Moon Rising (49 page)

In the beginning, chance had brought us together, calling up passions that might have been better left dormant. Although the consequences had haunted the rest of our lives, I felt there was a kind of predestination in the way we'd been brought together again. Painful emotions had come to a head, and had finally been lanced. And some unmistakable truths had been revealed. I was satisfied that Irving had not won his battle for Bram's soul, no matter how clear the victory had seemed to me then. Also, I must confess, I was vain enough to be glad that Bram had forgotten very little of that time. It had been etched as deeply into his soul as mine.

In truth, I was even glad when he told me that he harboured regrets about his writing, which over the years had been accommodated between the twin pressures of Florence and Irving. Everything had always been completed in haste; he felt that if he'd been able to devote his entire attention to writing, the stories would have been fuller, the characters more rounded, his editing better executed. Despite that, the books had been successful; not enough to make his fortune perhaps, but he'd managed to prove Irving wrong, and I found that particularly satisfying.

‘But tell me, what did he think about
Dracula
?' I said slyly. ‘I looked it up – it really does mean
Son of the Devil
. Mephistopheles, indeed! Did Irving recognise the analogy, d'you think?'

With a little grunt of surprise, Bram said, ‘Well, I'm delighted you read it, although I'm not sure he ever did.'

I stared at him, unable to credit the truth of that. It didn't seem possible that his closest friend could have ignored such a powerful piece of work. But, having also produced a rough playscript to protect the copyright, Bram maintained that Irving had given it no more than a glance, before flatly refusing to have anything to do with it.

‘It was a great shame,' Bram sighed: ‘one of the few times he was wrong about a part. When I think of his other mysterious roles, Dracula would have been perfect... You should have seen him as the Flying Dutchman – his eyes glowed red, just like burning coals. Amazing – I don't know how he did it.'

With a wicked smile, he said: ‘Just think what he could have made of the Count!'

‘Mmm, yes, I can imagine,' I replied, with perhaps too much emphasis. ‘The part was made for him. Why wouldn't he play it? Did he ever say?'

Bram pursed his mouth and, with a negative gesture, leaned back into the chair. ‘I imagine it was too small for him, too much offstage. He never did explain, apart from making one ringing comment at the end of the read-through.
Dreadful!
he said, and that was that. I told myself afterwards that he was referring to the hasty adaptation, not the plot, but even so, it was the kind of remark I'd come to expect from him. Anything that didn't have Irving at the centre was never worthy of his praise.'

On an indrawn breath, I said, ‘Well, then, it's a pity he didn't recognise himself! Or did he, do you think, and that was just his way of capping you?'

Bram shook his head. ‘No, I'm sure he didn't. Anyway, it wasn't intended to be a portrait of Irving. To start with, the Count's description was based on much older men – like Tennyson – like your uncle, in fact...

‘But then – because of the essential theme, which is, of course, the struggle for power – I began to realise that as a character the Count bore more than a passing resemblance to Irving. And because of the Count's insatiable thirst for knowledge, his ability to concentrate and
absorb –
which Irving was incredibly good at – then I did become aware of the similarities between the two.

‘And then I began to think of possibilities for the stage...' With a shrug he broke off to light a cigar. ‘But Irving never commented, so I imagined he hadn't read the book. Do you think he might have done, and was offended by it?'

‘Not offended,' I said. ‘But he might have been
disturbed.
Didn't
you
find it disturbing, when you were writing the book?'

Pondering, smoking his cigar, Bram moved to the window and parted the curtains. As I joined him, he opened the door to the balcony, peering through the fog towards the east cliff.

‘That's where it began,' he said quietly, ‘up there at sunset, where I used to wait for you by Lucy's tomb. You remember the stories we told, the plots we used to weave? It was as though they were setting the scene, providing the framework.

