Chapter 13 #2
“Yes,” he returned in a tone of exaggerated patience, “but where was it? If Quincey had been killed by means of the wounds in his throat, he would have been soaked in gore. Thomas himself could not have escaped slipping in the stuff. The quantity necessary to drain a man of life would remain puddled for quite some hours, even if the weather was chilly, as Thomas remarked. It would be thick and sticky, but it would not be dry. It would have marked Thomas’s clothes, and more importantly, it would have been a gory and memorable sight for the boy.
He would not have forgot so significant an image. ”
“Again, Mornaday said there was no blood,” I replied.
“Then where did it go?” Stoker asked through gritted teeth. He held up a quelling hand as I opened my mouth to reply. “Do not, I beg you, invoke the notion of vampires again.”
“A vampire would account for the lack of blood,” I muttered.
“It bloody well would not!” he thundered. “What we can deduce—as scientists and people of actual logic—is that Maurice Quincey was killed elsewhere and then put into the carriage. That is all.”
“You cannot know—”
“I bloody well can!” he roared.
The driver rapped on the roof of the carriage. “Everything all right, sir?”
“Perfectly,” Stoker returned tightly. “My companion is merely being entirely irrational in the application of reason.”
“Aye, ’tis often the way with ladies,” the driver agreed.
“It most certainly is not,” I said, thrusting my head out of the window to be heard a little better. “Mr. Templeton-Vane is the one refusing to keep an open mind about a line of scientific inquiry.”
“Scientific?” Stoker gave a shout of laughter. “It is superstitious nonsense of the sort I cannot believe you are entertaining for the briefest of moments. It is utter and complete bollocks.”
“Language, Stoker,” I chided. I turned back to address the driver. “I do apologise for his vocabulary. He tends to get a little heated when discussing science.”
“Think nothing of it, miss,” he said, touching the brim of his cap. “I’ve heard plenty worse and no mistake.”
“From Mr. Brisbane?” I ventured.
“Lady Julia, if I’m honest, miss,” he replied.
“How very unexpected.” I settled back into my seat and regarded Stoker. “At least your profanity is keeping good company. I suspect it is the refuge of the noble class if you and Lady Julia are both in the habit of improper language.”
“Do not derail this conversation,” Stoker said, his gaze agleam with mischief. “You distinctly said that vampires might possibly exist.”
“This is not new information,” I returned waspishly. “I said so earlier.”
“And I admit I had hoped you spoke in jest. I cannot take you seriously if you continue to claim that this Ruthven character might be an actual vampire. What next? Ghouls? Werewolves?”
“Shall I bring up the wolpertinger again?” I asked.
“By god, I do love it when you are in a temper,” he said, reaching for me with purpose.
I clicked my tongue at him and held up a hand. “Not now, dearest. We have arrived.”
Pleading a need to see how J. J. was getting on, I bade Stoker a good night and left him looking hungrily after me at the door of my little folly.
J. J. had already turned in for the night, availing herself of my bed with assorted dogs piled hither and yon.
I crept about quietly, poking up the fire and changing into my nightdress and a dressing gown.
J. J. was snoring gently, but I was too restless for sleep.
I had carried down a stack of books from the Belvedere, and perhaps they would prove a cure for my wakefulness.
I wrapped a quilt about my shoulders and settled onto the sofa.
My earlier researches on vampirism had been fruitful, but I was certain there was more to know—more that might help me persuade Stoker to at least consider the possibility of the existence of a creature beyond our understanding.
The first book was a slender volume of the folklore of Styria complete with harrowing illustrations of the damage a motivated vampire could inflict.
There was even a chapter detailing precisely what one must do to send the revenant back into eternity.
I skimmed that bit and reached for the next book.
This was Roumanian, thick with phrases from that tongue—words such as “strigoi” and “pricolici” that defied my attempts at pronunciation.
The heaviest of the volumes was an antique copy of The Glory of the Duchy of Carniola, a first edition published in 1689 in High German.
From what I could gather—my command of German was almost nonexistent and I read with a dictionary in hand—there had been four volumes of the Glory, and we had only one in the Belvedere library.
But the book contained the earliest information I could find about vampires, relating the story of a stonemason who terrorised his family and village for sixteen years after his death.
The villagers twice attempted to kill him by stabbing him with a hawthorn stick, hawthorn being frequently used against witches and other powerful creatures.
But both times the stick had failed to penetrate the undead flesh, leaving them with no option but to decapitate the supposed vampire.
Only then did peace settle upon the little town.
I could well imagine a mob of villagers, stakes and pitchforks in hand, torches lighting their path as they made their way to the graveyard, determined to put down this murderous fiend once and for all.
He would be pale, of course, from his nocturnal habits, and he would smell of decay from his coffin bed.
He would be confident of his powers, I supposed.
He had eluded all threats for well over a decade, striking fear into the hearts of those who would see him banished into the netherworld.
