Gideon Smith and the Mechanical Girl (5 page)

Gideon blinked. “You’re a writer?”

“I try.” Stoker smiled. “Success eludes me thus far, though I’ll have my first novel published later this year, so perhaps we shall see.”

Gideon brandished the magazine at him. “Do you know
World Marvels & Wonders
?”

Stoker peered at the penny blood. “Ah. I am familiar with it, of course. And the adventures of stouthearted Captain Trigger. Although I have worked for some of the story-papers, I have never been published in
World Marvels & Wonders
.”

“Oh,” said Gideon. “I must get in touch with Captain Lucian Trigger quite urgently. When you said you were a writer, I thought perhaps you might be acquainted with him. There is . . . there is something of an emergency in Sandsend.”

There was a thin, sharp cough that echoed around the marble floors. “I believe it’s your turn,” said Stoker gently, and Gideon turned to see the woman glaring at him and the door to the middle kiosk hanging open.

“Good luck with Captain Trigger,” said Stoker. “I hope your emergency is quickly and sufficiently resolved.”

“What number do you require?”

Into the flowerlike transmitter mounted on the top of the central column he enunciated loudly and slowly the string of numbers printed in the magazine. The voice said, “Very good, please hold.”

After a few seconds another voice said, “You are through to the London Newspaper and Magazine Publishing Company. To whom would you like me to direct your call?”

Gideon’s dry mouth worked wordlessly for a second, then he blurted, “Captain Lucian Trigger! It is a most urgent matter!”

“I am afraid I cannot furnish you with a private number for Captain Lucian Trigger,” said the woman. Gideon’s eyes narrowed; was there a hint of mockery in the voice? She continued, “There is a coupon in the latest edition, which, if you mail it to us with two shillings, enrolls you for membership in Captain Lucian Trigger’s Global Adventurers. You will receive two newsletters each calendar year, a membership card, and a pin brooch.”

“I do not wish to join the Global Adventurers,” said Gideon through gritted teeth. “This is an emergency!”

There was open laughter in the voice now. “I am afraid Captain Lucian Trigger is adventuring and cannot be contacted. Good day to you, sir.”

Bram Stoker closed his eyes and held the earpiece so close it hurt to encourage the illusion that his dear Florence was indeed whispering into his ear in the confines of that beeswaxed telephone kiosk, rather than hundreds of miles away in London.

“I miss you, too, dear,” said Florence. “But Noel is just too sickly to travel, I am afraid. The doctor suggested another ten days, perhaps a fortnight.”

“Then I shall return to London at once,” decided Stoker. “You will not,” said Florence distantly. “You have worked hard, Bram, and Noel will not improve any more quickly with you pacing up and down the house. Stay in Whitby, relax, and work on your new novel. Noel and I shall join you as soon as he is well enough.”

“Well, if you’re sure . . . ,” sighed Stoker. “I shall ring again tomorrow.”

Florence was right, of course; he acted as manager for the actor Henry Irving, and it had been an exhausting season. Stoker didn’t know where Irving got the energy. He swore the man would breathe his last on some stage, somewhere. Bram emerged into the sunshine and breathed deeply of the briny air. Noel had but a fever, he told himself. But as he himself had been an invalid until he was seven years old, Stoker did sometimes worry that Noel, now eleven, had inherited some weakness. Still, Stoker had made up for lost time, and he had excelled in athletic and scholarly pursuits at school and college. Noel was of the same makeup as Stoker, and he would be as tall and strong.

Bram had the publication of his first novel,
The Snake’s Pass,
to look forward to later that year, but he was already bored with it. His mind buzzed with ideas, notions, and fancies. He had spent his weeks in Whitby listening to the fascinating tales of the salty old fishermen, or walking along the West Cliff and climbing the wild, craggy East Cliff, home to the ruins of the old abbey. They were like two opposing forces, those cliffs encompassing the fishing town, the ancient and modern, the civilized and primeval halves of the same place. If he could unlock his big idea anywhere, it would be here, in Whitby. All he needed was the key.

Gideon was circling the red post box like one of the gulls spiraling above the light house on the harbor, desperately trying to think of his next move. Captain Trigger would not be so indecisive, so without an idea what to do next. How could he hope to even try to emulate his hero, when he could not even get in touch with him for advice?

He saw the tall Irish writer—Stoker?—striding out of the Post Office. Hadn’t he said he worked for the magazines? Yes, this was what Trigger would do. Avail himself of help. Perhaps Gideon wasn’t so useless. He put up his hand and shouted, “Mr. Stoker! Over here!”

Gideon was not short, but the Irishman towered over him. He looked down at Gideon and smiled with recognition. “Ah, Mr. Smith, isn’t it? Was your emergency dealt with?”

“No,” said Gideon. “They would not put me in touch with Captain Trigger.”

“Unfortunate,” said Stoker, looking contemplatively down the cobbled street and toward the harbor. “I wonder . . . might I share your burden? My own scribbling is not in the league of the illustrious Captain Trigger’s adventures, but I might be able to offer assistance in some small way.”

Gideon nodded enthusiastically.

“Excellent,” said Stoker. “There is a most agreeable little teashop I have been frequenting. Allow me to buy you some refreshment.”

Over tea and buns Gideon told Stoker what had happened since the
Cold Drake
had been found abandoned. In the bustle of the busy seaside resort, the sun blazing down, Gideon found his concerns about the noises beneath Lythe Bank seemed somewhat foolish, and he could tell Stoker thought the same from the shrewd gaze the writer cast upon him.

“A sad tale,” said Stoker. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“You agree an investigation is in order?”

