JONATHAN HARKER’S JOURNAL (in shorthand)

13 October.

"What are your thoughts considering the dead, Jonathan Harker?"

I had been summoned to brunch by Lady Thompson. "And leave the riff-raff behind." Which meant leaving Baldwin and Marcus to their own devices. Even though they had directives to complete specific tasks, I am sure I will have to scuttle behind them and finish up.

We were having brunch in the Blue Room, a rather enormous and overstuffed room where Lord and Lady Thompson have amassed an extensive collection of blue and white porcelains of an Oriental nature. Otherwise, there was nothing ’blue’ about the room as far as decoration. Lady Thompson, herself, was bedecked in bright blue silks, which, in hindsight, now makes perfect sense.

"I’ll ask you again, Jonathan Harker," her voice becoming commandingly persistent. "What are your thoughts on the dead?"

"I don’t believe I have any."

"None at all?"

"It’s not something I’ve given much thought to, so I haven’t formulated an opinion." I’d rather keep all of those thoughts to myself. I wasn’t in the mood for sharing opinions on a subject that could become a conversation with sinister overtones. I know of creatures that walk amongst the living—evil in their beauty and evil in their horridness. I question every shadow and oddity.

"Then you must not have had anyone close to you die."

"No," I said, "that’s not at all true. I have." This statement, I instantly regretted. Lady Thompson wasn’t the type of soul to let something intriguing slip past.

"Someone you loved? And when I say ’loved’ I mean deeply."

I stammered, "A—a daughter." Again, regretting my tendency to please by engaging in a conversation that I would otherwise avoid.

"Oh, it’s sad to lose a child. That is sad, indeed. But you have no thoughts concerning your daughter."

"I believe I did at the time—"

"I don’t mean suffering thoughts, and when I say ’suffering thoughts’ I mean those self-indulgent operatic ’Why me, Lord’ thoughts that grieving people are prone to."

"Then I’m not sure what it is you are asking me, Lady Thompson."

"I think the dead are with us. I believe the dead are with us. Side by side. They don’t leave when they pass away. They don’t. They are here with us. We are all here together. And if we could open our minds up to that idea, we would, perhaps with practice, be able to communicate with them." Her voice was purely empathetic, matching the compassion filling her eyes. "Have you ever given any thoughts to those sorts of ideas?"

"None at all." Of course, the dead walk amongst us; they are an altogether different and unholy dead. I’m sure Lady Thompson’s idea of the living dead is not the same as what reality offers.

"Wouldn’t you like to communicate with your daughter from the other side? It might be that they have access to a bastion of awareness that could be, through them, at our fingertips. If only we could open up our minds, we’d be able to see that which is within grasping distance before our very eyes."

"My daughter was stillborn."

Lady Thompson’s face became reflective. She dipped her head as she ruminated on a fresh thought. "Age doesn’t matter in death. Death is an equalizer. Young or old, ugly or beautiful, rich or poor, sweet-natured or beastly, it’s all the same when you’re dead."

I didn’t agree or disagree; I thought it best to remain neutral so that the conversation would dissolve into something representing the matter at hand. I’ve discerned that Lady Thompson is one of those elderly types who need to get the thoughts out of her head especially if she believes they are of general interest. This ’belief’ is probably a passive response from being married for so many long years to a man who considered, along with other abusive behaviors, that it was his sovereign right to inform his wife how to, and what to, and when to think.

"Let me tell you my story that involves the dead amongst us, and when I say ’us’ I mean the populace." She launched into her story before I could even register a hint of protest. I have spent so many years as the sometimes bearer of unfortunate news that keeping my facial expressions neutral has become a habit that often doesn’t serve me well. I began jotting down mnemonic hints in my notebook so that I could better record her narrative.

"My dear mother developed an affliction. From the very beginning of this story, you should understand that my mother was a corpulent woman with a strong desire for a particular pigment of bright, clear blue. This pigment was discovered in 1802 by Baron L. J. Thénard and has since become very popular with artists and the makers of dyes. Mother fell so in love with cobalt blue that she desired it more than any of the other blues. This tidbit is essential and not just a brief history lesson.

