But if Dracula can turn into bat, mist, fog,wolf or dog (as we witness him do in Whitby), why would he need the help of the harmless and friendly escaped wolf, Bersicker from London Zoo? Also, what kind of vampire would need to drug four maids with laudanum in order to gain access to the Westenra house? Lynchian red herrings? Dali-esque culs-de-sac Perhaps, they are not only permissible, but should be encouraged, knowing now that every word I have ever typed in anger has its seminal roots in Twin Peaks.

Twin Peaks lived on the corner of extreme horror, fall-off-the-sofa dark comedy and heartbreaking love. Dracula, certainly on two of the three; on horror and love. Perhaps my latter day adoration of Stoker’s work has its genesis in Lynch. They now seem like bastard children from the same errant parents, but which is the evil twin locked in the tower? (Perhaps Dorian Gray is the third triplet; for there too is horror, comedy and love. And the unrivallable genius of Oscar shall soon become so pivotal to all of this.)

_{What is this image if not Dorian Gray? And the mirror that cannot catch Dracula’s true likeness?}

Would David Lynch himself have had his villain spike young girls and murder old ladies? Perhaps. Even likely.

Yes, Lynch is the master of the split identity, the schizophrenic (see Killer Bob inhabiting Leland Palmer or Agent Cooper or Lost Highway or Mulholland Drive), and a character who can turn from man to bat or shapeshift from Countess to Count is the very embodiment of Lynch. But sometimes (most times), great art forces us to think and make up our own mind. It is part of the process, the very mission statement of great art. And so, maybe we will never know why Bersicker the wolf is used or why the all-powerful vampire needs a drug to dope girls or why Seward’s asylum is right next to Carfax or the coincidence of Harker’s fiancee being in Whitby, the small Yorkshire coastal coast where Dracula wanted to land. Perhaps one day a light shall be shone on this Dark Matter, in the precise way I am attempting with so much of the flotsam, jetsam, lagan and derelict left visible by the receding tides of time that have revealed to me Stoker’s long-lost hand-scrawled notes, Stoker’s missing and excised chapter and the truths that come just from reading without cinematic blinkers the book entitled Dracula from 1897. Indeed, much is now clear, but it is a thrill to know that some things still lead to a good scratching of the head. Imagine knowing everything. How very bloody dull that would be. Art - and with it confusion and intrigue - persists, prevails and invariably wins out. A sigh and a shrug of the shoulders can be as beautiful and euphoric as a rapturous and ecstatic epiphany. Vive l’art. Vive la mysterie.

Van Helsing and I looked at each other, and as we moved away he
said, “We can attend to them later.”Then we ascended to Lucy’s
room. For an instant or two we paused at the door to listen, but
there was no sound that we could hear. With white faces and
trembling hands, we opened the door gently, and entered the
room.

How shall I describe what we saw? On the bed lay two women, Lucy
and her mother. The latter lay farthest in, and she was covered
with a white sheet, the edge of which had been blown back by the
drought through the broken window, showing the drawn, white, face,
with a look of terror fixed upon it. By her side lay Lucy, with
face white and still more drawn. The flowers which had been round
her neck we found upon her mother’s bosom, and her throat was bare,
showing the two little wounds which we had noticed before, but
looking horribly white and mangled. Without a word the Professor
bent over the bed, his head almost touching poor Lucy’s breast.
Then he gave a quick turn of his head, as of one who listens, and
leaping to his feet, he cried out to me, “It is not yet too late!
Quick! Quick! Bring the brandy!”

I flew downstairs and returned with it, taking care to smell and
taste it, lest it, too, were drugged like the decanter of sherry
which I found on the table. The maids were still breathing, but
more restlessly, and I fancied that the narcotic was wearing off. I
did not stay to make sure, but returned to Van Helsing. He rubbed
the brandy, as on another occasion, on her lips and gums and on her
wrists and the palms of her hands. He said to me, “I can do this,
all that can be at the present. You go wake those maids. Flick them
in the face with a wet towel, and flick them hard. Make them get
heat and fire and a warm bath. This poor soul is nearly as cold as
that beside her. She will need be heated before we can do anything
more.”

I went at once, and found little difficulty in waking three of
the women. The fourth was only a young girl, and the drug had
evidently affected her more strongly so I lifted her on the sofa
and let her sleep.

The others were dazed at first, but as remembrance came back to
them they cried and sobbed in a hysterical manner. I was stern with
them, however, and would not let them talk. I told them that one
life was bad enough to lose, and if they delayed they would
sacrifice Miss Lucy. So, sobbing and crying they went about their
way, half clad as they were, and prepared fire and water.
Fortunately, the kitchen and boiler fires were still alive, and
there was no lack of hot water. We got a bath and carried Lucy out
as she was and placed her in it. Whilst we were busy chafing her
limbs there was a knock at the hall door. One of the maids ran off,
hurried on some more clothes, and opened it. Then she returned and
whispered to us that there was a gentleman who had come with a
message from Mr. Holmwood. I bade her simply tell him that he must
wait, for we could see no one now. She went away with the message,
and, engrossed with our work, I clean forgot all about him.

I never saw in all my experience the Professor work in such
deadly earnest. I knew, as he knew, that it was a stand-up fight
with death, and in a pause told him so. He answered me in a way
that I did not understand, but with the sternest look that his face
could wear.

“If that were all, I would stop here where we are now, and let
her fade away into peace, for I see no light in life over her
horizon.” He went on with his work with, if possible, renewed and
more frenzied vigour.

Presently we both began to be conscious that the heat was
beginning to be of some effect. Lucy’s heart beat a trifle more
audibly to the stethoscope, and her lungs had a perceptible
movement. Van Helsing’s face almost beamed, and as we lifted her
from the bath and rolled her in a hot sheet to dry her he said to
me, “The first gain is ours! Check to the King!”

We took Lucy into another room, which had by now been prepared,
and laid her in bed and forced a few drops of brandy down her
throat. I noticed that Van Helsing tied a soft silk handkerchief
round her throat. She was still unconscious, and was quite as bad
as, if not worse than, we had ever seen her.

