"I am merely making inquiries, Mr. Wilde."
"I see. Well, Bram Stoker would be your man, then. He manages all of Henry Irving's affairs and he is the Lyceum Theatre's mother hen."
"I see. Well, thank you for your help," said Grayson. "And if you see either of those gentlemen again, I should very much like to speak with them."
"So would I, Inspector," Wilde said, glancing curiously at Douglas. Grayson was glad to leave. Wilde seemed likeable enough, despite his nature, but he did not care much for the coterie surrounding him, particularly the young Lord
Douglas. It was, felt Grayson, a dangerous association, especially given the character of the boy's father.
His thoughts would prove prophetic. Within a year, the Marquess of Queensberry, outraged by his son's relationship with the notorious Wilde, would accuse Wilde of being a sodomite. And Wilde, urged on by the irresponsible Douglas, would ignore the entreaties of his friends and commit the greatest mistake of his life by suing Queensberry for libel, thereby placing the burden of proof for the accusation upon Queensberry's counsel, who would come to trial prepared to bring forward a number of young men to testify that Wilde had committed "indecencies" with them. Wilde would drop the suit on the third day of the trial on the advice of his counsel, but by then it would be too late. Like many artists who were ignorant of the subtler realities of life, Wilde never understood the importance of the distinction between what was widely known and more or less ignored in certain social circles and what was legally proven in a courtroom, where it could not be ignored. On the same day he dropped the suit; Wilde would be arrested and eventually sentenced to two years of hard labor. He would serve the full sentence and upon his release, would be shunned by the society that had once lionized him. Ile would spend the remaining three years of his life in exile and die in Paris, yet in spite of everything, he would retain his spirit to the end. On his deathbed in the Hotel d'Alsace, while suffering from the acute pain of cerebral meningitis, he would jokingly complain about the aesthetically unappealing wallpaper in his bedroom. "It is killing me," he would say with his last breath. "One of us has to go." As for Lord Alfred Douglas, the instigator of it all, he would emerge from the affair unscathed and go on to write a book about his relationship with Wilde. So much for the ironies of life.
But as Grayson left the Cafe Royal, his thoughts were not concerned with Oscar Wilde and his flirtations with disaster so had said. "possibly of Mediterranean blood." And Doyle had also hinted at the possibility of perversion being involved, secrets darkly kept. Some not kept so darkly or so well, thought Grayson. wryly. Douglas had not left much doubt as to the character of Tony Hesketh. Links were forming. A swarthy, foreign gentleman linked to Tony Hesketh. Hesketh linked to Angeline Crewe. Angeline Crewe was dead and Tony Hesketh wa
s missing. And the last place any of them had been seen was the Lyceum Theatre. It was time to have another talk with Mr. Bram Stoker.
Tony Hesketh's sanity was hanging by a thread. He did not know where he was. He knew only that he was in a dark, damp cell, barely illuminated by a single torch set into a sconce in the stone iv-all. It was like a dungeon in a medieval castle: what little he had seen of it when he was brought here was in ruins. He heard the distant drip of water. He could not move to explore his surroundings because he was manacled to the wall, his arms chained to an iron ring above him. He could barely remain standing to support his weight and when he sagged down from exhaustion, the chains sent a wrenching pain through his shoulders. His coat had been removed and his white shirt had been ripped open, exposing his throat and chest. He was cold, but there was a burning pain in his neck, at a spot on his throat directly over the jugular vein.
He did not remember how he came here. The last thing he could recall was going down to Whitechapel with his new friend, his rich, exotic and exciting friend, and they had walked through the thick fog together, fog so thick that Hesketh couldn't even see where he was going, but his friend had taken him by the hand and led him, promising a wild. new experience and then somehow they were here, in this ruined castle- how could there possibly be a castle in Whitechapel! — and he was led down to the dungeon as his friend walked ahead of him, carrying a torch, and it looked as if no one had disturbed the dust of centuries, as if they had somehow stepped out of London and into another place in another, long forgotten time. And then the nightmare had begun.
