LITMIR.BIZ

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“It was the favourite phrase of a great man.”

      “Who?”

      The door closed behind them, sliding silently until it met the opposite wall, where it thudded into place with a loud clunk. There was a sound like spinning gears moving heavy machinery, then a quieter, yet somehow ominous second clunk. Instantly, the wall at the far end of the corridor slid aside to reveal a silver metal lift.

      “Not now,” said Frankenstein, and walked down the corridor. After a moment’s hesitation, Jamie followed him.

      The lift car had no buttons, and as soon as they stepped inside the door closed and they began to descend. It was such a familiar, mundane feeling, the shift in his stomach, the vibrations in his legs, that the mild hysteria Jamie realised he had been feeling ever since the thing in the grey coat had walked through the door of the house he shared with his mother threatened to pitch him into a fit of laughter. He steadied himself, and waited for the door to reopen. As they settled to a halt and it began to slide open, his mind raced with the possibilities of what he might see next.

      It was a dormitory.

      A long, wide room, lined on both sides with thin beds covered in olive-green sheets and blankets. The beds were pristine, as though they had never been slept in, and the metal lockers that stood between them shone like new.

      “What is this place?” he asked Frankenstein.

      The monster opened his mouth to reply, but a deafening siren drowned out the words. Jamie pressed his hands to his ears, and when the siren paused, Frankenstein looked at him with a worried expression. “You’re about to find out,” he said.

      Chapter 6

      THE LYCEUM INCIDENT, PART 1

      THE STRAND, LONDON 3^RD JUNE 1892

      The carriage clattered to a halt on Wellington Street, in front of the tall pillars of the Lyceum Theatre. A fine rain was falling, and the driver pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders as he waited for his passenger to disembark.

      “Bring my bags, boy, both of them,” said the old man, impatiently. He stood in the cobbled road, the brim of his wide hat low over his face as he watched the sun descending towards Trafalgar Square. “Yes sir,” replied his valet, lifting a black leather surgeon’s bag and a tan briefcase down from the back of the carriage.

      The aging black horse that had pulled them through London shifted as the weight was removed and took a step backwards into the valet, sending the man down to one knee on the wet cobblestones and the tan briefcase to the ground. A sharpened wooden stake rolled out and settled at the feet of an overweight man in evening dress, who stooped down, grunting at the effort, and picked it up.

      “You, boy,” he said, in a superior, goose-fed voice. “Have a care, would you? A man could go full-length with blasted logs rolling around his ankles.”

      The valet picked the briefcase out of the road and stood up.

      “I’m sorry, sir,” he said.

      “See that you are,” said the man, and handed the stake back to the valet while his equally large wife giggled at her husband’s wit.

      The valet watched them totter away towards the Strand, then handed the bags to his master, who had watched the exchange with an expression of impatience on his face. He took them without a word, turned, and strode up the steps. The valet waited a respectful second, then followed.

      Inside the rich red lobby of the theatre the old man waited for the night manager to greet them. Looking around, he took in the wide staircases that led up to the left and the right, the posters for previous productions that lined the walls, the majority of which showed the face of the man who had called him here; the actor Henry Irving.

      The handsome, pointed face of the great Shakespearean was as well known as any in London, and his rich baritone voice equally so. The old man had seen his Othello, two seasons previous, and deemed it entirely satisfactory.

      “Professor Van Helsing?”

      The old man awoke from his musings and regarded the stout, red-faced fellow who was standing before him.

      “That is correct,” he replied. “Mr Stoker, I presume?”

      “Yes sir,” the man replied. “I’m the night manager here at the Lyceum. Am I right in thinking that Mr Irving explained why your presence was requested?”

      “His message told me that a showgirl was missing, that he suspected foul play, and that I may have some expertise of the type of foul play in question.”

      “Quite,” said Stoker. “But this isn’t just any showgirl. There’s...”

      He trailed off. Van Helsing regarded the night manager more closely. His face was a deep beetroot red, his eyes watery and his head enveloped in a gentle cloud of alcoholic vapour. He had clearly sought the courage for this night’s work at the bottom of a bottle.

      “Mr Stoker,” Van Helsing said, sharply. “I have travelled from Kensington at the request of your employer, and I wish to be about this business before the sun is long beyond the horizon. Tell me everything that I do not already know.”

      Stoker looked up as though stung. “I apologise, sir,” he began. “You see, the girl who has vanished, a chorus girl by the name of Jenny Pembry, is a favourite of Prime Minister Gladstone himself, who has been kind enough to visit us no less than four times this year already. Her absence was mentioned by the Prime Minister after he attended our production of The Tempest, two days past, and Mr Irving promised to find out what had become of her. When he reported back to the Prime Minister that he had been unable to do so, he was told that a telegram to the famous Professor Van Helsing of Kensington might prove useful.”

      “And so here we are,” boomed Van Helsing, drawing himself up to his full bearing, his voice suddenly loud and deep. “Standing in an empty theatre, with no reason to believe that this missing girl has done anything more mysterious than tire of the stage and choose a more dignified line of work for herself, and certainly nothing to suggest that this affair merits my attention. I fail to see what you expect me to do here, Mr Stoker.”

      The night manager had taken a step backwards. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and furiously dabbed his forehead with it.

      “Sir, if you would spare the time to examine the dressing rooms,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. “Mr Irving informs me that the Prime Minister is most upset by this business, and I do not wish to tell him I have not exhausted all avenues of enquiry. Ten minutes, sir, I beseech you.”

      Van Helsing looked at the small red-faced man before him, and felt his anger subside, replaced with a deep frustration. Nine months had passed since he and his friends had returned from the mountains of Transylvania, and although none of them had spoken publicly about what had happened, rumour of what had taken place beneath the stone peaks of Castle Dracula had spread, and he had found himself deluged with requests for help, with everything from creaking floorboards to ghostly apparitions and, it now appeared, missing chorus girls.

      He longed for the quiet of his surgery, where his research into what he had seen in the East could continue. But there were worrying stories emerging from the Baltic, tales of blood and shadow. Thankfully though, nothing yet suggested that the evil condition which had caused the deaths of two of his friends had found its way back to London, and God was to be praised for that, if for little else.

      “I apologise to you, Mr Stoker,” he said. “If you will lead the way, I will examine the dressing rooms, as you suggest.” He turned and spoke to his valet. “You may return to the carriage, boy. There is nothing here that will require your assistance.”

      “Nonetheless sir, I will accompany you so long as it does not offend.”

      Van Helsing waved a hand at him, dismissively. “Do as you wish.”

      *

      Stoker

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