Van Helsing called in one of the women, and told her to stay
with her and not to take her eyes off her till we returned, and
then beckoned me out of the room.

“We must consult as to what is to be done,” he said as we
descended the stairs. In the hall he opened the dining room door,
and we passed in, he closing the door carefully behind him. The
shutters had been opened, but the blinds were already down, with
that obedience to the etiquette of death which the British woman of
the lower classes always rigidly observes. The room was, therefore,
dimly dark. It was, however, light enough for our purposes. Van
Helsing’s sternness was somewhat relieved by a look of perplexity.
He was evidently torturing his mind about something, so I waited
for an instant, and he spoke.

“What are we to do now? Where are we to turn for help? We must
have another transfusion of blood, and that soon, or that poor
girl’s life won’t be worth an hour’s purchase. You are exhausted
already. I am exhausted too. I fear to trust those women, even if
they would have courage to submit. What are we to do for some one
who will open his veins for her?”

“What’s the matter with me, anyhow?”

The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones
brought relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey
Morris.

Van Helsing started angrily at the first sound, but his face
softened and a glad look came into his eyes as I cried out,
“Quincey Morris!” and rushed towards him with outstretched
hands.

IN BRAM WE TRUST

Thanks,

Ian

Here is the cutting from the London newspaper, as word gets out of the escaped wolf from the zoo, and the city braces itself for attack after attack. Like Van Helsing’s astonishingly wide-of-the-mark claims of a vampire apocalypse in London once Dracula arrives, then similarly we see the equally incorrect and unfair and even silly hysteria, alarm and terror at the escape of poor old Bersicker, who sounds a quite adorable, lolling beast.

THE PALL MALL GAZETTE 18 September.

THE ESCAPED WOLF PERILOUS ADVENTURE OF OUR INTERVIEWER

INTERVIEW WITH THE KEEPER IN THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

After many inquiries and almost as many refusals, and perpetually using the words `PALL MALL GAZETTE ‘ as a sort of talisman, I managed to find the keeper of the section of the Zoological Gardens in which the wold department is included. Thomas Bilder lives in one of the cottages in the enclosure behind the elephant house, and was just sitting down to his tea when I found him. Thomas and his wife are hospitable folk, elderly, and without children, and if the specimen I enjoyed of their hospitality be of the average kind, their lives must be pretty comfortable. The keeper would not enter on what he called business until the supper was over, and we were all satisfied. Then when the table was cleared, and he had lit his pipe, he said,

“Now, Sir, you can go on and arsk me what you want. You’ll excoose me refoosin’ to talk of perfeshunal subjucts afore meals. I gives the wolves and the jackals and the hyenas in all our section their tea afore I begins to arsk them questions.”

“How do you mean, ask them questions?” I queried, wishful to get him into a talkative humor.

“ `Ittin’ of them over the `ead with a pole is one way. Scratchin’ of their ears in another, when gents as is flush wants a bit of a show-orf to their gals. I don’t so much mind the fust, the `ittin of the pole part afore I chucks in their dinner, but I waits till they’ve `ad their sherry and kawffee, so to speak, afore I tries on with the ear scratchin’. Mind you,” he added philosophically, “there’s a deal of the same nature in us as in them theer animiles. Here’s you a-comin’ and arskin’ of me questions about my business, and I that grump-like that only for your bloomin’ `arf-quid I’d `a’ seen you blowed fust `fore I’d answer. Not even when you arsked me sarcastic like if I’d like you to arsk the Superintendent if you might arsk me questions. Without offence did I tell yer to go to `ell?”

“You did.”

“An’ when you said you’d report me for usin’ obscene language that was `ittin’ me over the `ead. But the `arf-quid made that all right. I weren’t a-goin’ to fight, so I waited for the food, and did with my `owl as the wolves and lions and tigers does. But, lor’ love yer `art, now that the old `ooman has stuck a chunk of her tea-cake in me, an’ rinsed me out with her bloomin’ old teapot, and I’ve lit hup, you may scratch my ears for all you’re worth, and won’t even get a growl out of me. Drive along with your questions. I know what yer a-comin’ at, that `ere escaped wolf.”

“Exactly. I want you to give me your view of it. Just tell me how it happened, and when I know the facts I’ll get you to say what you consider was the cause of it, and how you think the whole affair will end.”

“All right, guv’nor. This `ere is about the `ole story. That`ere wolf what we called Bersicker was one of three gray ones that came from Norway to Jamrach’s, which we bought off him four years ago. He was a nice well-behaved wolf, that never gave no trouble to talk of. I’m more surprised at `im for wantin’ to get out nor any other animile in the place. But, there, you can’t trust wolves no more nor women.”

“Don’t you mind him, Sir!” broke in Mrs. Tom, with a cheery laugh. “ `E’s got mindin’ the animiles so long that blest if he ain’t like a old wolf `isself! But there ain’t no `arm in `im.”

“Well, Sir, it was about two hours after feedin’ yesterday when I first hear my disturbance. I was makin’ up a litter in the monkey house for a young puma which is ill. But when I heard the yelpin’ and `owlin’ I kem away straight. There was Bersicker a-tearin’ like a mad thing at the bars as if he wanted to get out. There wasn’t much people about that day, and close at hand was only one man, a tall, thin chap, with a `ook nose and a pointed beard, with a few white hairs runnin’ through it. He had a `ard, cold look and red eyes, and I took a sort of mislike to him, for it seemed as if it was `im as they was hirritated at. He `ad white kid gloves on `is `ands, and he pointed out the animiles to me and says, `Keeper, these wolves seem upset at something.’

“`Maybe it’s you,’ says I, for I did not like the airs as he give `isself. He didn’t get angry, as I `oped he would, but he smiled a kind of insolent smile, with a mouth full of white, sharp teeth. `Oh no, they wouldn’t like me,’ `e says.

“ `Ow yes, they would,’ says I, a-imitatin’of him.`They always like a bone or two to clean their teeth on about tea time, which you `as a bagful.’

