The Colour of Death
Elizabeth Davies
Book 1 in The Colours series
Table of Contents
Title Page
The Colour of Death (The Colours, #1)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
A Little Bit of History
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Copyright © 2019 Elizabeth Davies
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This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are invented by the author or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental
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Acknowledgements
Cover designed by Ammonia Book covers
Prologue
Lord Byron - 1816
Another peal of thunder set Dr Polidori to wincing, yet again. If this storm continued, he’d be a gibbering wreckage by supper. I found myself quite looking forward to the spectacle.
Shelley, on the other hand, remained indifferent, as though nothing outside the villa had any effect on what took place inside.
He couldn’t be more wrong, but I didn’t intend to be the one to disillusion him.
Mary, the little dove, hated being forced to remain indoors, and she sat on the floor at Shelley’s feet, near the fire. It was supposed to be June; however, the month had more in common with November. Mary, as she all too frequently lamented, despaired of the sun ever showing his face again, as week after week went by and we continued to be plagued with heavy, overcast skies and incessant, driving rain.
I, for the most part, welcomed it. The darker the better. The weather suited my mood, and I revelled in it. Sunlight did not sit so well on my shoulders these days.
There Polidori goes again, cowering and whimpering. The storm terrified him. His fear amused me: I could have told the doctor there were far worse things on earth than God’s firework display. I should know.
Maybe Polidori also suspected as much.
If he did, he needed to be just as wary of what was inside this pretty rented villa as what was outside. We all carried our demons with us, no matter how far we fled. My demon had more substance than most, and was considerably more dangerous.
My lip curled as my pathetic physician stuttered and stammered over the words he was attempting to read. I wanted to whip the wretched book out of his palsied hands, and take up the story myself, but I was too languid to move. Too much wine and not enough laudanum, perhaps? Or vice versa. It was of no matter, the effect was the same.
Wine made Polidori garrulous. He commented without pause on his perceived inadequacies in the text, droning on and on, with only the briefest of pauses to whine about the weather. I wished he would partake of more laudanum and render himself senseless. His voice irked me.
To shut him up, I said, ‘If you find these stories so inadequate and distasteful, why not write one of your own?’
We had been reading German ghost stories – very fitting, under the circumstances – but the doctor kept interjecting the perfectly good story with complaints about the efficacy of the writing, the inadequacies of the plot, the shortcomings of the characters, or any other such nonsense. He fancied himself a writer, did Doctor John Polidori. In my humble opinion, the only writing he was good for, was inscribing a set of instructions on a medicine bottle.
Shelley perked up at my suggestion, and timid, unsure of herself Mary who was sitting on the floor at Shelley’s feet, lifted her head from where it had been resting on her lover’s knee. Our little Mary hid a keen wit and a sharp intelligence in that auburn-haired head of hers. Not for the first time, I reminded myself of the need for the utmost care around her. She was far sharper than she first appeared, although recent motherhood had tempered her edges somewhat.
I was glad of it. Out of all of our little party, she was the one most likely to arrive at the truth regarding my circumstances. And that would never do.
Polidori was closer to it than he had any right to be, considering his lack of wit and imagination. Twas a pity his recent attempt at ending his own life had been so half-hearted. I suspected I might have to take matters into my own hands before long to put him out of his misery; and mine.
For now, though, he was useful, if a trifle irritating. It helped his cause somewhat that he was compliant in bed and handsome to look at. I particularly enjoyed his subservience when I pushed him face down on the bed, and he begged me to take him. My cock twitched at the thought – maybe I would suffer him for a while longer, yet.
‘What were you thinking of, Byron?’ Shelley asked. ‘A new poem?’
‘Not me. Him.’ I pointed at my wilting physician. ‘And not poetry, either. He’s already proved he’s no good at it.’
Polidori winced again, this time due to my lightning strike, not God’s.
‘We could all write something,’ Mary suggested, sitting up and stretching her feet towards the fire. ‘It could be a competition.’
‘What, pray, is the prize?’ I asked.
Her answer was a while in coming, and was uttered with greedy longing. ‘Fame...’
I had no need of such a prize, already possessing fame in abundance, and so did Shelley, although his notoriety was cleaner and less vitriolic than mine. Mary, however, had little, although she was born of illustrious stock on both her father and her mother’s side – she had a great deal to live up to, did little Mary Godwin, and was clearly desperate to be as famed a writer as her parents were. I thought
maybe, one day, she might achieve her goal, unless loving Shelley and the demands of motherhood didn’t drain her passion first.