“I am not a maritime man, I am afraid,” said Stoker carefully.

“I would not know just how unusual an abandoned ship is.”

Gideon sighed, but the writer’s attention had been diverted to a commotion outside.

“Curious,” said Stoker. “Allow me to settle the bill and let us take a look.”

Gideon saw a body of people moving down the street toward the harbor. Being tall, Stoker could peer above the heads of most men, and he reported a crowd gathering near the little beach between the pier and the East Cliff. Stoker said, “There appears to be a ship perilously close to land, observing a most erratic course.”

“A Russian, they say,” said a passing man breathlessly. “Schooner, about to run aground on Tate Hill Beach. They reckon it’s deserted.”

Stoker let the man go and Gideon met his eyes. He said, “Two abandoned ships in the space of a few days is not a usual occurrence around here, Mr. Stoker.”

The writer stroked his beard. “Then, Mr. Smith, I suggest we investigate.”

3
Son of the Dragon

From the Journal of Abraham Stoker

A most diverting day. After breakfast, I met an interesting young man with a strange tale. He had lost his father to a mystery of the sea—the family trawler had turned up utterly abandoned. I confess I was about to gently suggest that such occurrences, while tragic, were not utterly unknown. Then there was commotion at the harbor, and we saw a rather curious sight: a schooner, sails set, drifting haphazardly toward port and ignoring bullhorn calls from the harbormaster and the coastguard to identify itself and arrest its course.

The crowd drew back with a gasp as the schooner, with no sign of crew on deck, ran aground on the stretch of sand beneath the East Cliff, Tate Hill Beach. The harbormaster, Randolph, led a small contingent of the local constabulary to the beached vessel. They had been on for mere moments when the police officers, their faces pale and grimly set, returned to the beach and began to move the crowd back to the promenade. There were mutterings of it being some kind of plague ship, and one old maritime type, chewing tobacco and fixing nets with his gnarled fingers, commented, “A ship like that has to fetch up somewhere, even if it is hell.”

As he spoke, one of the men opened up the hold and from the depths leaped the most vicious-looking black hound. It had a shaggy, lustrous pelt as dark as midnight, and it bounded from the deck to the sand, baring its white, glistening teeth at the crowd, before making for the East Cliff and disappearing. The parallels between this and young Mr. Smith’s own tale were, of course, difficult to ignore. Two abandoned ships in the space of a few days? A mystery was unfolding for certain.

I had struck up a relationship with the harbormaster, and we had swapped many tales over the preceding weeks. He remembered I had a smattering of Russian, and he asked me if I would cast my eye over the log of the schooner.

The
Dmitri
was registered in the port of Varna, on the Bulgarian Black Sea coast. According to the log, the captain had accepted a fortnight prior a commission to deliver a cargo to Whitby, with instructions that the crew was to await delivery at the stroke of midnight precisely a week ago.

The cargo—three long wooden boxes—arrived in horse-drawn coaches, each one driven by two of, according to the captain’s log, the most beautiful young women he had ever seen in all his travels. Due to the late hour, some of the crew had imbibed liquor, and one seaman announced he had quite taken a shine to one of the women. I had expected to read that the captain immediately put a stop to such dishonorable talk, but it seems he merely encouraged the man, who went off in pursuit of the coaches.

He was not seen again . . . and his was not the last disappearance on the
Dmitri
’s ill-fated voyage. After becoming becalmed near an archipelago of Greek islands, another crewman vanished in the night. The
Dmitri
stopped for supplies at Gibraltar, and a crewmember absconded. The journey continued, but relations between the captain and the mate, who were Russian, and the remaining jack tar, a Romanian, were strained. The Romanian talked of creatures that inhabit the night and drink the blood of men, but the captain dismissed him as a mere uneducated yokel.

As they passed the south coast of England, a sea mist drove the Romanian mad, and he leaped over the side. The first mate did not last until dawn before he, too, was taken by whatever plagued the
Dmitri
. Driven half mad, the captain vowed in his final log entry he would never abandon ship. He charted a course for Whitby and lashed himself to the wheel.

It was this sight that greeted the harbormaster and the police when they boarded the beached schooner. The
Dmitri
had completed its journey with its captain utterly drained of blood!

The ship’s log noted that delivery of the boxes was to be taken by an F. Billington, Attorney, of Royal Crescent, Whitby—mere doors from my own lodgings. A swift inquiry turned up the fact that Billington had been subcontracted by a firm of London attorneys, who were in turn acting for a practice in Roumania. Several telephone calls were made at my behest until the name of the procurer was at last obtained.

The
Dmitri
had been commissioned from the Transylvania region of Roumania by a party of the name Dracula.

While the log and manifest made no mention of any dog, the beast was witnessed leaping from the ship by half the town. It has not been seen since.

Mrs. Veasey rapped smartly at Stoker’s door, and she was so flustered she forgot her hitherto impeccable manners and blustered in, waving the
Whitby Gazette
at him.

“Oh, Mr. Stoker! Russians! Dogs! Whatever will become of us? And the papers say you are helping in the inquiries!” She halted in her rapid-fire speech. “Forgive me, sir, I’m all of a flutter this morning. Your young man, Mr. Smith. He is here to see you.”

While Stoker had earlier pored over the ship’s log, Gideon had grown more anxious in the enclosed quarters, stalking up and down and staring out the window toward the sea, where
something
had done for both the
Dmitri
and his father’s vessel, the
Cold Drake
. To save the boy’s fraying nerves—and Mrs. Veasey’s threadbare carpet—he dispatched Gideon to the library to see what he could turn up on the name Dracula.