Call Me Ismay (5 page)

Apocryphal stories abounded, including one in which he was said to always purchase a ticket for the seat next to him whenever he attended the theatre, allowing him to protect himself from human contact by placing his suit and hat at his side. That story never addressed several inconsistencies, including what some saw as an act of practicality: it was not at all uncommon for the well-heeled to purchase an extra ticket for the convenience of having their belongings ready to go at a moment's notice, and that action had no connection to a desire to avoid other people. Indeed, a true hermit would be more likely to purchase seats on
both
sides. Another flaw in the story was his infrequent and unlikely placement in a theatre- this was a man who mostly allowed himself leisure in solitary outdoor activities such fishing or shooting, or else he could be found sequestered at home, fastidiously attending to his collection of newsclippings. Curiously, he literally spent decades cataloguing each and every mention of himself in the press, yet never shared his leather bound volumes with anyone.

The recent violent explosion of blood in this paralyzed man's brain had vanquished any chance of ever sorting out his true motives. Surrounded by his scribbles of stars, The Hermit of Hill Street breathed his last on Sunday, October 17th, 1937, a rather cloudy day that saw the weather become increasingly unsettled. His funeral was held four days later at St. Paul's, Knightsbridge. His remains were cremated and buried at Putney Vale Cemetery, in the furthest corner of the burial ground. He was survived by his wife of 48 years, and two sons and two daughters. His obituary in the
Times
came under the headline, AN ABLE SEAMAN. His epitaph, the biblical phrase from the Book of James, Chapter 3, Verse 4:

'Behold also the ships, which though they be so great, and are driven of fierce winds, yet are they turned about with a very small helm, whithersoever the governor listeth.'

Flags would fly at half-mast in Liverpool upon his death, but it could be argued that to many, Liverpool itself had been in a half-mast status for more than two decades. One pennant that had long maintained a painful and tattered visage for Liverpudlians, as well as for the newly deceased Londoner, was the prominent flag of red featuring one white five-pointed star. That banner belonged to the White Star Line, and the White Star Line belonged to the just-deceased Hermit of Hill Street, Joseph Bruce Ismay.  And that company's marquee ocean liner was the RMS
Titanic
.

CHAPTER THREE

December 11th, 1911

Nearly three weeks had elapsed since Kerry Langston made his astonishing discovery in Winkleigh Church, and he had notified no one. Sipping tea in his modest flat on Brathway Road in the Wandsworth borough of London, he studied a district map that showed his current northern position in relation to Edwards Lyons's territory in Kingston-Upon-Thames. For days he had acknowledged to himself the irony of the fact that he was indeed looking down on Lyons, literally and figuratively keeping him under surveillance.

Arriving home in Wandsworth a few weeks before had been an unpleasant affair. Langston's landlady, a penny-pinching, disagreeable old cuss known only as Mrs. MacDowall, had unfortunately been in the vicinity of Langston's door when he tried to dash in as quickly as possible to avoid any unwanted human contact. Of course, as always, she
had
seen him, and simply
had
to know where he had been and “Just what exactly is that 'orrible scratched-up thing you've got shoved under your arm?” Langston invented a succinct lie that the vampire kit he'd clumsily tried to hide from her actually contained medicines- and immediately regretted doing so, fearing that somehow, someway the opportunistic Mrs. MacDowall would try to levy some sort of extra fee on him for harboring pharmaceuticals on her property. Luckily, her interest seemed to die out quickly, and Langston was able to take his leave and at last enclose himself in his home. “Smelly, scabby, toothless old crone,” he had groaned to himself.

His ever-sensitive stomach lurched once more. He closed his tired eyes, and as he drew long and hard off his cigarette, images of bullet holes and blood danced over a dark mental canvas. Langston was certain that a decisive attack on Lyons and his association with the dark arts would lead to some sort of bloodshed. While he desperately tried to assure himself he was overreacting, the infamous Siege on Sidney Street that occurred in London earlier that year had convinced him he was in an untenable position. That battle on London's East End had ended with the deaths of at least two politically motivated and heavily armed anarchists, along with three policemen, and a firefighter. Langston believed that any attempt to confront Lyons would undoubtedly place himself in great danger, given the details of his sinister activities. However, his greatest fear lay in the possibility of putting others at risk. He could only surmise how Lyons might react if confronted, especially after uncovering the vampire kit.

Langston had covered the siege on London's East End for the
Daily Chronicle,
and while he was loath to admit it, doing so had caused him great emotional damage. He had bundled himself against the cold that day, and had watched in awe as Scotch Guards armed with rifles opened fire on the north end of Sidney Street, seeking revenge for the earlier deaths of three policemen. He watched in nervous fascination as the besieged house caught fire, and frantically tried to take notes as Special Branch soldiers carried out both the murdered and the injured. He tried to remind himself these culprits were scum of the earth burglars and killers, but as he watched their bodies being laid out on the cold and wet cobblestone, he couldn't help but acknowledge that these men were dead.
Dead.
Laid out on the street, in full view of civilian eyewitnesses, and that's all they were ever going to be.

The anonymous letters that had prodded him into investigating Edward Lyons, though unnerving in both their description of the MP and numerous unspeakable acts, they managed to provide a strange sense of comfort for Langston. The letters spelled out in explicit fashion what a vampire's world consisted of, including what were called “mutual feedings,” where two vampires would engage in what could best be described as a bleeding embrace. There were mysterious mentions of an Argued Prophecy, involving those controversial claims of the upcoming ascension of a vampiric leader, along with a vivid account of a vampire's constant thirst for something called “blood credits.”