‘I'd had this idea, you see, about a nobleman of ancient lineage, coming to England as a vampire in the present day. I wondered how he would survive in our modern world –
against
our modern world. But I kept dismissing it, because a story about a vampire didn't seem so very original – and surely the modern world was too sophisticated for such a creature to survive for long.

‘But then, back in London with the Whitechapel murders, all that changed. Someone –
something –
committed the worst crimes this country has ever seen – and
got away with it.
How?

‘Hall Caine and I discussed it endlessly. All kinds of people were questioned – he even knew someone who was briefly arrested – but the police had no evidence to link anyone to the murders. It was more than strange, it was uncanny.

‘All kinds of rumours were circulating in London at the time – including the nonsense that members of the royal household were involved – but in the absence of rhyme or reason it seemed to me that one could weave all kinds of fantastical theories around those gruesome events. And suddenly, my idea of a vampire wreaking havoc in the present day, in the most advanced and populous city in the world, was no longer foolish – it became possible, credible, frightening.

‘From then on, I knew the story had to be written, together with all the Whitby elements. That tremendous storm the day we first met, the wrecks, the Russian ship, the great black hound – and most especially Lucy, and the friends we'd invented for her...'

‘While Count Dracula,' I murmured, expanding for him, ‘was based on the nobleman you read about in that old book. Whose bloodthirstiness you changed into a literal
thirst
for blood . . .'

‘Oh, yes,' he whispered, turning to me, ‘that's
exactly
how it was...'

I shivered then and looked out at the fog. Staring blindly, I saw nothing but a dazzling haze of particles, the cold like a tightening physical pressure all around us. I tugged at his arm, urging him inside, but the wraiths came with him, clinging about his shoulders like a cloak. I had an image of the Count entering Lucy's bedroom to seduce her into the ecstasy of death, and it made me tremble uncontrollably.

Closing the window, dropping the curtains back into place, Bram slipped a cashmere shawl around my shoulders and apologised for his thoughtlessness.

Leading me back to the warmth of the fire, he said, ‘You asked whether I found it disturbing, but it was strange, you know, I nurtured the story for years. While it stayed in my head, life went on as usual. I'd written four books, and had three published, and that achievement alone made a tremendous difference to my life.

‘Writing made everything else bearable – can you understand that? It seemed to bring the separate pieces of my existence together, to resolve the conflicts about who and what I was, and what I was perpetually longing to be. Writing fiction, I discovered, enabled me to be
me,
without excuse or apology or reference to anyone else. I found I was satisfied and content, probably for the first time in my life.

‘But perhaps more importantly,' he went on, ‘writing enabled me to deal with Irving and my paying job, which was running the Lyceum. The Lyceum was making money, Irving was enjoying success after success, and then, as a culmination of all he desired, he was awarded his knighthood.

‘In that moment, it was as though the entire profession had been raised overnight from the status of rogues and gypsies to that of the nobility. We were all tremendously proud.

‘It was the strangest week,' he added. ‘You know my brother Thornley was knighted too? And of course, the entire family felt honoured by that... But, I don't know, between the excitement of the Palace and the despair of poor Oscar being sentenced, I felt exhausted, glad to get away. Florence felt it too. I wanted to come to Whitby and write, but she wouldn't hear of it, so we went to Scotland instead, and there I began to put together the notes and ideas I'd been nurturing for almost ten years. That was when I started writing the story.

‘It wasn't the easiest – it took much longer than the others, and I found it oddly draining. I'd written on holiday before, and always felt invigorated, but for some reason this time I was exhausted by the work, and the book seemed to take forever to complete. In fact it took well over a year, and I was never more relieved to see the end of anything.

‘When
Dracula
came out I was disappointed. The cover wasn't what I expected, and the reviews were no more than lukewarm. And then things started to go wrong. Small things throughout the summer, but they rapidly grew worse.