“Well, it was a odd thing, but when the animiles see us a-talkin’ they lay down, and when I went over to Bersicker he let me stroke his ears same as ever. That there man kem over, and blessed but if he didn’t put in his hand and stroke the old wolf’s ears too!

“ `Tyke care,’ says I. `Bersicker is quick.’

“ `Never mind,’ he says. I’m used to `em!’

“ `Are you in the business yourself?” I says, tyking off my `at, for a man what trades in wolves, anceterer, is a good friend to keepers.

“ `Nom’ says he, `not exactly in the business, but I `ave made pets of several.’ and with that he lifts his `at as perlite as a lord, and walks away. Old Bersicker kep’ a-lookin’ arter `im till `e was out of sight, and then went and lay down in a corner and wouldn’t come hout the `ole hevening. Well, larst night, so soon as the moon was hup, the wolves here all began a-`owling. There warn’t nothing for them to `owl at. There warn’t no one near, except some one that was evidently a-callin’ a dog somewheres out back of the gardings in the Park road. Once or twice I went out to see that all was right, and it was, and then the `owling stopped. Just before twelve o’clock I just took a look round afore turnin’ in, an’, bust me, but when I kem opposite to old Bersicker’s cage I see the rails broken and twisted about and the cage empty. And that’s all I know for certing.”

“Did any one else see anything?”

“One of our gard`ners was a-comin’ `ome about that time from a `armony, when he sees a big gray dog comin’ out through the garding `edges. At least, so he says, but I don’t give much for it myself, for if he did `e never said a word about it to his missis when `e got `ome, and it was only after the escape of the wolf was made known, and we had been up all night a-huntin’ of the Park for Bersicker, that he remembered seein’ anything. My own belief was that the `armony `ad got into his `ead.”

“Now, Mr. Bilder, can you account in any way for the escape of the wolf?”

“Well, Sir,” he said, with a suspicious sort of modesty, “I think I can, but I don’t know as `ow you’d be satisfied with the theory.”

“Certainly I shall. If a man like you, who knows the animals from experience, can’t hazard a good guess at any rate, who is even to try?”

“Well then, Sir, I accounts for it this way. It seems to me that `ere wolf escaped--simply because he wanted to get out.”

From the hearty way that both Thomas and his wife laughed at the joke I could see that it had done service before, and that the whole explanation was simply an elaborate sell. I couldn’t cope in badinage with the worthy Thomas, but I thought I knew a surer way to his heart, so I said, “Now, Mr. Bilder, we’ll consider that first half-sovereign worked off, and this brother of his is waiting to be claimed when you’ve told me what you think will happen.”

“Right y`are, Sir,” he said briskly. “Ye`ll excoose me, I know, for a-chaffin’ of ye, but the old woman her winked at me, which was as much as telling me to go on.”

“Well, I never!” said the old lady.

“My opinion is this. That `ere wolf is a`idin’ of, somewheres. The gard`ner wot didn’t remember said he was a-gallopin’ northward faster than a horse could go, but I don’t believe him, for, yer see, Sir, wolves don’t gallop no more nor dogs does, they not bein’ built that way. Wolves is fine things in a storybook, and I dessay when they gets in packs and does be chivyin’ somethin’ that’s more afeared than they is they can make a devil of a noise and chop it up, whatever it is. But, Lor’ bless you, in real life a wolf is only a low creature, not half so clever or bold as a good dog, and not half a quarter so much fight in `im. This one ain’t been used to fightin’ or even to providin’ for hisself, and more like he’s somewhere round the Park a’hidin’ an’ a’shiverin’ of, and if he thinks at all, wonderin’ where he is to get his breakfast from. Or maybe he’s got down some area and is in a coal cellar. My eye, won’t some cook get a rum start when she sees his green eyes a-shinin’ at her out of the dark! If he can’t get food he’s bound to look for it, and mayhap he may chance to light on a butcher’s shop in time. If he doesn’t, and some nursemaid goes out walkin’ or orf with a soldier, leavin’ of the hinfant in the perambulator-- well, then I shouldn’t be surprised if the census is one babby the less. That’s all.”

I was handing him the half-sovereign, when something came bobbing up against the window, and Mr. Bilder’s face doubled its natural length with surprise.

“God bless me!” he said. “If there ain’t old Bersicker come back by `isself!”

He went to the door and opened it, a most unnecessary proceeding it seemed to me. I have always thought that a wild animal never looks so well as when some obstacle of pronounced durability is between us. A personal experience has intensified rather than diminished that idea.

After all, however, there is nothing like custom, for neither Bilder nor his wife thought any more of the wolf than I should of a dog. The animal itself was a peaceful and well-behaved as that father of all picture-wolves, Red Riding Hood’s quondam friend, whilst moving her confidence in masquerade.

The whole scene was a unutterable mixture of comedy and pathos. The wicked wolf that for a half a day had paralysed London and set all the children in town shivering in their shoes, was there in a sort of penitent mood, and was received and petted like a sort of vulpine prodigal son. Old Bilder examined him all over with most tender solicitude, and when he had finished with his penitent said,

“There, I knew the poor old chap would get into some kind of trouble. Didn’t I say it all along? Here’s his head all cut and full of broken glass. `E’s been a-gettin’ over some bloomin’ wall or other. It’s a shyme that people are allowed to top their walls with broken bottles. This `ere’s what comes of it. Come along, Bersicker.”

He took the wolf and locked him up in a cage, with a piece of meat that satisfied, in quantity at any rate, the elementary conditions of the fatted calf, and went off to report.

I came off too, to report the only exclusive information that is given today regarding the strange escapade at the Zoo.

IN BRAM WE TRUST

“There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls”

- the late and very great, George Carlin

These parallels are almost certainly NOT to present him simplistically as the protector of Good against Evil. There are other things at play.

I shall always be grateful for his inclusion of the King Laugh character; Van Helsing’s imaginary-friend-on-the-shoulder who appears in the novel ONLY once and serves no real purpose. Life is like that. Narratives can be dead-ends, culs-de-sac and just there. Not everything has to mean something or go somewhere. They can be Lynchian red herrings or just a Dali-esque sprinkling of flavour and oddness. I shall be grateful because this was my way in to investigating the novel and Stoker. Without King Laugh as the vortex, I never would have fallen into Alice’s rabbit hole and would not feel the utter joy and gratitude I do today, sitting on this treasure trove, this astonishing seam of literary gold and secrets.

