liked-for such occasions. Simmons was driving, and came close to tangling axles with
half a dozen cabs, drays, and carts on the road.
At Rushbrook House he took a quick glance at Hennessey’s sloppy notes to make sure nothing
untoward had happened in his absence-Emily Strathmore had had to be put in the Swing again, and
“Lord Spotty” was up to his old tricks-then settled down to write a letter to Arthur Holmwood, and a
telegram to Abraham Van Helsing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For nearly three weeks Renfield watched, as if from a barred and distant window, as the thing in the
chapel at Carfax continued its attacks on Lucy.
When the red-eyed bat had flown from the chapel window, leaving him behind in the hands of his foes,
he had feared that he must see the kill. He had had no idea, he thought now, of how long that kill would
take, of the drawn-out torment of cat-and–mouse that Wotan played, like a malicious child, with the
fright-ened girl. It was one thing, he told himself, cold with anger, to kill in the delirious uncontrollable
rush of rage or lust (How do I know that? he wondered: why did the brown face of an Indian girl wink
through his consciousness, lying sleeping on the char-poi at his side … sleeping with open eyes … ) It was
another to kill by inches, to leave Lucy swooning on the floor of her room, to come again another night
and draw her once more to the brink of death.
Yet he could not speak of what he knew. Wotan held the power of life in his hand, life that Renfield
desperately needed. Not once in those three weeks did Wotan call upon him or speak his name, but
Renfield did not give up the hope-the certainty–that he would.
“All over, all over, he has deserted me,” he said one warm September afternoon when Seward came to
visit him-to visit him in his old room, whose repaired window looked out over the garden and the
tree-lined drive from the gates. He’d spread sugar from his tea over the window-sill, and had caught a
dozen flies in the final hour of the day. “No hope for me now unless I do it for myself.” Seward, though of
too small a mind to com-prehend or even guess at Renfield’s mission, sympathized and agreed to provide
an extra ration of sugar. It was astonishing, thought Renfield, shaking his head, how easily the man could
be manipulated.
“He’s off to visit that sweetheart of his, that’s bound to marry a lord,” provided Langmore shortly
thereafter, coming in with the extra sugar while Renfield sat at the open window watching Seward’s smart
black fly rattle off down the drive and through the gates.
“Is she having second thoughts?” inquired Renfield, and the little keeper hooted with laughter and
slapped his thigh. “Lord, let’s hope not! That mother of her’n would ass-assinate him if she thought it!
What a griffin! No-the poor young lady’s took ill.” Langmore came over to the window, with a glance of
wary disgust at the little buzzing cardboard box at Renfield’s elbow, and with his eyes followed the black
carriage through the gates, and out onto the London road. By his voice, and the pupils of his eyes,
Renfield could see the keeper had had a touch of poppy before coming on duty. Not enough to put him
to sleep, but enough to make him talkative.
“Funny how a man can be cool and smart as a soldier, when the likes of old Emily Strathmore’s tearin’
at him like a wildcat, yet since his Miss Lucy’s been took ill-and her promised to an other man, and that
other man the Doc’s best friend-it’s like he’s aged ten years.”
“Miss Lucy?” Renfield stared at him.
“Miss Lucy Westenra. Pretty as a daffy-down-dilly, I thought, the night she come here to take dinner
with him-with that ma of hers standin’ right over her to make sure the pair of ‘em didn’t have a moment to
theirselves for the Doc to pop the question, as I hear he planned to that night. And him borrowin’ a
but-ler and silverware and what-all else from
half a dozen cabs, drays, and carts on the road.
At Rushbrook House he took a quick glance at Hennessey’s sloppy notes to make sure nothing
untoward had happened in his absence-Emily Strathmore had had to be put in the Swing again, and
“Lord Spotty” was up to his old tricks-then settled down to write a letter to Arthur Holmwood, and a
telegram to Abraham Van Helsing.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For nearly three weeks Renfield watched, as if from a barred and distant window, as the thing in the
chapel at Carfax continued its attacks on Lucy.
When the red-eyed bat had flown from the chapel window, leaving him behind in the hands of his foes,
he had feared that he must see the kill. He had had no idea, he thought now, of how long that kill would
take, of the drawn-out torment of cat-and–mouse that Wotan played, like a malicious child, with the
fright-ened girl. It was one thing, he told himself, cold with anger, to kill in the delirious uncontrollable
rush of rage or lust (How do I know that? he wondered: why did the brown face of an Indian girl wink
through his consciousness, lying sleeping on the char-poi at his side … sleeping with open eyes … ) It was
another to kill by inches, to leave Lucy swooning on the floor of her room, to come again another night
and draw her once more to the brink of death.
Yet he could not speak of what he knew. Wotan held the power of life in his hand, life that Renfield
desperately needed. Not once in those three weeks did Wotan call upon him or speak his name, but
Renfield did not give up the hope-the certainty–that he would.
“All over, all over, he has deserted me,” he said one warm September afternoon when Seward came to
visit him-to visit him in his old room, whose repaired window looked out over the garden and the
tree-lined drive from the gates. He’d spread sugar from his tea over the window-sill, and had caught a
dozen flies in the final hour of the day. “No hope for me now unless I do it for myself.” Seward, though of
too small a mind to com-prehend or even guess at Renfield’s mission, sympathized and agreed to provide
an extra ration of sugar. It was astonishing, thought Renfield, shaking his head, how easily the man could
be manipulated.
“He’s off to visit that sweetheart of his, that’s bound to marry a lord,” provided Langmore shortly
thereafter, coming in with the extra sugar while Renfield sat at the open window watching Seward’s smart
black fly rattle off down the drive and through the gates.
“Is she having second thoughts?” inquired Renfield, and the little keeper hooted with laughter and
slapped his thigh. “Lord, let’s hope not! That mother of her’n would ass-assinate him if she thought it!
What a griffin! No-the poor young lady’s took ill.” Langmore came over to the window, with a glance of
wary disgust at the little buzzing cardboard box at Renfield’s elbow, and with his eyes followed the black
carriage through the gates, and out onto the London road. By his voice, and the pupils of his eyes,
Renfield could see the keeper had had a touch of poppy before coming on duty. Not enough to put him
to sleep, but enough to make him talkative.
“Funny how a man can be cool and smart as a soldier, when the likes of old Emily Strathmore’s tearin’
at him like a wildcat, yet since his Miss Lucy’s been took ill-and her promised to an other man, and that
other man the Doc’s best friend-it’s like he’s aged ten years.”
“Miss Lucy?” Renfield stared at him.
“Miss Lucy Westenra. Pretty as a daffy-down-dilly, I thought, the night she come here to take dinner
with him-with that ma of hers standin’ right over her to make sure the pair of ‘em didn’t have a moment to
theirselves for the Doc to pop the question, as I hear he planned to that night. And him borrowin’ a
but-ler and silverware and what-all else from
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