Polidori, too, hungered for recognition. He craved it as desperately as a starving man craved meat.
He would never achieve it, of course; his insipid nature bled into his words. They lacked fire and life. But the prize would be irresistible to him, no matter that it was out of his grasp.
I decided to play along. It would take me moments to arrive at an idea, even though prose was a poor man’s substitute for verse. Maybe I would turn my story into a ballad later, or use it as a base for a worthier piece of work. Shelley, I guessed, would approach the task with great enthusiasm, then let it wither and die for lack of application. He, too, preferred the brevity and beauty of poetry.
Mary, on the other hand, was no verse-smith, though she might do reasonably well at story-writing. Time would tell.
‘Have you an idea?’ I asked her, not caring overly much one way or the other. I took another long swallow of wine, while the rest of us waited for her to compose her thoughts.
‘I have one,’ Polidori interjected. His eagerness soured the wine in my stomach. ‘I see a woman, a ghost of a woman, and a man spying on her through a keyhole. He doesn’t know she is a ghost, and—’
‘Far too lame. Where is the fear, where is the passion?’ It was not my fault I stamped on his wretched idea – he made it all too easy to tread on him. Crushing him was fast becoming a game which had lost its appeal.
‘Take a leaf out of Lady Caroline Lamb’s book. She’s no writer, yet there is murder, lust, and fear in her story,’ Shelley added, by way of encouragement.
I decided not to bother telling him his advice was wasted on someone as insipid and unimaginative as Polidori. Besides, the real reason Shelley mentioned Caroline Lamb was because he was teasing me; there was no malice in it, but his words rankled, all the same. The stupid woman had tried to ridicule me. Everyone knew she had based her Glenarvon character on me. A woman scorned, and all that... Although, when she told anyone who was prepared to listen to her that I was “mad, bad and dangerous to know,” I did quite enjoy the notoriety and the accolade.
What I did not enjoy, however, was her pitiable attempt at writing a novelette. She thought she was being clever, portraying me as some kind of being who drained the life out of others. It was a load of Gothic gibberish, but a certain section of society lapped it up, especially when the trollop put it about that her Glenarvon character was me, and the heroine was Caroline herself. She came out of her dreadful scribblings looking much better than I, and public opinion, as fickle as it was, swayed away from me and landed on her.
Polidori was looking at Shelley, the doctor’s face glowing softly in the light of the many candles. Abruptly, he looked younger than his years, and I had a twinge of remorse. He couldn’t help adoring me; to resist was beyond his capabilities. I had that effect on men and women alike. Someone, I forget who, had once called me “mesmerising”. I quite liked the word.
‘I might just do that,’ the doctor said softly, and I thought no more about it, until he showed me his finished manuscript a few days later.
It was entitled “The Vampyre”, and he had described me to perfection.
Yet, he was wrong. I wasn’t one. Not yet.
Soon, though, very, very soon...
***
1824
Dawn approached, the silver light in the east irritating me beyond measure. It was disconcerting to think I would never again gaze at the world while I bathed in the warmth of the sun. Henceforth, it would be forever viewed through a veil of darkness.
It was also disconcerting to stand over “my” dead body and know the people of England would believe I had left this plane for good. How many would mourn my loss?
I intended to be there myself, to witness the turn-out at my burial. I understood that I was to lie in state, so the nobility and the common people alike could view my mortal remains. For a price, of course.
My mother was long dead, but my darling bitch of a wife, Annabella, would almost certainly be at my funeral. She would want to ensure I really was dead and, when she was certain, she would undoubtedly dance on my grave. Would she bring her daughter – our daughter – to see me? Or would Annabella persuade little Ada that the death of her illustrious father was nothing more than an idle curiosity? Actually, I hoped she kept the child away. I had no urge to meet this product of my loins; like any man, I would have preferred a son. Or no child at all. I was called a scoundrel and other, much worse names, for abandoning my wife. But pregnant or not, she was the one who had threatened to unmask me, to tell all England that I was a boy-lover and had sexual relations with men. And, possibly worse, she had accused me of having an incestuous relationship with Augusta. It was true, and there was a child to bear witness to it (another damned girl) but having the world know I was fucking my dear half-sister would have been the end of me. My exile was all my wife’s doing.