And before we leave Van Helsing and Stoker for now, I must pay tribute to Sir Anthony Hopkins for his portrayal of the Dutchman. I do this as I suspect the Welshman is the only actor to represent King Laugh on screen. I shall explain below.

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Today is the ridiculously impactful and crucial parallel of how Van Helsing has dismissed womanhood - and what this means for Stoker himself.

In the 1897 novel, the Dutchman has left his wife in an asylum and is quite content to get his Freudian kicks by travelling the continent, thrusting the shaft of a girthy stake into a virgin in white, eyes popping, blood staining. Does this too reflect Stoker’s personal life and the dilemma that might one day destroy him? You have no idea.

EXCERPT: "Quite so. But there was a difficulty, friend John. If so that, then what about the others? Ho, ho! Then this so sweet maid is a polyandrist, and me, with my poor wife dead to me, but alive by Church's law, though no wits, all gone—even I, who am faithful husband to this now-no-wife, am bigamist." - Van Helsing

_{Florence Stoker, sketched by her first love, one Oscar Wilde}

First, Van Helsing jokes that Lucy has had sex with all the gents including him by using the term “polyandrist” when all they’ve done is offered their blood in a transfusion each. Van Helsing’s wife is dead to him, but his Catholicism prevents him from divorcing her. Now, Stoker was no Catholic, but he did have a wife who (after the birth of their only child) was dead to him. They shared no love life and Florence Stoker was said to be frigid. Well, Florence - renowned for her unrivallable beauty - did not seem to be frigid with W.S. Gilbert of Gilbert and Sullivan fame if the London gossip merchants were to be believed.

Furthermore, if Stoker did have syphilis at the time of writing the novel (1890 to 1897) which would seem likely if it took his life in 1912, then one can certainly understand how Stoker was (perhaps more likely) dead to Florence. MUCH more of this and Stoker’s own infidelities to come, for these are pivotal.

He also uses the term “bigamist”, suggesting that Van Helsing’s blood inside the teenage girl, Lucy was effectively his semen. You dirty old man!

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Following are two passages. The first is Stoker’s description of Van Helsing from the novel. This is followed by Bram’s own words about himself in a letter to the great American poet, Walt Whitman. The Whitman letters, which I will publish here, might form the basis of a whole week or two here, given their pivotal importance in Stoker’s story. I cannot underline their importance enough, for there lies a whole new Pandora’s box.

For now, please compare and contrast what follows, for this week shall reveal WHY this is crucial to understanding both the author and the Count.

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_{*Stoker’s great word - the eating of live flesh; Originally from Greek roots: zoo (animal) and -phagous (eating)}

However, now the story gathers apace with the introduction of one of the key players in the novel and the films. We are about to meet Professor Abraham Van Helsing. On September 2nd (below), Dr Seward writes to Arthur on the man who may provide some answers. His former professor and tutor. There are pivotal questions that arise about Stoker himself from FOUR essential characteristics Bram gives to the Dutchman. One for each day, Monday to Thursday of this week with a revealing summary on Friday. Van Helsing’s bumbling incompetence and negligent cloddishness have huge and tragic implications for the immediate health of Lucy and Mina, but on the other side of the fourth wall, the Dutchman shines a light into the mirror of the novelist. It is crucial to know WHY and HOW Van Helsing is Van Helsing if we are to understand the world of the novelist and the life of the novelist and the intentions of the novelist.

Monday, today, the first of FOUR crucial observations around Van Helsing — His name. He has the same name as the novelist. Bram is short for Abraham. He could have named him anything; Augustus, Ambrose, Clarence or Percival, but gave him his OWN name. Why? If I were to call one of my main characters in a novel, Ian, this would only mean one thing. Autobiography or semi-autobiography. Even then it would be perhaps seen as clunky, obvious and fat-thumbed. Stoker gets away with it as great artists get away with stuff. The loftiness of their work drags it over the hump of awkwardness, laziness and the obvious. In the same way that genius steals, genius can also avoid the rules or not be tarred by the rules.

To quite awfully (and clunkily) bastardise the great Oscar Wilde (whom we shall soon meet), “To involve one Abraham may be regarded as a misfortune, to involve two looks like carelessness.” Unless of course, it was by design.

So, now that it is patently obvious that Van Helsing is to represent the author and to embody him in many ways, we now seek to discover WHY? And what are these ways? How does Stoker see himself in the Dutchman? I believe it is certainly not in any way as the egotistical “righteous cavalry coming over the hill to save the world from Evil.” That WOULD be clunky, obvious, lazy, bold (in a bad way) AND awkward.

No, Stoker is exposing his true heart here. Or is about to. This is central to who the very secret and private Stoker was. And what was the fuel behind his driving and very personal passion to write DRACULA.

(Continued below…)

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I am from Goole in East Yorkshire. Most first-time (and invariably only-time) visitors often believe that it is spelt Ghoul. Goole is England’s largest inland port and quite crucially must have the largest percentage of nutters and oddballs in the land. This is no derogatory comment; this is from an absolute sense of pride. Ports are like this. They become melting pots, spiced up by transient sailors - their own special breed - and passing businessmen and invested traders, often away from home for a few nights. Chuck in the snaggle-toothed, quarter-shilling, eyes akimbo rural types around the town’s periphery - and these days Russian ships sailed and docked by entrepreneurial Russian sailors, the ships stuffed “from t’ arsehole to t’ beak” with raw Afghan poppy and one old half-blind, hobbling bloke in a wooden hut for customs to log it all - and all the key elements are there for an utterly weird settlement.