Now, in regards to Mother’s affliction; her thirst became insatiable. The woman simply could not get enough fluid in her. As soon as she gulped the fluid down, the fluid wanted out—I don’t mean to be indelicate, I’m just stating the simple facts as they were. She’d fill her bladder, and then empty it only to fill it up again. It became an endless cycle and a dreary inconvenience at social gatherings. Ants and honeybees gathered in her chamber pot, which had to be scrubbed with the harshest of cleansers, and I knew that the chambermaids gossiped about this. The Service can be the most wretched creatures.

Soon there were hammering headaches and the most profuse sweating that lasted throughout each and every night. This caused her body to become deprived of rest. She simply could not rejuvenate with a good night’s sleep.

Emaciation brutally followed. Corpulence to leanness in what seemed like the duration of a fortnight. She often complained of needle-like pains in her legs. Even though she did her best to mask her pain, I could see it twitching in the corner of her eyes. There came a numbness in her toes, and shortly thereafter to her feet. It was difficult for her to walk. However, she managed by lumbering from side to side, propelling herself forward, using her hands to steady herself on the walls or whatever else was convenient. A stubborn woman who refused to allow the footmen, or even the maids, to help her. In next to no time, as you can imagine, she became bedridden.

During the night one of the dogs, or all of the dogs—we’ll never know—the Yappers, as I liked to call them. As you know, the smaller breeds make up for their diminutive size by constantly barking—the Yappers chewed off several of her toes.

Her feet were dead, you see. She was dying piece by piece. Had been dying piece by piece, rotting from sweetness, from the inside out for a long time. It was only towards the end that it began to show on the outside, and by then, the damage was irreversible.

They, and when I say ’they’ I mean the physicians; they amputated her legs; first the left one, and then after recovery, the right one.

Shortly after that, her fingers started to tingle. She died in her sleep the night before she was to have her left hand amputated. We trust our physicians to know how to aid us when in ill health, but even though they have the education, they are no more knowledgeable than the books already written.

It wasn’t that long ago that we were using leeches and letting blood for simple cures. I don’t think we progressed that far when our only means of curing is to cut the infected off. It’s a Leviticus-like approach, wouldn’t you agree. Dealing with the unclean. If you’re sick, and they don’t have any reasonable explanation as to why; then you are unclean.

My mother led a pious life. Cutting away her sickness was an awful punishment, wouldn’t you agree? They couldn’t stop her from rotting from the inside out. I can’t imagine the pain she felt, nor could I imagine masking such pain from others.

It had been a few months after, and my youngest, Bess, and I were resting on that settee over there, and we were having a hard go at it. Bess was missing her grandmother, and I was missing my mother, who was also my best friend, as mothers tend to be. It put me in such a state of fuss. It was difficult enough to deal with my grief, let alone my child’s grief. Harshly—and I know it was—I sent her away. I thought some solitude would do me well. This next part is important, so please make sure your scribbles are accurate.

"I felt heat entering my ears. I knew I was flushing; I could feel the heat on my cheeks.

Lady Thompson continued. "My solitude was not to last, for you see, I heard a commotion just outside those windows, there on the terrace. So, I rose and crossed over to the window where I was surprised to find a rather stout-bodied pigeon with a bright, clear blue ring around its short neck.

She was walking on her legs, marching about, grousing with bird-gripes at every step. I watched quietly for the longest time. The pigeon got very close to me but held no fear for humans. At one point, I called her by name. ’Dora,’ which is what we all called mother. ’Dora,’ I pleaded. I pleaded because I wanted so much for this to be true. The pigeon kept her pace and her grousing, just like Mother, when she was in one of her moods. It was an uncanny resemblance. She stopped to scratch at the back of her head the way Mother would scratch at the back of her ears.

On more than a few occasions, when I ventured outdoors for my evening stroll, the Dora-pigeon, as I came to call her, would swoop down from out of nowhere, and try to land on my shoulder. The first time, this frightened me, of course, because I thought I was being attacked, but then I realized she was playing with me—you see, this is why I believe the dead are here with us. My mother knew I was upset but unreachable from her realm, so she infused herself into that pigeon and, like this, was able to communicate to me that everything was all right—that I didn’t need to grieve so much. She performed this miracle, if you will, because we, and when I say ’we’ I mean the living, are not receptive to seeing our dead in our everyday pursuits standing side-by-side. And, so, I return to my original question and ask, Mr. Harker, for the third time, what are your thoughts concerning the dead?"