‘Coincidence, perhaps, but when I look back I can't help but think it was all connected to that damned book. As though somehow, inadvertently, in writing about evil I had given it life. In the end it destroyed virtually everything I cared about... It almost destroyed me too...'

~~~

To anyone else, Bram's statement might have seemed wild exaggeration. But not to me, not now. I begged him to go on.

‘Until I embarked on that book, Florence and I had been closer than we'd been for years. But this time she hated what I was working on – said it was evil, that it was taking over my soul. But I wouldn't give up – couldn't. I had to finish it – finish Count Dracula and get rid of him for good.

‘Once it was published, I heaved a sigh of relief – felt I could relax now, get back to reality, find something lighter to write about. But we were preparing a new production of
Richard III
– another satanic character – so none of us could relax. Irving was back to his old ways, driving us all mad as he had with
Faust.

‘Anyway, come the opening night, nothing went well. He was over-acting like an amateur, and it showed – the critics were muttering before they left the theatre. Furious, he went off to drown his sorrows at the Garrick Club – but then, coming home, he slipped and fell and badly injured his knee. For the first time ever, he was laid up – unable to appear. We were even forced to close the theatre for three weeks at the height of the season.

‘It was disastrous,' Bram went on, ‘and cost us a fortune. But the damage to his self-esteem was worse – Irving suddenly realised he wasn't invincible, and it was a shock. Then, not long afterwards, his little dog was killed in a weird accident with the stage-trap. It should never have happened, but somehow it did. He was almost beside himself with grief. Poor little Fussie meant everything to him...

‘But the worst, the very worst thing that happened, was the burning of the Lyceum Storage – you probably heard about that?'

‘Yes – it was in all the papers.'

Bram said tersely, ‘That fire cost us something like £50,000, and we weren't fully insured. I'd been dicing with fate for years, paying premiums to cover us up to £10,000, simply because Irving wouldn't hear of any increase. But after the debacle of
Richard III
he insisted on halving it!'

‘
Halving it?
' I found that incredible. ‘Why?'

‘Short of money – for all the aforesaid reasons. And we'd been using the railway arches as storage for years, so he thought nothing could go wrong. And in theory it shouldn't have – except it did, God knows why. Do you know, Damaris, the heat was so ferocious, it burned the arches
three bricks deep
, and turned the coping stones to
powder
...'

Horrified, I was shamed, suddenly, by a recollection of old suspicions. Mysterious fires and large insurance claims were all too common. But now, hearing the appalling truth behind it, I was shocked.

‘It was terrifying, Damaris. I can see it still,' he said, eyes tight shut against the image. ‘Ever since, I've wondered at the cause...' With a despairing shake of the head, he roused himself. ‘Irving... well, the shock nearly killed him. He was like a man who's had his entire family wiped out before his eyes.'

‘But you were there – the eyes were yours,' I said softly, understanding how deeply he'd been affected. ‘The Lyceum was your life too.'

‘All those magnificent sets' he murmured sadly, ‘Forty-four plays – half of which had been great productions... Irreplaceable.'

Taking my hand, almost crushing it, he said: ‘I'd decided to retire – can you believe that? I was so frustrated by the extravagance and endless entertaining, by the sheer impossibility of controlling it. Years of trying to curb Irving's wild ideas, save money, balance the books – it was impossible.

He sat back, shook his head. ‘I was exhausted. And that week of the fire, I had another novel coming out – an old one and not one of my best efforts, to be sure – but suddenly I was trying to fend off a court case. The railway company was suing us for damage to the line and we weren't insured, for God's sake!'

Appalled, on the edge of my seat, I said, ‘So what happened?

‘Irving collapsed. Pleurisy and pneumonia – he was bedridden for weeks. And meanwhile, the court case dragged on... All that in a year,' he added on a long release of breath.

‘So you had to stay,' I murmured. ‘How on earth did you manage?'

He raised his eyes to mine. ‘Didn't you know? Irving sold the Lyceum – sold it without even telling me.'

Aghast at such a betrayal, I simply stared – and then wondered why I was so surprised. ‘But why?' I demanded. ‘Didn't he discuss it with you?'