Now, if one were to draw a straight line from Whitby to King’s Cross - or check Bradshaw’s Railway Companion of the United Kingdom - then it would bisect my alma mater. What an opportunity. What if Count Dracula were to encounter Goole? What an opportunity for colliding worlds. It started off as a comic thought and the ultimate culture clash. (How to find the words to fully explain the frown on the Count’s confused face?) But then it all rapidly morphed into a genuine and smooth narrative that would allow for a new voice to frame a very different Count Dracula. Think of how Frankenstein’s “monster” befriended a young girl, because she had the innocence and purity to take him as a friend and not judge him on his anti-social looks. Things started to coalesce and form from there. The little girl would be called Clementine, after my own daughter. Her father would be Dr Emeric Laszlo, a Hungarian who would share Dracula’s mystical history of the land, the whirlpool of superstitions, for Dracula speaks Hungarian, not Romanian, in Stoker’s book. My son is called Laszlo. They - along with the Dracula-obsessed Times of London Literary Editor, whom we would meet soon - would be the device who would allow me to tell a Rashomon story of a different Dracula.

And so, in my novel, Count Dracula’s train from Whitby to London will break down outside Goole, allowing the Count a few hours to observe the town as he senses an energy there emanating from the young girl, and one who will be his own vortex to the ONE thing he has to track down in England; the COUNTESS DOLINGEN, that mischievous second vampire from “Dracula’s Guest”, who seems to be framing him.

This was the passage that sparked this idea; one that I knew was right from the first second.

EXCERPT:

LETTER, SAMUEL F. BILLINGTON & SON, SOLICITORS WHITBY, TO MESSRS. CARTER, PATERSON & CO., LONDON.

17 August

“Dear Sirs,--Herewith please receive invoice of goods sent by Great Northern Railway. Same are to be delivered at Carfax, near Purfleet, immediately on receipt at goods station King’s Cross. The house is at present empty, but enclosed please find keys, all of which are labelled.

“You will please deposit the boxes, fifty in number, which form the consignment, in the partially ruined building forming part of the house and marked ‘A’ on rough diagrams enclosed. Your agent will easily recognize the locality, as it is the ancient chapel of the mansion. The goods leave by the train at 9:30 tonight, and will be due at King’s Cross at 4:30 tomorrow afternoon. As our client wishes the delivery made as soon as possible, we shall be obliged by your having teams ready at King’s Cross at the time named and forthwith conveying the goods to destination. In order to obviate any delays possible through any routine requirements as to payment in your departments, we enclose cheque herewith for ten pounds, receipt of which please acknowledge. Should the charge be less than this amount, you can return balance, if greater, we shall at once send cheque for difference on hearing from you. You are to leave the keys on coming away in the main hall of the house, where the proprietor may get them on his entering the house by means of his duplicate key.

“Pray do not take us as exceeding the bounds of business courtesy in pressing you in all ways to use the utmost expedition.

IN BRAM WE TRUST

EXCERPT (I)

There is an additional cause in that poor Mr. Swales was found dead this morning on our seat, his neck being broken. He had evidently, as the doctor said, fallen back in the seat in some sort of fright, for there was a look of fear and horror on his face that the men said made them shudder. Poor dear old man!

And Chapter VII closes with Swales’ death. It should be again noted that there is no bite on the old man’s neck.

Chapter VIII sees the prolific Lucy with yet another suitor - a FOURTH. She has clocked up the daytime attentions of the sage young Dr Seward, the loquacious Texan oaf, Morris and the well-heeled Lord Godalming-elect and husband-elect (Arthur Holmwood), but now there is a a desirous and frothing nocturnal triste out on a stone bench under the summer seaside moonlit skies. The Victorian “New Woman”, indeed. You go, girlfriend. However, the identity behind the white face and red, gleaming eyes belongs not to whom we have presumed for 129 years…

(Cont…)

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Well, in Stoker’s novel we NEVER read anything of note from Dracula’s point-of-view. We get his reported speech, that is all. “Unfair,” type I.

This was a huge opportunity when I was planning how to write the novel. Central to this misunderstood vampire’s perspective was the voyage on the Demeter. We get such a bitty recounting of events, second-hand, third-hand, written by the petrified, reported by the terrified. All of it is circumstantial at best. There could easily be a logical and innocent explanation. It was also a perfect opportunity to explore this through sexuality. A bunch of lonely blokes on a boat, always the same crew, as if they had some kind of secret. Perfect for the historical fiction writer. What happens on the Demeter stays on the Demeter.

I started to consider how maybe Dracula DID kill these sailors, because they deserved it. But he was pale, suffering “pallor” - code for not having bitten. I took fictional license to postulate that those with syphilis provide no nutrition and therefore the pallor remains. And they all had syphilis because they were all fucking each other over the months and years. (Stoker died of syphilis, more of this one day soon.) And what if Dracula had simply wanted to join in the fucking. And they rejected him. So, they deserved to go. He remains pale, and we are asked to presume his innocence. I know I have spent most of these posts, suggesting innocence where the world presumes guilt - and with the top-notch evidence in Stoker’s own words. Well, in my fiction (not in my nonfiction) it is all right to take the odd liberty and have some fun.

Dracula just wanted some affection, lust, company, a reminder of bygone days. And he was rejected by the Rumanians and Russians. He knew what they were up to, he could smell the poison in the blood. “The scourge of sailors” as it was even known then.

The wonder of horror films for me is that the disenfranchised, the poor, the ugly, the downtrodden, the misunderstood get to slaughter the pretty rich kids at the lake. Well, this fictional diversion in my novel was simply a nod to the wonderful concept of fairness and righting wrongs. They all deserved to go to the bottom of the sea. Bitten (and maybe more) first.

I always say, “If one is going to get blamed for something, one might as well do it.”

Well, Count Dracula; help yourself to those bastard sailors. You’ve deserved a treat.

EXCERPT…

LOG OF THE “DEMETER”

Varna to Whitby

Written 18 July, things so strange happening, that I shall keep accurate note henceforth till we land.

On 6 July we finished taking in cargo, silver sand and boxes of earth. At noon set sail. East wind, fresh. Crew, five hands . . . two mates, cook, and myself, (captain).

On 11 July at dawn entered Bosphorus. Boarded by Turkish Customs officers. Backsheesh. All correct. Under way at 4 p. m.