Thankfully, the Butler arrived to announce that Lady Thompson had an unexpected visitor: the heir presumptive, Cousin Christopher Melliford. I was able, once again, to avoid her invasive question.

***

Friday.—It’s been a hard go, but between the three of us, we were able to appease Lady Thompson’s concerns in regards to the Entail of the estate. The Thompson ancestral line ends, or rather, has ended with the death of Lord Thompson as he had no male siblings to carry the family name. The family name is as dead as Lord Thompson. Lady Thompson produced no male heirs. Now the estate is going to a cousin (the first male born of the middle sister.)

The oldest sister produced nothing but females, which seems to be a curse, if you’ll forgive, upon this family. No one has spoken to or seen the cousin in at least two decades. He arrived at Berkshire in tartan trousers! We were able to manage something of a somewhat gentle nature for Lady Thompson, Clara, Bess, and Aggie—with the blessed hope that the girls would marry well. They are all attractive and lively. Unless something is lurking in the unforeseeable future, it’s my thought they should be pretty well off. Although, and Baldwin would agree with me, the new heir presumptive was indeed giving young Bess a goodly going over.

When Marcus referred to Lady Thompson as a Dowager, well, her color changed. I don’t think he’ll make that mistake again. (At Lady Thompson’s request, I have appointed Baldwin to take over all the solicitation needs for her from here on out.) Although I agree with protecting the family name and estate, I also believe the women are getting the raw end of the deal. Lady Thompson will have a sizable, and livable, inheritance; she will be forced, however, to give up Berkshire (the family seat) for a smaller residence with reduced amenities, which, altogether, isn’t that awful, but it is a drastic change. We did manage to secure Lady Thompson’s desire to choose from the estate staff for her staffing choices at her new residence. With all said, signed and sealed, I must admit that I do not like the way Cousin Christopher Melliford has handled this whole affair. He had the opportunity to make well a somewhat bleak situation, but he chose a different, more self-serving path. His kind never turns out well.

The girls were somewhat anxious, but Baldwin, ever the charmer, was able to appease their concerns with a lot of purple prose that, at least, took their minds off such confounding matters as a newly defined shopping allowance.

This whole affair has taken two days too long. There is not much wiggle room in estate matters.

***

16 October.—It all began on our return to London and dinner with an entirely unsatisfying wine.

Marcus was on edge at arrival and somewhat of a bully—he can be disagreeable without any devotion to trying—first the maître d’hôtel, then the waiter (we dined at the Royal). I find this behavior obnoxious. There are manners and just everyday courtesies that one needs to employ while on business. It reflects on the company when the employees are bad guests. Marcus likes to push whatever it is he thinks needs pushing (situations, people, and etcetera) until resistance becomes futile.

The wine was poor. No robust bouquet. Flat. After a tense dinner (which I was sure would cause indigestion) Baldwin, impish as ever, apparently had devised a scheme for our final evening’s entertainment in London. With trepidations, our evening began.

***

17 October.—On return. Beautiful Day. Exeter, a few hours journey is a welcome respite, as I need some time to rejuvenate after last evening’s revelry. Baldwin doesn’t seem to understand one’s need to act responsibly. His whole idea of having "Random Moments" doesn’t give the impression of randomness if you’re always planning for it. He is a jolly lad. However, there is too much youthful indifference towards established modes of behavior. As he gains experience in life, so also will he gain those trepidations that give automatic rise to caution.

He and Marcus are already snoring in the seat across from me. There was a multitude of complaints at breakfast of thundering heads, unsettled stomachs and the laxative nature of cheap spirits. If we’re lucky, we’ll have the compartment to ourselves for the entire trip.

London grows larger and larger with each visit. She develops and augments with each gigantic breath she takes. All the old haunts are gone—the favorites—or the new haunts are piled on top of one another. London is stretching up and out which seems to breed migration; some of the swankier areas have simmered in class while others posher have sprouted further away from the center of the city. I would be curious to find out where the geographical center of London is now. Has it moved far in the past ten years?

