wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”
The muggy cool of the night-breeze met them as they entered the room, where the window-sash had
been literally wrenched from its moorings in the wall, bars and all. Seward shivered, thinking of the
strength that would have taken.
A sudden paroxysm of rage or terror? He hoped so. The thought of the madman being actually that
strong at all times was not a pleasant one. He glanced around the little room, to make sure there wasn’t
some clue, but it looked much the same in the light of the attendants’ lanterns: the narrow cot-like bed
had not been displaced from its position along the right-hand wall, the assortment of tumblers, cups, and
boxes that contained Renfield’s living larder were still neatly ranked on the floor op-posite.
Stepping to the window, he caught the pale flash of what might have been a nightshirt, dodging among
the trees by the intermittent whisper of the waning moon. The yellow gleam of a lantern told Seward that
Simmons was already on the trail. Heading for Carfax, it looked like.
“Bring a ladder and follow us to the east wall,” he instructed Hardy, took his lantern, and hung it on his
belt. With more than a slight qualm, he slithered through the torn-out ruin of the window, hung by his
hands from the sill for a moment, then dropped to the ground. Langmore at his heels, he set out through
the darkness on Renfield’s trail.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“There he goes, sir,” Langmore whispered, and Seward held up his hand. Renfield’s hearing was
sharp-he’d demonstrated more than once his ability to track a fly by its buzzing above the sound of
conversation-and he’d be listening for the smallest noise of pursuit. Or would he? Seward had
encountered madmen and madwomen who seemed to think that mere escape was enough; that they
could elude pursuers as if they were birds.
With a heart of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander; sang the old ballad-
With a burning spear
And a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander …
Not for the first time he wished his old friend Quincey Mor-ris were with him, Quincey who’d learned
tracking from a cou-ple of Commanche who’d worked on his father’s Texas ranch. Quincey could be
relied upon to keep quiet and obey orders without question, something Seward wasn’t sure he could
count on from most of the attendants.
The white blur of Renfield’s nightshirt shone against the dark of the Carfax wall long before the pursuers
were anywhere near him, then vanished as he dropped down the other side.
Seward cursed. In addition to exploring the Carfax park it-self, he’d walked around the perimeter wall,
both outside and in, and knew it to be badly dilapidated, low enough in several places for a man to easily
climb. It might take Renfield a little time to find such spots, but the thought of chasing him through open
countryside in the dead of a pitch-black night made him shudder.
Thank God at least Hardy had the wits to move quietly, or as quietly as a big man carrying an
eight-foot ladder without a lantern might be expected to-
“Stay here,” Seward breathed, as Hardy set up the ladder against the wall. “He may think he’s safe for
the moment; if he thinks we’re on his heels, he’ll be away like a hare.” When he put his head over the
fern-grown capstones, he could glimpse Ren-field again, making his way toward the dark bulk of the
house. “Slip over as quietly as you can and spread out,” he whispered, retreating down the ladder a few
steps and looking down at the upturned faces of the three attendants. “Hardy, circle around to the right,
Simmons and Langmore to the left-whatever you do, try to keep him from getting out the gate onto the
high road.”
Had the new tenants-or at any rate the carters who’d lugged in the dozen huge crates of their goods
that afternoon–remembered to lock those rusted gates of oak and iron? Had they been able to make the
crazy old locks work, either on
The muggy cool of the night-breeze met them as they entered the room, where the window-sash had
been literally wrenched from its moorings in the wall, bars and all. Seward shivered, thinking of the
strength that would have taken.
A sudden paroxysm of rage or terror? He hoped so. The thought of the madman being actually that
strong at all times was not a pleasant one. He glanced around the little room, to make sure there wasn’t
some clue, but it looked much the same in the light of the attendants’ lanterns: the narrow cot-like bed
had not been displaced from its position along the right-hand wall, the assortment of tumblers, cups, and
boxes that contained Renfield’s living larder were still neatly ranked on the floor op-posite.
Stepping to the window, he caught the pale flash of what might have been a nightshirt, dodging among
the trees by the intermittent whisper of the waning moon. The yellow gleam of a lantern told Seward that
Simmons was already on the trail. Heading for Carfax, it looked like.
“Bring a ladder and follow us to the east wall,” he instructed Hardy, took his lantern, and hung it on his
belt. With more than a slight qualm, he slithered through the torn-out ruin of the window, hung by his
hands from the sill for a moment, then dropped to the ground. Langmore at his heels, he set out through
the darkness on Renfield’s trail.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“There he goes, sir,” Langmore whispered, and Seward held up his hand. Renfield’s hearing was
sharp-he’d demonstrated more than once his ability to track a fly by its buzzing above the sound of
conversation-and he’d be listening for the smallest noise of pursuit. Or would he? Seward had
encountered madmen and madwomen who seemed to think that mere escape was enough; that they
could elude pursuers as if they were birds.
With a heart of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander; sang the old ballad-
With a burning spear
And a horse of air
To the wilderness I wander …
Not for the first time he wished his old friend Quincey Mor-ris were with him, Quincey who’d learned
tracking from a cou-ple of Commanche who’d worked on his father’s Texas ranch. Quincey could be
relied upon to keep quiet and obey orders without question, something Seward wasn’t sure he could
count on from most of the attendants.
The white blur of Renfield’s nightshirt shone against the dark of the Carfax wall long before the pursuers
were anywhere near him, then vanished as he dropped down the other side.
Seward cursed. In addition to exploring the Carfax park it-self, he’d walked around the perimeter wall,
both outside and in, and knew it to be badly dilapidated, low enough in several places for a man to easily
climb. It might take Renfield a little time to find such spots, but the thought of chasing him through open
countryside in the dead of a pitch-black night made him shudder.
Thank God at least Hardy had the wits to move quietly, or as quietly as a big man carrying an
eight-foot ladder without a lantern might be expected to-
“Stay here,” Seward breathed, as Hardy set up the ladder against the wall. “He may think he’s safe for
the moment; if he thinks we’re on his heels, he’ll be away like a hare.” When he put his head over the
fern-grown capstones, he could glimpse Ren-field again, making his way toward the dark bulk of the
house. “Slip over as quietly as you can and spread out,” he whispered, retreating down the ladder a few
steps and looking down at the upturned faces of the three attendants. “Hardy, circle around to the right,
Simmons and Langmore to the left-whatever you do, try to keep him from getting out the gate onto the
high road.”
Had the new tenants-or at any rate the carters who’d lugged in the dozen huge crates of their goods
that afternoon–remembered to lock those rusted gates of oak and iron? Had they been able to make the
crazy old locks work, either on
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