There was surprisingly little smell emanating from the body, although on occasion a waft of noisome nastiness drifted up my nose. I had instructed that this body which I was claiming to be my mortal remains, be returned to my homeland. I had also made it known that my dying wish was to be laid to rest in Westminster Abbey. Not me – the body on the table, although I suppose, under the circumstance, one could allude that I was just as nicely preserved.
The man who would be buried in my stead had laid claim to a swarthier complexion than my own pale visage, so it was a good thing death had blackened his skin. It was also unfortunate that he had died of old age, but beggars can’t afford to be too particular. When it came to finding a man with a similar enough deformity of the foot such as I possessed, I was a beggar indeed. Twas a shame it was the wrong foot. I could only hope no one noticed. Another curiosity was that the corpse pretending to be mine was rather plump. I never overindulged, as this man undoubtedly had. I was not a glutton; not for food. Other vices used to claim my attention, although since my death those passions, too, had been reduced to nothing but dust and ashes.
Blood was my sole craving now, and the thought of it consumed me.
Chapter 1
Olivia
It was warm in the theatre, despite the air con, and every so often I lifted my face to the ceiling, welcoming the faint draught of chilled air flowing down from above. I’d taken my jacket off when I’d first sat down and had shoved it under my seat, followed by my battered, leather rucksack. The camera had remained with me, safe on my lap. Not that I’d any intention of using it during the performance; I simply didn’t want to risk having it kicked; or worse, having it fall out of the bag and getting lost, or stolen. It was my salvation and my livelihood, and I rarely let it out of my sight.
The music was building to a crescendo, the grand finale almost upon us. My eyes were closed, as much to allow the notes to flow over and through me, as to save me from seeing that which I preferred not to see. I’d have loved to have watched the play which had been showing last week, because I adored Oscar Wilde, but it meant keeping my eyes open, and I’d never been comfortable seeing too many people in one place. I couldn’t tolerate so many colours, so much intensity. I often wished I could switch it off, this little gift of mine. The camera helped. A little.
Ah, this was it, the part that always made me cry. I knew Carmen so well I didn’t need to see the singers. All I needed was the music and those voices swelling and ebbing, until only José remained with his dead love and his broken heart.
I drew in a deep breath and tears trickled down my face. I suspected I wasn’t the only one who was crying, but even if I was and everyone in the audience was staring at me, I didn’t care. The only thing that mattered right now was the music.
The curtain fell for the first time, and I clapped enthusiastically along with everyone else. It had been an outstanding performance, and I felt simultaneously drained and uplifted. A good opera usually affected me like that, and I knew I’d be hearing the music and
reliving the words over and over again. The memory would keep me company tonight as I waited for sleep to take me.
I risked a squint out of one eye. The curtain was rising again, so I bent down to retrieve my bag, ready to make a dash for the exit as soon as was reasonable. I should be able to make a quick getaway, before most of the crowd. My choice of aisle seat was deliberate, as was the location of the row, close to an exit. I planned on keeping my gaze on the floor until I reached my car, and then I’d keep my focus on the cars and the roads, ignoring all the people on the pavements with their telltale colours.
I scrabbled under my seat, almost bending double as I tried to reach back for my jacket, which had been pushed further under than I’d intended when I’d shoved my bag after it. There it was, practically beneath the feet of the person behind me. My scrabbling fingers touched the fabric, then it was kicked out of my reach as the audience began to rise to its feet, like a slow, lumbering animal. I let out an irritated sigh, aimed at the woman behind me and her clumsy feet.
The clapping grew louder, accompanied by whistling and shouts of “Encore” and “Bravo”. The performance had earned itself a standing ovation, no less. It was well deserved.
I hesitated for a second, wondering if I should stand too, then self-preservation and the need to escape had me bending over further, as I groped once more for my jacket. I didn’t want to abandon it; it’d been with me a long time and was moulded to the shape of my body. It was waterproof, windproof, and it had pockets; lots of them. I’d found it in a charity shop years ago, and I loved it like a friend.
Conscious of the camera digging painfully into my stomach, I slipped out of my seat and knelt on the floor, the new angle allowing me to stretch further. Just a little more...
Got it!
The audience was sitting back down, and I realised their demand for an encore had been granted as the orchestra surged into life once more. Hesitating, I remained crouched on the floor, debating my options. Should I sit back in my seat and wait until the next curtain call, or should I make my getaway move now and risk the displeasure and the tutting?
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