On 12 July through Dardanelles. More Customs officers and flagboat of guarding squadron. Backsheesh again. Work of officers thorough, but quick. Want us off soon. At dark passed into Archipelago.

On 13 July passed Cape Matapan. Crew dissatisfied about something. Seemed scared, but would not speak out.

On 14 July was somewhat anxious about crew. Men all steady fellows, who sailed with me before. Mate could not make out what was wrong. They only told him there was something, and crossed themselves. Mate lost temper with one of them that day and struck him. Expected fierce quarrel, but all was quiet.

On 16 July mate reported in the morning that one of the crew, Petrofsky, was missing. Could not account for it.Took larboard watch eight bells last night, was relieved by Amramoff, but did not go to bunk. Men more downcast than ever. All said they expected something of the kind, but would not say more than there was SOMETHING aboard. Mate getting very impatient with them. Feared some trouble ahead.

On 17 July, yesterday, one of the men, Olgaren, came to my cabin, and in an awestruck way confided to me that he thought there was a strange man aboard the ship.He said that in his watch he had been sheltering behind the deckhouse, as there was a rain storm, when he saw a tall,thin man, who was not like any of the crew, come up the companionway, and go along the deck forward and disappear.He followed cautiously, but when he got to bows found no one, and the hatchways were all closed. He was in a panic of superstitious fear, and I am afraid the panic may spread. To allay it, I shall today search the entire ship carefully from stem to stern.

Later in the day I got together the whole crew,and told them, as they evidently thought there was some one in the ship, we would search from stem to stern. First mate angry, said it was folly, and to yield to such foolish ideas would demoralise the men, said he would engage to keep them out of trouble with the handspike. I let him take the helm, while the rest began a thorough search, all keeping abreast, with lanterns. We left no corner unsearched. As there were only the big wooden boxes, there were no odd corners where a man could hide. Men much relieved when search over, and went back to work cheerfully.First mate scowled,but said nothing.

22 July.--Rough weather last three days, and all hands busy with sails, no time to be frightened. Men seem to have forgotten their dread. Mate cheerful again, and all on good terms. Praised men for work in bad weather. Passed Gibraltar and out through Straits. All well.

24 July.--There seems some doom over this ship. Already a hand short, and entering the Bay of Biscay with wild weather ahead, and yet last night another man lost, disappeared. Like the first, he came off his watch and was not seen again. Men all in a panic of fear, sent a round robin, asking to have double watch, as they fear to be alone. Mate angry. Fear there will be some trouble,as either he or the men will do some violence.

28 July.--Four days in hell,knocking about in a sort of malestrom, and the wind a tempest. No sleep for any one. Men all worn out. Hardly know how to set a watch, since no one fit to go on. Second mate volunteered to steer and watch, and let men snatch a few hours sleep. Wind abating, seas still terrific, but feel them less, as ship is steadier.

29 July.--Another tragedy. Had single watch tonight, as crew too tired to double. When morning watch came on deck could find no one except steersman. Raised outcry, and all came on deck. Thorough search, but no one found. Are now without second mate, and crew in a panic. Mate and I agreed to go armed henceforth and wait for any sign of cause.

30 July.--Last night. Rejoiced we are nearing England. Weather fine, all sails set. Retired worn out, slept soundly, awakened by mate telling me that both man of watch and steersman missing. Only self and mate and two hands left to work ship.

1 August.--Two days of fog, and not a sail sighted. Had hoped when in the English Channel to be able to signal for help or get in somewhere. Not having power to work sails, have to run before wind. Dare not lower, as could not raise them again. We seem to be drifting to some terrible doom. Mate now more demoralised than either of men. His stronger nature seems to have worked inwardly against himself. Men are beyond fear, working stolidly and patiently, with minds made up to worst. They are Russian, he Roumanian.

2 August, midnight.--Woke up from few minutes sleep by hearing a cry, seemingly outside my port. Could see nothing in fog. Rushed on deck, and ran against mate. Tells me he heard cry and ran, but no sign of man on watch. One more gone. Lord, help us! Mate says we must be past Straits of Dover, as in a moment of fog lifting he saw North Foreland, just as he heard the man cry out. If so we are now off in the North Sea, and only God can guide us in the fog, which seems to move with us, and God seems to have deserted us.

3 August.--At midnight I went to relieve the man at the wheel and when I got to it found no one there. The wind was steady, and as we ran before it there was no yawing. I dared not leave it, so shouted for the mate. After a few seconds, he rushed up on deck in his flannels. He looked wild-eyed and haggard, and I greatly fear his reason has given way. He came close to me and whispered hoarsely, with his mouth to my ear, as though fearing the very air might hear. “It is here. I know it now. On the watch last night I saw It, like a man, tall and thin, and ghastly pale. It was in the bows, and looking out. I crept behind It, and gave it my knife, but the knife went through It, empty as the air.” And as he spoke he took the knife and drove it savagely into space. Then he went on, “But It is here, and I’ll find It. It is in the hold, perhaps in one of those boxes. I’ll unscrew them one by one and see. You work the helm.” And with a warning look and his finger on his lip, he went below. There was springing up a choppy wind, and I could not leave the helm. I saw him come out on deck again with a tool chest and lantern, and go down the forward hatchway. He is mad, stark, raving mad, and it’s no use my trying to stop him. He can’t hurt those big boxes, they are invoiced as clay, and to pull them about is as harmless a thing as he can do. So here I stay and mind the helm, and write these notes. I can only trust in God and wait till the fog clears. Then, if I can’t steer to any harbour with the wind that is, I shall cut down sails, and lie by, and signal for help . . .

It is nearly all over now. Just as I was beginning to hope that the mate would come out calmer, for I heard him knocking away at something in the hold, and work is good for him, there came up the hatchway a sudden, startled scream, which made my blood run cold, and up on the deck he came as if shot from a gun, a raging madman, with his eyes rolling and his face convulsed with fear. “Save me! Save me!” he cried, and then looked round on the blanket of fog. His horror turned to despair, and in a steady voice he said,”You had better come too, captain, before it is too late. He is there! I know the secret now. The sea will save me from Him, and it is all that is left!” Before I could say a word, or move forward to seize him, he sprang on the bulwark and deliberately threw himself into the sea. I suppose I know the secret too, now. It was this madman who had got rid of the men one by one, and now he has followed them himself. God help me! How am I to account for all these horrors when I get to port? When I get to port! Will that ever be?