The sun was going down. Tony Hesketh could not see outside but he knew the sun was going down as surely as if there were a window in the dungeon cell. After three weeks in this horrifying place, three weeks of the same, mind-numbing, terrifying routine, he knew. His eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light and on the far side of the cell; he could see the large black coffin carved from ebony and worked with intricate designs and silver filigree, resting on a marble pedestal. He remembered the chilling words that had been spoken to him the night he had been brought here and chained to the stone wall.
"I will sleep close to you now. I will remain with you until the change has taken place."
He had not known what those words meant then, but he knew now and it frightened him beyond all measure. He could feel it happening. After the first time, he had been sick, retching uncontrollably, his stomach cramping his vision blurring. Then he became racked with fever and then chills. Sweat poured from every pore. He soiled himself repeatedly, but the chains were never taken off and now he stank, encrusted with his own filth. And he was starving. He wasn't given any food. From time to time, he was allowed a drink of water, but lately it no longer satisfied his thirst. His thirst now was for another kind of drink. It filled him with loathing but he could not resist the urge.
The sun was down. Tony Hesketh hung from his chains and whimpered. The lid of the coffin opened slowly, with a creaking sound. Like a wild animal, Tony strained against the chains. The manacles hit deeply into the soft flesh of his wrists and blood began to flow. In spite of himself, the sight of it excited him.
"It is almost finished. Tony,• said the man standing before him, dressed in elegant black evening clothes and a long. silk-lined opera cape. "Soon now, very soon, your new life will begin."
"Oh, God," moaned Tony. "It hurts. It hurts so much, please, can't you make it stop?"
"Are you hungry. Tony?"
"No. no. please, no more, not again-"
"You are hungry, aren't you?"
“No!”
"Aren't you?"
"Yes!" Tony whispered savagely. "Yes, let me, please…" "Then give me what I need."
"Yes, do it." Tony whispered. "do it now!"
He bent his head back exposing his throat. Warm lips caressed his neck and then he felt the fire of sharp fangs penetrating the soft skin of his throat and he moaned then shuddered as he exploded in a violent climax. His mouth was opened wide in ecstasy, revealing long, protruding teeth.
It was getting very late and Goodtime Gordy still hadn't found a customer. The night was chilly and her shawl was threadbare, but she could not seek refuge from the cold or even buy herself a nip of gin to warm up her insides. She had run out of money and there'd be no crib for her tonight unless she found a means of paying for it. The trouble was, it was a buyer's market and with every passing day, Gordy had less and less to sell.
It was the young ones, she thought miserably. More of them every day, younger and prettier, still with all their teeth, where did they all come from'? All that was left for her to do was to sell herself more cheaply. At this rate, soon she'd be giving it away. She didn't know what she was going to do. She was getting old and ugly and she looked worn out. The few teeth she had left were loose, her hack was hurting her, her eyes were sunken and bloodshot and her nose was veined with ruptured capillaries from a steady diet of gin. She was twenty-eight years old.
A hunched over figure shambled inwards her through the mist and she quickly prepared to make a desperate pitch. She loosened her shawl and opened up her blouse, pushing up her breasts. She had to remember to smile with her mouth closed. so as not to reveal her missing teeth.
"'Ello. Ducks," she said, striking a saucy pose. " 'Ow's about a bit o'- "
Two hairy hands shot out and grabbed her by her shoulders with incredible strength. She felt claws sinking deep into her flesh. She heard an animal growl and saw a face more horrible than anything that she had ever seen in her worst nightmares. She had time for one, brief, piercing scream.
Steiger poured himself a shot of straight Scotch whiskey and tossed it down, then refilled the glass. There had been two more killings. First the actress, Angeline Crewe. drained of almost all her blood, and then a Whitechapel streetwalker named Glynnis Gordon, "Goodtime Gordy" to her friends, found in an alley with her throat torn out. They had been unable to keep that one out of the papers. Her body had been discovered by two of her neighbors and they had spoken to reporters. One paper had run the story under the headline, "Return of the Ripper?" Another proclaimed. "Whitechapel Murder in the Style of Springheel Jack!" And there were no leads. Nobody had seen a thing.