By night he held sway over their village, creeping from house to house.
It was said if a householder heard a knock at the door, they knew the strigoi had come for them.
Did he ever speak? I wondered. Or did he assault them in merciless silence?
And did they crow with bloodlust as they took his head?
Or was the relief at the end of their misery heralded only by a wary stillness lest they awaken other restless spirits?
I could hear the steps of their roughly shod feet as they entered the graveyard, leather soles scraping on the stones, the thunk of graveyard dirt being shovelled away, the grating rasp of the coffin lid being pushed aside.
They would have tightened their scarves over their mouths and noses, those villagers, careful not to let the poisonous night air into their lungs.
And when at last they had uncovered the monster, the scarves would have muffled their gasps of horror.
Which of them had been brave enough to strike the first blow?
A strong lad, coming forward with the eagerness of youth?
Or had it been a sturdy farmer who had withstood a dozen years at the plough?
Or a housewife, forearms made taut from the toil of drawing water from the village well and kneading bread.
She would have knowledge, a housewife would, of how to decapitate from years of putting chickens into stewpots.
Or perhaps it was the blacksmith, hands toughened at the forge and muscles bulging as he bent to his work, sawing furiously through sinew and bone until he rose with that terrible trophy in his grasp, the vampire’s head borne aloft for all to see.
I could picture it as clearly as if I had been there in the crowd, waiting for the creature’s reign of terror to be brought to its grisly end, heart in my throat as the dark deed was done.
I would have raised my torch in triumph, a palpable and exquisite relief coursing through me as I shouted my approbation.
But just then the head swung in the blacksmith’s hand, its face swivelling towards me.
The mouth opened and the tongue, black and swollen, came out as the sightless eyes stared into mine.
I screamed, but the tongue kept coming, the tip of it touching my cheek as I continued to scream, louder and louder—
“Veronica!” One of the villagers had me by the shoulders, shaking me hard, and I opened my eyes.
“J. J.?” I blinked several times, bringing her into focus, a bright nimbus of light about her head.
“Yes, it is J. J.,” she said. “You were having a dream. A dreadful one from the sound of it,” she said.
“Get off.” This last was said to Betony, the Caucasian sheepdog that had been licking my cheek.
The dog obediently left off its washing of my face, and I sat up, groggy and dazed from the dream.
The hearth was cold, the fire having long since died, and morning sunlight streamed through the stained glass of the chapel windows, scattering patterns of blue and red and gold across the floor.
“No wonder you had a nightmare,” J. J. said, surveying the books scattered around me. Several were open to gruesome illustrations of vampire stories. “These are foul.”
But I noticed she set to leafing through them just the same. There was a pot of tea, and I poured a steaming cup as much to banish the remnants of the dream as to warm myself.
“Any luck last night?” she inquired.
“None to speak of,” I admitted. “We found the boy, but he told us nothing of significance. The only new piece of information we acquired was the fact that Maurice Quincey was afraid, deeply so. He carried a sort of talisman in his pocket—proof against witches.”
“Witches? I thought we were hunting a vampire,” J. J. said, tapping one of the books.
“We are hunting nothing at present,” I said in some annoyance. “The trail has gone cold, and the game is no longer afoot but rather resting comfortably in some quiet burrow, away from our gaze. What have you discovered in your researches?”
She shrugged. “Nothing of importance. I have asked every one of my contacts about the Harpocrates Society, and there is not the slenderest thread to pluck. One or two have heard rumours about it, but they all come down to the same thing—a private club, entry strictly by invitation, and an emphasis on perfect secrecy. It seems impenetrable.”
“That is that, then,” I sighed.
“Are there no clues we can chase?” she asked.
“None,” I assured her morosely. “The case, such as it is, seems to have ended as suddenly as it began.”
To my astonishment and horror, tears filled her eyes.
She dashed them away with the back of her hand, turning aside.
I had so seldom seen her give way to the softer emotions that I hardly knew how to respond.
The loss of her livelihood and her home, undesirable as they had been, had clearly devastated her.
And with this investigation—the only prospect she had for rescuing her career—at a standstill, hope must well and truly have seemed lost.
I reached to comfort her, my fingers on her sleeve.
“J. J., we will find something, I promise you.”
She pulled her arm away, but not ungently. “I am sure I do not know what you mean. I merely have a bit of dust in my eye. You really ought to clean better in here, Veronica. Your housekeeping skills are atrocious.”
She gave a deep sniff and began turning pages again.
I sighed. She might not wish to surrender to her despair, but I could smell it just the same.
I rose. “I am going to dress and go to the Belvedere for breakfast. I will see you later.” J.
J. made a flapping motion with her hand, her eyes fixed firmly upon the page.
As I dressed, I reflected on the problem before us. “How do you find a vampire?” I muttered to myself.
But in the end, it was the vampire who found us.
Skip Notes
* A Curious Beginning