Simon Hawke: The Dracula Caper

Steiger pursed his lips thoughtfully and sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

"You still think it was a waste of time?" said Andre.

"Maybe not," said Steiger. "And you're right, Finn, it does make me wonder. But the question is, did Wells arrive at his conclusions on his own or did they come about as a result of temporal contamination? And if they did… what can we do about it?"

From the outside, the Lyceum Theatre resembled a small Greek temple, with its six tall columns supporting the roof over the entrance. Originally a concert hall, it later housed a circus and Madame Tussaud's first London wax museum. It was the meeting place of the Beefsteak Society and renamed the 'theatre Royal Opera House in 1815. After being destroyed by a fire, it was rebuilt and reopened as the Royal Lyceum and English Opera House. In 1871, an unknown actor named Henry Irving was hired to take the leading roles in the productions staged by Col. Hezekiah Bateman. Within a few short years, Irving had taken over the management of the Lyceum and he had become the rage of London, acclaimed as the Hamlet, the actor's actor. As he rehearsed the company in his own adaptation of Lord Tennyson's Becket. Henry Irving had no idea that he would soon reach the peak of his career by becoming the first actor to receive a knighthood.

"No, no. no!" he shouted, storming across the stage and running his hands through his long hair, his long, thin-featured face distraught. "For God's sake, Angeline, you must project!"

He said the word "project" as if it were two words, rolling the "r" (or emphasis. His strong, mellifluous voice filled the empty theatre.

"You are understudying Miss Ellen Terry! Consider the burden, the responsibility that is upon your shoulders! You arc whispering! No one shall hear you beyond the second row!"

The young blond actress covered her face with her hands. "I'm sorry, Mr. Irving," she said in a small voice. "I… I am not feeling very well. I…"

She swayed and almost fell. Irving caught her, asudden expression of concern upon his face He lifted her chin and looked into her face intently. "Good lord. Angeline, you're white as a corpse!"

"I am sorry. Mr. Irving." she said her voice fading. "I fell

…cold… so very cold…" She sagged in his arms.

"Angeline!" said Irving, holding her up. "Angeline? Heavens, she's fainted. Stoker! Stoker!"

Irving's manager, a large, red-headed man with a pointed heard, came hurrying from the wings.

"Help me with her," Irving said. They gently lowered her to the stage.

"Angeline?" said Stoker. He picked up her hand and patted her wrist. There wasno response. He placed his hand upon her forehead, then felt her pulse. "Dear God," he said. "She's dead!”

Irving gaped at him, thunderstruck. -Dead!" lie shook his head. "No, that's not possible. She merely swooned."

"There is no pulse, I tell you!" said Stoker. tic bent down and put his car close to her mouth and nose. "Nothing. Not a whisper of a breath.”

"Mother of God," said Irving. "And I said she wasas white as a corpse!" He put his hand to his mouth.

Stoker felt for a pulse in her throat. He shook his head with resignation. "Her heart's stopped beating," he said "Hello? What's this?"

He pulled aside the lace at her throat. There were two small marks over her jugular vein.

"What is it, Bram?" said Irving.

"Take a look," said Stoker.

"Pinpricks?"

"More like bite marks," Stoker said.

"What?"

"Look how pale she is," said Stoker softly. "White as a corpse," he murmured, repeating Irving's words.

"What are you talking about?" said Irving.

"I am almost afraid to say it," Stoker said. "Perhaps my imagination is merely overactive. But those marks are not imaginary."

"Bram, for God's sake! What is it?"

"Have you read Carmilla. by Le Fanu?” Stoker said.

Irving stared at him uncomprehendingly. " What? Sheridan LeFanu, the novelist? What are you… “ His voice trailed off as he stared at the marks on Angeline's throat. "You mean that story about a countess who was a-" He caught himself and lowered his voice so that only Stoker could hear him, "-a vampire?" He swallowed hard and shook his head. "No, no, that is absurd, a fantasy. Such creatures don't exist."

"How can we say for certain?" Stoker said. "I admit it sounds incredible. Henry. but how else can you explain those marks upon her throat?"

"She must have accidentally stabbed herself with something. a brooch. perhaps."

"Twice? Both times, directly overthe jugular vein

"No. I have heard enough." said Irving. "I am sending everyone home before you have the entire cast in a panic."

"I do not think that would be wise," said Stoker. "The police will probably want to question everyone."

"The police! Must we have the police?"

"I see no avoiding it." said Stoker. "We have a dead young woman on our hands and no explanation for her demise. The police will have to be called in. An investigation must he

Irving passed his hand riser his eyes. "Oh, dear Heaven! Very well, Bram, you handle everything. But for God's sake, be careful what you tell them! Please, make no fanciful suggestions. As for myself, I am quite done in by all of this. God, she died in my very arms! If the police wish to speak with me, they can find me at home, but if there is any way it can be avoided- "I will handle things. Henry." said Stoker.

"Yes. Yes, you'll see to everything, won't you?"

"I always do," said Stoker.

"And for Heaven's sake, no wild theories about… you know."

Stoker glanced up at him and then looked back down at the dead girl. "Yes," he said. "I know."

Electricity had come to London. but it had not yet arrived in Limehouse. Westminster Bridge was the first place to receive electric lighting in 1858, but it was not until 1887 that the first station of the Kensington and Knightsbridge Electric Lighting Company was opened. The first large power station started operation in Dwptford in 1889; the London Electricity Supply Company was formed and the city was lit electrically from fleet Street to Aldgate, but it took a long time for electricity to completely replace gas and in 1894, much of London was still illuminated by gaslight. The gas companies were consuming over six million tons of coal per year and the malting effects could be seen in London's famous fogs. An atmosphere permeated by soot particles had blackened the city's buildings and it was frequently so thick that coach traffic was forced to move at a snail's pace and pedestrian trawlers often became lost in their own neighborhoods due to lack of visibility.

The lime kilns around the docks which gave Limehouse its name dated back to the 14th century. It was a center of shipbuilding, a part of the industrial East End. Most of the area's residents were employed in the shipyards and on the ducks and most of them were poor. There was a large population of immigrant Chinese, especially around the Limehouse Causeway, where gambling houses and opium dens could be found by those in search of London's more decadent diversions. It was in Limehouse that Sax Rohmer's evil Oriental mastermind, Fu Manchu, made his London headquarters.

Just off the Limehouse Causeway, in a tiny side street that was little more than an alleyway, there was a small apothecary shop owned and operated by an elderly Chinese named Lin Tao. The old man was bowed and wrinkled, with a stringy white beard that reached halfway down his chest and a white braid that hung down his back to his waist. His forehead was high and he always wore a small, embroidered cap, not unlike a Jewish yarmulke. His slanted eyes, rather than giving him the so-called "cruel" aspect stereotypically attributed to his people. were soft and kind. He spoke English excellently, in a quiet, musical voice with a Chinese accent, and he lived in the back rooms of his establishment with his young orphaned granddaughter, Ming Li, whom he was educating in the trade.