by Olga Wojtas
I spoke to the group. “Am I right?”
“Of course,” said the mayor. “That’s been the village’s motto since 1782.”
I couldn’t help asking what happened in 1782.
“Even now, we don’t really talk about it,” said the oldest father. “Let’s just say there were a number of dangerous liaisons. That marquise, she was a one–”
The other fathers quickly shooshed him and I realised no more information would be forthcoming.
“I’m blood type O positive,” I said to Dracula. “Is that OK for you?”
“Anything … anything … all fine…”
His eyes were beginning to close again. I shouldn’t have been wasting time on idle gossip. I took an antiseptic wipe out of my reticule and quickly cleaned the side of my neck. I gave him a small shake and when his eyes fluttered open, I leaned over him so that my neck was beside his mouth.
“Go on,” I said. “Take a scoof. No more than a pint, though. And please try to avoid severing my carotid artery.”
The staff at the Edinburgh blood donor centre are great, but even they were never as good as Dracula. I scarcely felt a thing as his teeth sank into me.
Eventually, in a slightly stronger voice, he said, “Thank you very much. I feel a little better now.”
I put a plaster from my reticule over the incisions. I always have a Tunnock’s Teacake at the blood donor centre, sometimes two if nobody’s looking. It was a shame there weren’t any here, but I could have a cup of tea later at Madeleine’s.
“Who’s next?” I asked. “It’s all right, it doesn’t hurt.”
That elicited no response. I tried again. “This man has lost a great deal of blood. Saving us.”
“We’re not saved yet,” muttered a father.
“Then you’d better hurry up with your donation,” I said tartly. “We leave together or not at all.”
“Here, I’ll take a turn,” said Mary Garden. “You needn’t look to the men. They always faint at the sight of blood. It’s a woman you want.”
I should have taken her to task for her sexist attitudes and gross generalisations, but time was of the essence. First Mary Garden, then Madeleine, each antiseptically wiped, bitten and plastered.
“How do you feel now?” I asked Dracula.
“Much improved,” he said, attempting to raise himself, and collapsing back on the floor, gasping.
“Come on, lads,” I said to the others. “One more. Who’s it going to be?”
“Beloved?” said Madeleine. “You are so brave.”
“All right,” muttered Sylvain. He approached Dracula with obvious reluctance and before contact could be made with his neck, he passed out.
“What did I tell you?” said Mary Garden. “Men are fearties.”
Dracula was still too weak to manoeuvre himself into the right position, but I managed to pull Sylvain’s arm close to him, and Dracula sank his teeth into Sylvain’s wrist. Meanwhile, Mary Garden, who despite her sexism seemed very sensible, held Madeleine back from her beloved until Dracula had taken very nearly an armful.
Once I’d put the plaster on Sylvain’s wrist, Madeleine rushed over to him and coaxed him back into consciousness. “My hero,” she breathed. “Such courage! You are an example to us all.”
Mary Garden and I exchanged an eye roll.
Dracula gave a long, contented sigh. “Thank you. Thank you all. I haven’t felt so well for years.”
He stood up and stretched experimentally. There was no longer any sign of a wound, or even of blood on his clothes. Being a vampire definitely had its pluses.
“Maybe we can leave now?” said a father quite sarcastically.
I nodded to the mayor, who led us to the front door and opened it. We piled out gratefully into the fresh air, me at the back helping Dracula, who was still limping slightly.
And as we emerged, there was a series of metallic clicking sounds. It took me a few seconds to recognise it as hunting rifles being loaded, four of them.
And then an ancient cracked voice said, “Kill them. Kill them all.”
Fourteen
Four hunting rifles were being aimed at us by the fake judge, teacher, policeman, undertaker and cheesemonger.
Behind them was Maman. She scanned our little group, the fathers cowering out of sight at the back, and gave an eldritch screech of rage. “What is the meaning of this, boys?”
The fake judge, teacher, policeman, undertaker and cheesemonger looked shame-faced.
“Sorry, Maman,” they muttered.
She grabbed the chubby, young fake judge by the ear and he squealed.
“What did I tell you to do?” she demanded.
“Kill them. Kill them all,” he gasped.
“No, you fool, not what I told you to do just now. What did I tell you to do before?”
“Kill the lot of them.”
“Exactly. And did you?” She wrenched his ear downwards and he squealed again. “Well?”
The muscular, moustachioed fake teacher intervened, unwisely in my view. “We were busy setting up the business. We forgot.”
“I’ll give you forgot,” she screamed, fetching him a smack round the head. “You had your instructions, and you ignored them. I came here tonight expecting to do away with the Parisian couple, the mayor, Madeleine and the Englishwoman.”
I was drawing breath when the mayor turned to me with his finger over his lips.
“And now I find the Dupont twins, the Dupond twins and the meddlesome policeman, all of whom you assured me were dead.”
“No, we never said that,” piped up the tall, severe-looking fake police officer. “We just said we’d got rid of them.”
“You deliberately disobeyed me?”