Whomever the author was, they were clearly intelligent, very secluded, and obviously taking great care in not revealing who they really were. The oddly elongated hand in which they were written had proven to be a source of hours of irritating fascination, as it made it impossible for Langston to confidently determine the gender of the writer. In his frequently lonely state, he imagined that it might be a woman: perhaps a young, lovely, wishing-to-remain-anonymous cousin of Lyons. Or was it just a dowdy, dutiful secretary simply taking dictation? Perhaps someone in their own decidedly elusive way was just trying to provide him with some horrible truth; either that, or these were words written by someone just a few steps removed from Bedlam. The letters always started with the polite salutation
Dear K. Langston,
they
contained the most cautious and at times cryptic phrases, and concluded with the thoughtful
I grasp your spirit in the palm of my Hand as I wish you safety. 

Whomever the author was, they seemed genuinely concerned for his safety; whether they were fully sane or not remained to be seen. Still, Langston- a man not easily given to close friendships of any sort- believed himself to at least have found a friend in spirit.

As for the kit, Langston had strictly forbidden himself to reopen the box upon his return to London. He glanced at the kit, which was now collecting a thin layer of dust as it rested on a nearby small table. He couldn't bring himself to even handle the box, and swore silently that his flat felt palpably warmer ever since he brought his strange discovery home. While most likely his sense of temperature had been altered by a considerable fluctuation in blood pressure, Langston's tired mind began to size up the mere presence of the kit as pure evil, radiating dangerous heat.

Langston's next move was a moot point. Clearly he couldn't track down Edward Lyons and Bartholomew Gidley outside the House of Commons, and publicly accuse them of vampirism. He would be laughingly dismissed, and restoring his journalistic credibility would be an impossibility. He knew that his next step depended entirely upon catching them in the act, a rather disheartening and quite likely impossible objective.

The real news of the day in the
London Daily Chronicle
was that Britain, France and Russia had agreed to restrict whale hunting in order to prevent extinction.
How on earth can I be expected,
he surmised,
to have my tale of fantastical terror taken seriously amongst studious articles that spell out the preservation of the environment, or the fight for human rights being waged by the suffragettes?

As nighttime fell, Langston began to refresh some of the notes in his small diary by the light of a lone candle; the penurious Mrs. MacDowall had flatly refused to approve the installation of electric light for any of her tenants. Langston had compulsively memorized the contents of the kit to the point where it was not truly necessary for him to catalogue them in the pages of his diary, but nonetheless he proceeded. The crucifix, Langston believed, was made of ivory. The pistol, in very crisp working order and condition, came with four silver bullets with crosses on them. While Langston certainly did not consider himself a firearms expert, he easily identified it as being manufactured by Hollis & Sons, possibly .45 caliber. A mallet, decorated with holy emblems, lay alongside four mahogany stakes, and there were several small vials labeled holy water. Adjacent to the water was a tiny cloth sack that contained a garlic clove; Langston knew enough about European vampire folklore to be momentarily tempted to rub it into the keyholes of his flat. The inclusion of the copy of the Book of Common Prayer, for some reason, stirred the most apprehension and worry in Langston. In his nervous, exhausted state, the prospect of having to actually validate some of his skeptical Anglican beliefs seemed too enormous a task. Finally, the slightly yellowed handwritten note that reiterated the clue he'd been given regarding Bartholomew Gidley was tucked inside the prayer book- unnervingly, it seemed to bookmark the section  including the Order for the Burial of the Dead.

Langston allowed his mind to wander, trying to make sense of the mystery that had haunted him for so long, and questioning God- or whomsoever he allowed his higher power to be- why he had been chosen to shoulder such an unspeakably frightening burden. While taking an inventory of his own life's deeds, he certainly could not proclaim himself to be perfect, but he also could not find a satisfactory answer as to whether he was being punished for some spiritual shortcoming or oversight. He had often ruefully hypothesized a visit to a confessional would only result in a pious, comforting man of the cloth to become so horrified by a description of his plight, that he too might deem him to be, in fact, doomed. Staring into space, Langston permitted himself to let his hand wander close to the flame of his burning candle, letting its warmth sear his palm for only an instant before quickly withdrawing it. He then did something he had not tried since he was a child. He dipped his finger into the wet pool of wax that was forming just under the flame, letting it ooze over his fingertip and then watching it cool quickly and harmlessly on his skin. For nearly half an hour, Langston sought refuge in this odd ritual, and yet he found it strangely comforting, even going so far as to collect enough wax to draw a letter G (that resembled the wax seal on the anonymous notes) upon the surface of his table. G, as in 'G' for God, for if Langston's dark suspicions were correct- someone was indeed attempting to evoke a Masonic symbol on the seal of those letters.

As Langston finished up his strange artwork, along with some of his research notes, his eyes wandered back over to the box itself. On the train back to London from Devon County, he had held the kit in his lap, never letting it out of his sight. His nervous sensitivities had convinced him that there was a warmth, even a mysterious low hum seeming to emanate from the box as he cradled it in his arms. It was a sensation he'd encountered some years before, as a lad growing up in Surrey.

In 1894, he had fancied a young lady named Eva McGregor; she was a gentle spirit and always eager to please. Their short-lived romance, which ended when her family moved to Scotland, lasted long enough that he had confided in her he had been developing a curious interest in the occult. In a show of generosity that would remain a favorite sentimental memory, she promptly used what she had for a very small allowance towards the purchase of a ouija board. Young Langston was astounded by the gift, but shortly after acquiring it, the answers the board was providing to supernatural questions proved too frightening. Among other things, it had seemed to correctly predict a coal mine explosion in South Wales that killed hundreds. Langston proceeded to seal both the board and its planchette in a box marked DO NOT OPEN. He then placed the box in his parents' attic, where it likely remained, for all he knew.