4 August.--Still fog, which the sunrise cannot pierce,I know there is sunrise because I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go below, I dared not leave the helm, so here all night I stayed, and in the dimness of the night I saw it, Him! God, forgive me, but the mate was right to jump overboard. It was better to die like a man. To die like a sailor in blue water, no man can object. But I am captain, and I must not leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or monster, for I shall tie my hands to the wheel when my strength begins to fail, and along with them I shall tie that which He, It, dare not touch. And then, come good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my honour as a captain. I am growing weaker, and the night is coming on. If He can look me in the face again, I may not have time to act . . .If we are wrecked, mayhap this bottle may be found, and those who find it may understand. If not . . . well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God and the Blessed Virgin and the Saints help a poor ignorant soul trying to do his duty . . .

I say there is wriggle and wiggle room in how we read these pages. Guilt and truth are in the eye of the beholder. Rashomon tells us this.

IN BRAM WE TRUST

Thanks,

Ian

In the fictional manuscript, I would look to interpolate, to honour Stoker’s words and shine more light on that crucial Dark Matter. The manuscript would be written with a filter that removes any and all movie modifications. Back-to-basics. I would however need a new character (yes, the Literary Editor of the Times of London in 1897) who would discover all this in real-time in a (thinking man’s) Da Vinci Code style. The forensic focus would remain a) on Stoker’s novel, b) what we know now from “Dracula’s Guest” and c) from the stunning new truth around the identity of Lucy’s real attacker.

And so, re-reading Chapter VII - The Cutting from The DAILYGRAPH - will show us that, in line with my theory, not one of the sailors on the Demeter was bitten. We see that some sailors gladly throw themselves into the sea from superstition alone. And the skipper dies tied to the ship’s wheel but is UNBITTEN. Chapter VII also shows us exactly what Dracula does and does not do in Whitby as he escapes the Demeter on the Whitby sand as a black dog and makes for the graveyards above.

Just what will happen when Van Helsing’s unstoppable vampire apocalypse meets the immovable truth? Dracula is now on English soil, but what do we, as readers, really note from this illuminating passage below?

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Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap at the St Martin’s Theatre recently celebrated its 30,000th performance having opened in October, 1952. At the end of each performance, the audience is asked to keep the identity of the murderer a secret. It is known as “The Tradition of Secrecy.” The readership here is far smaller, but I would like to invoke that spirit all the same. Not like the clown on the London Underground in 1995, who scrawled an arrow to Kevin Spacey’s head on a poster for The Usual Suspects and wrote the words, “It was him (sic).”

Above is an image of Lucy Westenra, somewhere between death of sorts, Un-Dead and Death. But who is responsible, Agatha?

NOT COUNT DRACULA. And Stoker’s own words prove it below.

I shall narrow down the key passages from the four clues of last week, this time invoking the spirit of Peter Ustinov as Poirot in the dining carriage of the Orient Express as the murderer(s) is/are revealed.

(Continued below…)

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LIVES SAVED 2 (Harker 2)

LIVES TAKEN 0

For those who thought the baptising to vampire and killing of young Lucy Westenra was an obvious one to pin on the Count, read below and see if the clue to a not guilty verdict - in STOKER’S OWN HAND - is obvious to you.

Now that the four passages from this week are in, I will announce the dispositive answer here on Monday. It changes everything we think we know about Count Dracula; surely the most misunderstood character in English literature. Forget Sir Percy Blakeney, forget the Scarlet Pimpernel. At least, his closest followers knew and at least, the reading public knew and in real time. The poor Count has had to endure 129 years of lies and untruths. No longer.

As for context on the larger canvas, this exoneration of having bitten Lucy is a mere blip on the larger radar of the overall tale and what it means. This “not guilty” verdict is a mere building block and foundation to the overall revelations, however central, pivotal and essential it is. For this all spills out of the pages of the novel and into Victorian England and threatens the liberty and life of the great Bram Stoker.

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This third “coincidence” (hidden as a clue in this next page from Stoker’s novel) would constitute Agatha Christie’s “proof”. This proves that Count Dracula was innocent of first biting and therefore (beyond all reasonable doubt) killing Lucy Westenra. We saw in the excised chapter that there is a second vampire. One MUST therefore deduce that this other Un-Dead is guilty if Dracula is provably and demonstrably innocent. And provably and demonstrably innocent he is.

This presence of the second - and clearly meddling - wampyr would also explain that pesky question of just who created the storm of the century in the North Sea to welcome Dracula to Whitby, for the Count - like any vampire or human - would far prefer the millpond calm seas and fair winds that we witness throughout the other nautical trips in the novel. We might just be starting to see a cogent and explainable narrative emerge.

But first, what is the third piece of evidence in the below passage from Chapter VI that shows that Lucy is not the Count’s conquest as the world has simply - and incorrectly - presumed and assumed for 129 years.

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Cont…

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I then feared it may have been one of those mistakes that any novelist (or film director, journalist, painter, hairdresser, taxi driver or bloke or lass) could make. Human error.

So, I went back with this nugget in mind to see if I could find the error repeated in those pages and passages, and if repeated then it becomes less of an error and more of a purposeful pattern. I found at least FOUR.

Remember Agatha Christie’s line; One coincidence is a coincidence. two coincidences are a clue. Three are a proof. A count of four seems pretty solid, therefore.

Over the next four days, I will publish here the four excerpts. One per day.

These will add up to one of the great revelations on Dracula’s side of the fourth wall. There are perhaps greater ones on Stoker’s side. Or perhaps not. You decide.

