“Promise?”

Harold smiled. “Yes.”

“Good. So, what’s Dracula have to do with all of this?” Sarah asked as she began putting some of the birding books back on their shelves.

“That’s the question,” replied Harold. “We know that Conan Doyle was good friends with Bram Stoker. Everybody knows that, it’s public knowledge. But what if Stoker is the key to finding the diary? Is that what Cale was getting at? If Cale somehow found the diary through Bram Stoker…”

Rather than respond, Sarah elected to continue sliding the books back into place.

“Cambridge!” Harold exclaimed.

Sarah smiled. She knew he’d get it, of course. All she had to do was wait. Harold did feel proud, and he had her to thank for it.

“What’s in Cambridge?” she asked.

“Didn’t Jennifer Peters say that her brother had been on a trip to Cambridge just before he died?”

“I think so,” she said after she’d thought about it. “But so? He probably went to half a dozen universities for research.”

“Right. But Cambridge is the university that houses all of the original letters of Bram Stoker.” Harold’s face brightened.

Sarah took the letter, folded it back up, and put it in her purse.

“All right then,” she said. “Let’s go get the diary.”

CHAPTER 33 Newgate

November 13,1900, cont.

The stench of Newgate Prison wet the tiny hairs on the inside of Arthur’s nose. Given his social stature, the prison’s governor had granted him a private cell. The knowledge that this must have been the largest and best maintained of all the cells in Newgate only served to further horrify him. The room was eight feet by twelve, with a barred window at the far end, facing the central yard. Yet as Arthur was on only the second floor, not much light got through the thick bars. A water tank and a washbasin lay beneath the window, accompanied by a rolled-up set of bedding. There was no table in the cell, but merely a single shelf, on which rested a plate, a mug, and a Bible. On the opposite side from the window, Arthur could see out the cell doors to the gallery. When he pressed his face against the bars, he could see cell after cell in neat little rows, like hedges stretching into the distance. Arthur could not see the end of the cells, or any of the floors above or below his. There was a skylight at the roof of the prison gallery, and yet little light from that made it to Arthur either. The gallery smelled like a rotting corpse and sounded with the wails of men halfway to death themselves.

Arthur thumbed through a Bible to pass the time. It was the King James Version, and so stained with filth as to be barely readable. He wondered if it would provide him some comfort in this moment of need. Might he open the page to a trenchant aphorism that would buoy his soul from the crushing iniquities of the prison? The first words he saw, when he let the Bible fall open, were these: “I am a victem of yer sweet smell’d cunt.” Some previous inhabitant of these quarters had scrawled the words into the margins, as if they were a scholar’s commentary upon the text. Arthur glanced down at the cheaply printed verses. He was treated to the bit in Joshua where the children of Israel are circumcised for the second time. “And Joshua made him sharp knives, and circumcised the children of Israel at the hill of the foreskins,” Arthur read. He was unsure as to whether the misspelled commentary was supposed to refer to this specific verse or whether it was more a general statement of the man’s attitudes on the day he’d written it. After thinking upon this matter for a minute, Arthur realized that he did not much care. For the Bible or for his fellow prisoner.

The day wore on, and he did not speak to a single inhabitant of the nearby cells. When the men were released into the yard, for some sort of recreation, Arthur was purposefully kept inside his cell by the guards. “You’ll find it safer here,” a guard told him as he unlocked the cell beside Arthur’s while leaving his door untouched. Arthur was not in a position to disagree.

While the other prisoners frolicked in the yard, the governor of Newgate came down to see him personally. “Terribly sorry about all this,” the man said. “Inspector Miller sent word, and he’ll try to have you out by nightfall. Can we fetch you anything to help you pass the time?” Arthur thanked the man for his sympathies but said that he had all that he required. The governor offered to assist him in sending a message to his family-“I’ll take it down to the GPO myself,” he said-but Arthur wouldn’t hear of it. He would rather that Touie and the children not learn about this particular adventure. The governor said that he understood.

“I’ve a family, too, Dr. Doyle. My good wife, Shelly, and my boy. Terrific lad. His name is Arthur, too. Funny that!”

“Yes. I appreciate your discretion,” said Arthur, well aware of where this discussion was headed. He had learned, over the years, that as soon as any man made even the briefest mention of his “terrific lad,” Arthur should begin to search around for a pen forthwith.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” said the governor. “He’s a great admirer of yours, my boy is. And… well, of course I am, too. If you wouldn’t mind, if it’s not too much of an imposition…”

“Oh, just give me the bloody book,” said Arthur. He signed a copy of The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes for the governor and then signed a copy of The Sign of the Four as well. Elated at his good fortune over having Arthur Conan Doyle as a day prisoner, the governor left Arthur alone with a firm handshake for a farewell. As the man strode through the galley of his prison, Arthur could hear him whistling.

The sun had just set when Arthur was released. Though the guards were surprised to loose a prisoner at this late hour, they quickly fell into line upon receipt of his release papers. One even bowed to him as the man opened the sturdy central gate and let him out onto the noisy streets.

Bram Stoker and Inspector Miller were waiting together on Newgate Street to greet him. Both embraced Arthur warmly, and Bram had even brought a flask of gin for the occasion.

“If the inspector here doesn’t mind, I thought you might be in need of a drink,” said Bram as he passed the silver flask into Arthur’s dirty hands.

“Most certainly,” said Inspector Miller. “Please. You’ve been through a great ordeal.” Arthur was not the sort who was prone to public drunkenness, nor had he been craving the taste of liquor. And yet, as he felt the cool flask in his hands, he became instantly grateful for Bram’s considerate forethought. Arthur drank deeply and felt warm as the chilled gin tinged his gullet.

“Assistant Commissioner Henry has been reprimanded for his hasty actions,” continued Inspector Miller when Arthur had finished. “This should set back his takeover of the CID at least a year, if I have anything to say about it. The commissioner himself asked that I pass on to you his deepest sympathies and his solemn promise that no record of this… incident shall be kept in the Yard’s records. We had to generate a bit of paperwork for Newgate, but I’ll see to it that it’s burned by the week’s end.”

“Inspector Miller here has been most helpful on the matter of your release,” said Bram. “He contacted me this morning, and has been working tirelessly for your benefit.”

“Thank you both,” said Arthur. He took another swig of gin.

“Where shall I take you?” offered Bram. “I’d suggest your home for a hot bath, or mine for a hot toddy. But knowing you, I suspect you’d like to get right back to your case. To sniff out the murderer of Emily Davison and all that.”