, as though he'd been in a hurry. He'd had time for only a few paragraphs. From them I picked out Jack's and Art's names, and then mine. I felt suddenly uncomfortable, wondering what he'd written about us. The last line was just a few words beginning with "Gott," which I did know, and ending on three exclamation points. It was short enough that I could guess it translated as "God help us!!!" or something like that.
So . . . at that hour of the morning he was still in a fearful, hell-raising conniption fit about me. Jack hadn't turned him around. Damnation.
Next, I visited Art's room. Also empty. This was unsettling, but I quelled my worry with the hope that he'd simply gone home. The staff here would know for sure; I had to isolate one of them and ask a few quick questions.
If I could find anyone.
It was the dinner hour, most all of them would be gathered just off the kitchen in their own dining hall. Jack and the other doctors took their meals in a separate area from the nurses, who ate separately from the orderlies, who ate separately from the house servants, who ate separately from Lord knows who else. I'd never known anyone like the English for dividing themselves up into so many groups. They were dedicated zealots to that eccentricity. Not that Americans were much different, with us basing our divisions on how much money a body had, rather than social class, though that was there as well.
The doctors' dining room was empty and dark. Again, no sign of a fire in the grate, so no one had eaten here.
With awful suspicion, I yanked on the bell rope. I could hear it in the distance, but no response. With all the stir the professor must have created to get the cross-painting done, more than one person should have come to investigate.
Nothing and no one. The place was deserted.
I made my way to the patients' wing. Surely someone would be there. It would be too much a disruption for Van Helsing to move all those wretches. At night only one man usually held vigil in a little alcove in its main hall. He had access to a bell rope and an actual bell stood ready on his table in case there was an emergency with one of the inmates.
This part of the original country house had been the most altered by the transformation to an asylum. The doors were made of metal with very stout bolts and grillwork fitted over small windows. They gave the long passage a jail-like appearance, very grim, very bleak.
One such door was the line of demarcation between the two sides of the house, and it was firmly locked. I had no key, but did not need one as I poured through the grid to the other side. Damn, but it was a truly handy talent, if tiring.
I was perversely relieved to hear the sounds of activity, those being the muted groans and wandering talk of the more restless souls.
The hall to which their cells opened was dim, but not wholly dark, and partway along was the alcove. The young man on duty there was probably a medical student of some sort to judge by the books stacked before him on his table. He had a lamp to read by and a plate with the remains of his dinner shoved to one side. He pored over one volume so closely that he did not notice me until I was quite close.
A good thing too. By his startled reaction, he obviously took me for an escapee. However, I managed to stay him as he reached for his bell. It was hard going to get past his burst of fear. My head was fair pinched from the pain of effort, but it was better than physically grappling with him.
"Just ease yourself, partner, I'm not here to hurt anyone." Just like calming a skittish horse. You talk slow and easy and don't make any sudden moves. Of course, a sugar lump or a piece of carrot always helps for them. "You just settle down so's we can have a little talk."
I was very thankful that Jack ran a sober establishment. The man's racing heart slowed, and his wide eyes went blank. He sat quiet and freely answered my questions without a hitch.
Professor Van Helsing was still running the place. He'd given the staff an unexpected holiday, providing they entirely quit the house and grounds for the whole night. It was inconvenient to them and highly mystifying, but he'd slipped them all an extra bit of wages to smooth things over. The fellow before me was the one exception, being the volunteer the professor required to remain behind to look after the inmates. He was paid extra as well, and did not mind having some quiet place to pursue his book-learning. He knew nothing about the crosses and garlic adorning the house. Apparently he was content to let the Dutch doctor have his fads so long as they had the blessing of Dr. Seward, who was apparently indisposed with a digestive upset.
Van Helsing certainly was ambitious and hopeful, and very misguided. This utterly contradicted what he'd witnessed the night before with my immunity to holy symbols, and made me wonder if he should not be confined to the asylum instead of running it.
The man had no idea where the professor or Jack Seward were, only that they were in the house.
"Where's Lord Godalming?"
"Here," he replied, his voice flat from his trance.
"Where?"
"Here."
"What? In one of these cells?"
"Yes."
"Take me to him! Now!"
He got his ring of keys and led the way. He paused in front of a door with a cloth flap hung inside its window. It could be lifted from the outside by means of a cord sewn into the material that was threaded through the grid. I pulled on the cord and peered in. High up on the wall, beyond the reach of even the tallest of madmen, a dim gaslamp lighted the room.
The sight meeting my eyes left me too flabbergasted to think straight.
"Did Professor Van Helsing order this?" I demanded, fighting down a sudden tide of rage.
"Yes."
Such unconscionable audacity left me stunned. How dare he?
Bertrice had said the exact same thing. And she'd not even met him.
Horrified, I stepped back and directed that the door be instantly unlocked. The man obeyed and I pushed into the cell. There was no other name for such a room. It was about six feet square, and the walls and floor were covered with a very thick, tough canvas padding, meant to keep violent patients from injuring themselves.
On the floor lay Art Holmwood, bound up tight as a tick, immobile in a strait-waistcoat.