Here is excerpt number one. It is all of page 42 of my old copy. And within this lies the first piece of evidence that Count Dracula DID NOT BITE Lucy. It is like one of those great Agatha Christie clues that seems so inconsequential at the time. But it is there. Please message me if you can spot it. Yours will be the golden ticket for all film premieres and film shoots if you can get it.

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“One word and that word is WOW!
I myself have studied BRAM STOKER’S DRACULA for over 50 years and pretty much thought I had 99% of the puzzle in place, but you have tipped the table right over and made me want to re read the 100 or so volumes in my library and start all over again. Needless to say I found it very difficult to switch off and go to sleep on the first night your exerts landed. Mind blown.”

This validation is worth its weight, of course, and I hope it validates your being here too. Thank you. And as a fella once said, “You ain’t seen NOTHING (sic) yet.”

Saturday was, of course, August 8th; the day of the storm of the century in Stoker’s Dracula was also the day of the storm of this century up here at the lake here north of Toronto. Trees down, power out, land that looks like an earthquake hit and which has ripped trees and turf skyward like a ripped toupée. It seems like it was a tornado, the epicentre landing just 300 yards away. This has caused minor disruption to schedules and a real wartime spirit among the villagers, which is nice. So, a few hours late today.

My re-read and relevant dissection of Stoker’s text continues with the start of Chapter V. With Jonathan having said his goodbyes and left through the castle window, we jump to the calm and tranquility of the letters between Mina Murray and Lucy Westenra. Mina’s distress at Jonathan’s lack of communication takes a backseat to the pressing issues of how many blokes want to marry the most bubbly Lucy. This is the tranquil calm after the terrifying storm of Castle Dracula. We are introduced to the three gents; the suitors being Dr John Seward, 29-year-old doctor in charge of a whole asylum, loquacious Texan gent, Quincey P. Morris with a verbose diction, big heart and clumsy oafishness and the husband-elect, aristocrat, Arthur Holmwood, son of Lord Godalming. The three are friends and remain so through the battle for poor Lucy’s (soon-to-be-staked) heart.

Dr Seward is in charge of the character, Renfield, who is displaying the kind of flesh-eating (zoophagous) behaviour to make a fledgling vampire purr. But just how is Renfield a vampire? The movies will tell you that he went to Transylvania before Harker and came back baptised as Quick Un-Dead. WHAT UTTER NONSENSE.

In the scene much later, when Renfield is trying to prove his sanity to Seward, he will speak of all the gents in the room and all he knows of their histories, their families, their wishes and desires. It is a most impressive speech. This he does as he desperately wishes to prove his mental sharpness so he may be freed to save Mina, now under threat as Van Helsing mumbles and leaves Harker’s new bride unprotected and in peril. Renfield does not even mention Harker; the only person in the room he does not mention. Surely if they (Harker and Renfield) had worked together, this would have been fine ammunition for the madman. Furthermore neither Dracula or Harker ever mentions that another solicitor had been out to the Borgo Pass. It was merely a cheap device for the movies. However, for this forensic examination, the essential question remains; just how is Renfield a flesh-eater when Count Dracula is still in Transylvania?

Renfield is not a solicitor, has never worked for Hawkins of Exeter and yet somehow is of the darkness. How? Why?

And how come the asylum is right next door to Carfax, Dracula’s new home to the east of London in Purfleet? Coincidence or design?

The answer to the first question shall be revealed this week, along with another MAJOR revelation and one which I believe has never been noted by any literary observer, academic or Draculista in the past. I truly believe this crucial point of the text is an original observation that turns the case of guilt and innocence upside down. More of this to come. But it is enough it seems to keep true experts awake at night with excitement.

It shall be revealed here. It is the central tenet that PROVES Count Dracula’s innocence in biting (and therefore killing) Lucy Westenra. And the truth is coming, like Renfield sensing the Master is near. But let’s remember, Renfield is a madman. And therefore a most unreliable narrator.

Ah, Whitby Abbey. Thanks again to the Whitby Dracula Society.

IN BRAM WE TRUST

I do know Harker arrived at Castle Dracula on May the 5th and on June 30th he escapes - not a single bite in eight weeks. Sure, Jonathan uses his wits to get out, but if Dracula really intended to give him to the witches or bite or kill him, it would have happened in those eight long weeks.

Once Harker (by his own stupid fault) observes the witches, Dracula cannot risk his own transport to England, and so protects Harker in the castle and really allows for his escape (even with the Count’s own gold). We know vampires are telepathic, so Dracula would know if the witches did not get the treat he promised them the following night in late June. And they do not get their treat. The Count has instead prompted him to leave, out and then onto true sanctuary at Buda-Pesth.

Dracula very likely would like to see Jonathan again in England (and boy, does he. That is another story for the Purfleet menage-a-trois. It is mentioned here as it cements Dracula’s true intentions for further down the line. We know he is a master planner and strategist.

EXCERPT from Stoker’s 1897 text:

His right hand gripped her by the back of the neck, forcing her face down on his bosom. Her white nightdress was smeared with blood, and a thin stream trickled down the man's bare breast which was shown by his torn-open dress. The attitude of the two had a terrible resemblance to a child forcing a kitten's nose into a saucer of milk to compel it to drink.

He pulled open his shirt, and with his long sharp nails opened a vein in his breast. When the blood began to spurt out, he seized my neck and pressed my mouth to the wound, so that I must either suffocate or swallow some of the — Oh, my God!

But I rush ahead. Relax, don’t do it.

Why continually save the Englishman’s life to let him be baptised to Quick Un-Dead by someone else? We know Count Dracula loves and is in love with…

(cont… below)

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But even the bad Harker thinks he sees and hears can likely be explained away.

(**1845-1847 Varney the Vampire pre-dates Dracula by fifty years, and informs much of it, for the hero was a most reluctant and nuanced character. Stoker borrowed - or as the genius would, stole - the concept of a monster being not all bad.)

Does Harker see a baby in a hessian sack when…

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I shall carry on with the yellow Post It notes and my page scribbles from the battered old copy tomorrow. Today - like Harker perhaps - has been taken hostage. Also like the Englishman, in not all such a bad way. For today has been and is being a day for major movement on the film and television properties attached to this research and the u…

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