Chapter Twenty-Three #2
There was an odd formality, a stiffness to this gathering as if no-one, not even the policemen, knew quite how to act.
All I could think about was the corpse across the hall.
Again, George came to the rescue, arranging for Mrs Daw to pay an errand boy to fetch the coroner. Only then could the body be taken away.
‘How long will that take?’ I asked.
‘Could be a few hours, ma’am,’ said Sergeant Roberts, looking at his empty glass ruefully.
A few hours!
‘Still, we mustn’t forget the hero of the moment.’
It was as if a spell was broken. The policemen put down their glasses and with a fervour that seemed incongruous, considering what we’d just witnessed, slapped Bram on the back.
They both shook his hand, then, trying to appear official, drew out their notebooks again, asking him to tell them in his own words what happened.
George added his comments and questions; his praise, too.
I sank into a chair, twisting my glass around.
Good God. A man had just died. In my house.
On my dining table. Why were they asking Bram to retell what happened so many times?
Why were they congratulating him? Were you still a hero when the man you tried to rescue died?
This was a tragedy, surely. Why couldn’t they leave us alone? Take the man away?
Bram stood near the window as he spoke, casting occasional glances at the street where a crowd had assembled.
He didn’t seem shaken or upset. On the contrary, he was enjoying the attention.
He wasn’t even bothered by his wet clothes.
The room, despite the fire, was very chilly.
The faint odour of effluent lingered; Bram needed to change.
And what about George, who’d pressed his lips to a dead man’s?
Was the deserter still alive when George started his ministrations?
If so, why hadn’t he survived? What had he done that God hadn’t intervened and saved his life? Given him another chance?
I glanced at Bram. To these men, he was the picture of heroic masculinity as he recounted events. He was already weaving his actions into a wondrous narrative of mettle and misfortune. May the Lord forgive me, but I’d never been more grateful for his storytelling talents.
I couldn’t shake the image of the dead man: his discoloured skin, a devil-sent shade, his blood-red eyes and long grey teeth. He was more like a character from one of the supernatural tales I so loved than a flesh-and-blood person.
Tremors began to overtake me as my thoughts became brambles, so I rose and crossed to the other window, hoping the outside world would distract me from what had happened.
A sea of hats greeted me. A few umbrellas opened as rain began to fall, the sunshine of earlier having been swallowed by heavy clouds.
I was about to turn away, when something caught my eye.
Not far from where the gaggle stood, was what had once been a cap.
Crushed beneath horses’ hooves, it was now an odd shape.
I watched as it went under the heels of yet more men running towards our front door, its shape no longer recognisable; like the dead man I imagined it once belonged to, its purpose had been taken from it.
The rain grew heavier, beating against the flattened object until, finally, it stuck to the wheel of a cab and was taken away.
I spun around to find two more journalists had managed to worm their way back into the house. Pointedly ignoring me and a flustered Mrs Daw, who gave a helpless shrug from the doorway, they stood either side of Bram, demanding a recounting.
The men’s voices washed over me. Already I knew my sleep would be filled with impressions of scarlet eyes, hairy palms and long teeth, with images of the man who fate and God had brought into our home to draw his final breath.
Over the next few days, the papers were filled with Bram’s exploits. The press even went to the Lyceum to interview him, which might have been alright had they not also sought a quote about the valorous Bram Stoker from Henry Irving.
Just as Henry’s ego was beginning to recover from the Romeo and Juliet fiasco, my husband dared to steal the attention.
When an article about Bram’s courage appeared in The Penny Illustrated Press, not only was the entire incident beautifully sketched, and Bram praised handsomely, an accompanying illustration depicted Henry greeting a dripping wet Bram holding a soaking hat and jacket.
‘Bravo, Stoker!’ he was saying. ‘We pretend to be heroes on stage, but you really are one!’
Ellen revealed to me that Henry had said no such thing. When he saw the press outside his dressing room and understood they weren’t there for him, he sent them away with a flea in their ear. When he finally learned what Bram had done, he took him to task.
‘You should have let the foolish old man die.’
‘He needed help,’ Bram protested.
‘I need your help,’ said Henry. ‘Lest you forget, I’m the one who pays you.’
Uncowed by Henry’s admonishment, Bram cut out and kept every single report on the incident, every illustration, cartoon or piece of copy.
If I found one he’d overlooked, I saved it.
He added these to the box in which he stored such keepsakes.
He was so taken by these stories that hailed him as a rugged hero and the kind of victorious athlete he’d been in his youth, he completely missed that while they praised him, the more recent reports in the gossip columns also poked fun at his excessive loyalty to Henry.
Which meant they also lampooned his master.
Bram may have failed to see it, but I did and so did Henry.
When Bram was awarded a bronze medal from the Humane Society for his bravery, I held a salon to mark the occasion. Bram soaked up the notice. Henry was conspicuous by his absence, an oversight Bram excused.
‘He’s exhausted,’ Bram said, when asked where Henry was. ‘He had another engagement,’ he told Gilbert. ‘He’s readying himself for a trip to Paris,’ he told George Du Maurier.
Gilbert and Lucy looked at each knowingly; Hall Caine shook his head in disappointment. Du Maurier just laughed and cocked a cynical brow in my direction. Matilda, William Gladstone, Lady Jane and even Oscar scoffed. Ellen sighed. And on it went.
This readiness to forgive Henry’s pettiness did Bram no favours. While people recognised his devotion, there was a fine line between that and exploitation.
Or weakness.
That others might see beneath Bram’s manly exterior to the needy person beneath nibbled at my composure. Thus far, if they did, no-one passed comment.
As if aware that the praise of others might tempt Bram to test his autonomy, Henry played his cards well, announcing to all and sundry that in the coming year the Lyceum, along with the players, scenery, costumes and even the limelight men, would tour America.
And who was to take responsibility for this enormous feat? Why, none other than Bram Stoker.