Anno Dracula - Kim Newman [182]
My personal experience in writing the book – not to mention a humour piece with Eugene Byrne and Neil Gaiman for a magazine called The Truth that wound up pinning the Ripper murders on Sooty (if you’re not British, ask someone who is) – crystallised my feelings about the unlikeliness that Dracula was the Ripper. If we’re casting the net wider for suspects and seizing on fictional characters as possible Rippers, we should probably be following the Agatha Christie dictum of looking for least-likely culprits. Someone (like the real, famous non-Ripper Dr Cream) who is already well-known as a serial killer of women and is unlikely to have an alibi for the nights in question, not to mention an array of respectable enemies who are liable to stand up and shout j’accuse, has ‘red herring’ sewn into the lining of their black cape. Under these circumstances, it would only need the victims’ purses in the Count’s back pocket to convince a Poirot or a Miss Marple that Dracula is, in this case, entirely innocent, a red herring to be chewed over for most of the book and then eliminated as the vicar or an eight-year-old child is shown up to be the actual killer.
So, if not Dracula, who? Here are some possibles: Jack (that name again) Worthing or Algy, from The Importance of Being Earnest – could not ‘Bunburying’ be a euphemism for something more sinister than mere idleness during their unexplained absences from society? Henry Wilcox, the ‘financial colossus’ from E.M. Forster’s Howard’s End (you know, the Anthony Hopkins part) – towards the end of the book, there’s a complicated bit of backstory as the old hypocrite is recognised as the man who ruined her by the grasping ex-whore. One of Wells’s Martians, an advance scout hiding tentacles under an extra-large ulster and experimentally dissecting human beings to find out if they’ll make suitable foodstuffs before giving a go-ahead for the full invasion. Dorian Gray – again, too obvious. Marlow, or some other Conradian world-traveller unhinged by experience of the heart of darkness? The Woman Who Did? Charles Pooter, so consumed with self-importance about his nobody status that he sets out to become somebody in the worst possible way. Mowgli, reverting to beastliness when brought to the heart of Empire? Alfred Doolittle, trying to catch the slut who bore his ungrateful daughter Eliza?
As it happens, none of these non-real people seem less likely suspects to me than the array of eminent Victorians who have been put in the frame at one time or another.
DEAD TRAVEL FAST
First published in Unforgivable Stories (2000)
In the great shed, a waterfall of molten iron poured into a long mould. Today, the undercarriage of a new engine was being cast, for the Great Western Railway, the Plymouth-to-Penzance line.