Last evening’s carousing through some of the seedier districts led us into some sinful dens that were altogether unsavory, yet delightful in their exhibition of Old Testament sinning. Nothing proves my point more stable than the uninformed, uninhibited in full Sodom and Gomorrah debauchery, gobbling each other up in a frenzy. Each of us enjoyed the theatricality of the evening for vastly different reasons. I’m confident Baldwin will eventually succumb to the deliverance of a different bent than the path on which he now travels. He has a good head on his shoulders and some good sense; he had a stable, affirmative Protestant upbringing in which he is now in rebellion, but he still attends a service (when he can, which is usually every other Sunday), but he likes to make as if he doesn’t. His rebellion is primarily in response to the other bachelors of his ilk that are less spiritually inclined.

Marcus, on the other hand, is a complete ass. Has been, always will be. I shall need to find a plausible excuse not to take him along on the next outing. After a certain age, loud and rude is no longer funny. His bon mots are not bon mots anymore . . . though I would venture to say they never were witty or funny, it’s just hard to be the only one not joining in on the laughter no matter how ill-conceived.

His fairly thick stash of French postcards give rise to a prurient interest; bedazzled in tawdry gewgaws—spangles and feathers that barely keep the nude models from being exposed with a mere breath. It’s scandalous that such items can be bought (in plain sight) on the street.

Although our evening’s journey took us through more than a few public houses (Baldwin and his randomness!) our journey ended at "Deviltry." Or perhaps it was called "Scratch." I’m not altogether sure. It was far from being a "public house," as it was well beneath the ground. Access was down, down, down a steep flight made slightly treacherous by inebriation and the arbitrary person. I was convinced Baldwin was leading us into the London sewers. (In hindsight, his knowledge of murky territories is slightly suspicious, and I will chat with him at a later date.)

This place was far from being a public house. Whilst a vast array of spirits were being served; without question, there were more "ardent" spirits available. Blonde-haired, brunette, amber, voluptuous, mousy, muscular. The type of place you hear about in unbelievable whispers. They do exist, and they are filled to the brim with vices in all manners of disguise. Even with sobriety, the lines distinguishing the males from the females are blurry—indeed an establishment of ill repute. I watched the back of Baldwin and Marcus’s heads bobbing through the crowd as they disappeared. More a funfair or circus of uninhibited, colorful characters all acting as if all in the world were perfectly natural and any impending problems such as war was left on the street above, out of view and out of mind. The atmosphere was infectious, and I tried very hard to set my pious attitudes to the side and enjoy myself. I did manage a bit, but I found it difficult and a challenge to my beliefs.

"I have seen all the works that are done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and vexation of spirit."

Such a long journey which never seems to shorten with familiarity, but which has grown in length over time. I am fooled by the gentle curve of the tracks at Feniton thinking the train is at Newtown and the curve will take us on to Whimple and then into the great long stretch into Exeter. The natural features of the passing landscape look so remarkably the same that I am fooled no matter how many times I’ve traveled this route. The mild rocking of the coach does make one feel sluggish. Baldwin and Marcus have stirred little from their original positions. They seem rather ’school-boy chummy’ nuzzled together in their tweeds. Baldwin’s angelically topped head is tenderly resting on Marcus’ broad, firm shoulder—and is that Marcus’ robust and sturdy arm peeking out from behind Baldwin—his bear paw gently clutching at Baldwin’s slender waist? What dreams those two chums must share!

Baldwin snores like that old cat with the chronic sinus condition we had (Sinus) when we first moved to Exeter; a wheezy inhale, a gargled exhale. Marcus sleeps with his jaw dropped, mouth open, and absolutely no noise on inhaling or exhaling. I’m sure this makes his mouth dry and probably accounts for the foulness of his breath.

I am anxious to be home. Eager to nestle in my bed in the company of my dear, dearest.

***

CUTTING FROM Phenomena News, 16 October (pasted in Jonathan Harker’s journal)

BLACK MAGIC CLUES

A sheep’s heart pierced with thirteen thorns in the form of a cross was discovered on a tombstone in the cemetery of St. Clement’s Church, Leigh-on-Sea, Essex, together with occult signs burned into the nearby lawn with oils.

Nearby tombstones were spoiled with bloodstains and black wax drippings from ceremonial tapers.

Several counties have reported an increase in cemetery and church desecrations over the past few months giving rise to lurid gossip amongst the superstitious.

Next Chapter: CHAPTER V