Page 114 of The Extraordinary Florence Stoker

I picked up the thick envelope I’d been sent anonymously and extracted a large sheet of paper. ‘Take a look at this and tell me what you think.’ I handed it to him as he sat down.

It was an advertisement for a film and featured a figure, more monster than man, bald, with a bulging forehead and a small mouth from which two rat-like teeth protruded. He had a large hooked nose and enormous malevolent eyes. When I first saw it, my mind filled with wasps that buzzed and stung, and my hair stood on end. An old memory pushed itself forward. It was as if whoever had composed the artwork had drawn inspiration from the dead man who once haunted me.

After Bram died, and I slowly rebuilt my life, my apparition appeared less and less until, one day, I realised he was no longer there. Initially discommoded, as if I’d lost yet another acquaintance, I’d search for him in the shadows. To no avail; after all those years, he was finally vanquished.

Yet, the moment I laid eyes on the flyer, it was as if my revenant had returned. The resemblance was uncanny.

Noel’s brows crept to the top of his forehead. ‘Good Lord!’

‘I doubt He had anything to do with it,’ I said dryly. ‘Ghastly, isn’t it? This came with it.’ I handed him what else had arrived in the envelope: a booklet, a program to be exact. ‘Keep reading,’ I said, flapping a hand as he looked at it, then me, in disbelief. ‘Seems a German company have made a moving picture of Father’s novel, Dracula.’

‘Prana Film,’ read Noel. ‘I didn’t know you’d sold the rights, Mother,’ he added snippily.

‘I haven’t. I knew nothing about any of this until the package arrived in the mail.’ I leaned over and stabbed the flyer. ‘It states here the director’s a fellow named Murnau and the so-called screenwriter is Henrik Galeen. Together, they’ve “freely adapted” your father’s book and turned it into a film. Look. It says that right there, without so much as a by-your-leave or anything in the way of compensation. The gall of them!’

Noel shook his head in disbelief. ‘For a professional company, they’re either incredibly foolish or indifferent to the implications of what they’ve done.’

‘Perhaps both,’ I huffed. ‘As you can see from that program, the film was shown at the Berlin Zoological Gardens last month. Hundreds paid to see it.’

‘I wonder why they called it Nosferatu when they “freely adapted” Dracula?’ Noel returned the offending pages to me. ‘Since they openly admit to using Father’s work, why change it?’

‘They probably thought by calling it Nosferatu, no-one would notice they’d plagiarised Bram’s work.’

‘Somebody noticed.’ Noel picked up his neglected cup of tea and finished it, pulling a face. ‘Do you have any idea who sent these to you?’

‘Not a clue. But somebody is looking out for me.’ I smiled lest my words be misinterpreted as a criticism of him, but not before a frown marred his usually serene brow. Once more, I’d said the wrong thing. ‘Which is why I need your assistance,’ I added hastily. ‘What can I do about this? I can’t let them get away with blatantly copying Dracula, can I? Stealing your father’s work.’

‘Of course not,’ said Noel indignantly.

‘Well, what do you suggest?’

Noel sighed. ‘What I’ve been saying to you for years now, Mother. You must join the Incorporated Society of Authors, Playwrights and Composers.’

I buried a smile. I’d known what Noel would say, of course. But I enjoyed the ‘told you so’ tone all the same. ‘Frankly,’ I replied, determined to remain stubborn a little longer, let him believe he was persuading me, ‘I don’t see what they can do for me.’

Noel gave a half-laugh of exasperation. ‘For a start, they can ensure your rights as Father’s literary executor are honoured. They can see to it that you’re paid for … for that.’ He gestured to the advertisement. ‘If you’d joined when I first mentioned them, you wouldn’t have had all those problems with that publisher in Leipzig.’

‘You mean Max Altman. The one your father gave the German translation rights to Dracula.’

‘The man who’s given you grief over accounts and royalties.’

I gave a dramatic shudder. ‘Horrible man. Makes everything such a chore. Maybe he’s behind this Prana Film thing. I wouldn’t put it past him to have sold the rights to Dracula without telling anyone, let alone paying me. He’s probably never forgiven us for winning the war.’

‘Mother!’ exclaimed Noel in faux shock.

The one good thing about getting older was you wise up to the benefits of being able to say what you think. No-one checked an old woman. Too often, they simply ignored her.

‘The thing is,’ continued Noel, ‘the Society can help you deal with men like Herr Altman. You need expert advice, Mother, about contracts, copyright, the legalities, and they’re the people to provide it.’

I cocked my head and regarded my son. ‘Alright,’ I sighed. ‘If you think so. I’ll approach them. See what they have to say for themselves.’

‘Well,’ said Noel, leaping out of his chair. ‘What are you waiting for? Call them.’

‘Now?’

‘Why not? It’s business hours. There’s no point delaying, not once you’ve made up your mind.’

I pretended to procrastinate.