“No, not deliberately,” said the distinguished middle-aged fake undertaker and cheesemonger. “We had every intention of obeying you, but when it came down to it, we found we’re just no good at killing.”
“You can start getting good at it right now,” said Maman. “There’s enough here for you to practise on. Who are all these other people at the back, anyway?” The Dupondts stepped aside to reveal the fathers and she let out another screech. “No! Jean-Visage! Jean-Ferme! Jean-Courage! Jean-Swissure! You should all be burning in hell by now!”
The fathers shrank into a protective huddle.
“Her temper’s not improved over the years,” one of them muttered.
Maman turned on her sons. “Have you been in touch with your useless, good-for-nothing fathers all this time? Men who haven’t even had the decency to be torn to death by wild animals! Ungrateful wretches that you are, you’ll break your mother’s heart!”
They rushed to reassure her.
“We had no idea,” said the muscular, moustachioed fake teacher.
“We found them by accident,” said the distinguished, middle-aged fake undertaker and cheesemonger.
“We meant to tell you, but we’ve been so busy trying to set up the business, we never found the right time,” said the tall, severe-looking fake police officer.
“It’s all the mayor’s doing,” said the chubby, young fake judge, and the mayor fell to his knees, pleading for mercy.
But Maman wasn’t concerned with him right now – her immediate target was her exes.
“So much for missing, presumed dead,” she snorted. “Let there be no more presumption about it. This time, no more mistakes and no more delays. Open fire!”
“I can’t kill my father!” said the fake judge.
“Then don’t, you fool,” said Maman. “Kill your brother’s father.”
The fake judge took aim.
“Don’t kill my father!” protested the fake teacher.
“Useless boys! Work your way up to it. Kill the others first.”
“I can’t kill Madeleine,” said the fake police officer.
They all sighed. “Ah, Madeleine…”
“That’s my wife you’re sighing about!” shouted Sylvain. “Are you looking for a fat lip?”
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They all took a step backwards and shook their heads.
“Morons! Imbeciles! Get on with it,” snapped Maman.
Debussy was supposed to live until 1918, and Mary Garden until 1967. What if Maman’s boys killed them? It could create a disastrous paradox, altering the course of history, with all sorts of terrible consequences. Morningside Library might never open in 1905, and then I would have to work in another branch, which wouldn’t be so convenient.
And while Debussy and Mary Garden might survive, there was no saying the rest of us would. It struck me that it would be very useful if a great grey wolf leaped forward right now, snarling, and scattered our attackers. Even if they shot him, he seemed in such good form after the blood transfusions that I was sure he would recover quickly. But Maman hadn’t mentioned the English milord in her headcount. He was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any sign of a wolf or a bat. Dracula had scarpered. This was poor behaviour after all we had done for him.
In his absence, I would have been delighted to see a mob armed with torches and pitchforks descending on Maman and her gang. But the chalets were all in darkness. The villagers had already decided which was the winning side.
“Go on,” urged Maman. “Shoot them.”
The quartet took aim.
There was one last chance.
I nudged Debussy. “Achille,” I whispered, “would you describe yourself as continuing the romantic tradition?”
Despite the seriousness of our situation, he gave a low guffaw. “Scarcely,” he whispered back. “I like to think I’m at the cutting edge of the new, not like Fauré and Saint-Saëns. But I know some people class me as a romantic composer, and I put up with it – as long as they don’t call me Impressionist.”
Under other circumstances, I would have found this really interesting, and got him to say more. But with rifles trained on us, it really wasn’t the time to discuss musical styles and categories.
“Right now, I would really like you to be romantic…” I whispered, with a tiny nod in the direction of the femme fatale giving the orders.
Credit to him, he was quick on the uptake. “What’s her name?”
“Maman.”
He stepped forward.
“Shoot him!” Maman ordered.
Since he was neither a father nor Madeleine, all four rifles pointed in his direction.
“Maman,” breathed Debussy. I had never heard anything so oedipal in my life.
The effect was instantaneous.
“Don’t shoot him!” Maman shrieked.
Debussy approached her as though drawn by magnetism, and when he reached her, she melted into his arms.
“My name is Achille,” he murmured. “What do you call yourself?”
“Bérénice-Églantine,” she answered. That surprised me. I didn’t have her down as a Bérénice-Églantine. Anne-Marie, tops.
“Maman,” called the fake undertaker and cheesemonger, “do you want us to shoot the others now?”
Debussy gave Maman a playful tap on the nose. “Of course you don’t, my adorable little Bérénice-Églantine. The accompaniment to our love must be beautiful music, not gunfire.”
“Oh, Achille,” she said, and the next thing, they were snogging.
It was totally embarrassing, right in front of her sons and her exes. And then Maman clutched Debussy’s hand and began to lead him away. I was about to try to signal to him to extricate himself when he turned and gave me a wink that definitely meant: “I’ve pulled.”
As we watched them go, the fake policeman said, “She didn’t say no.”
For a moment, I thought he was talking about Maman’s reaction to Debussy. Then I realised he was referring to his brother’s question about whether we should be shot.
“She didn’t say yes,” I said quickly. “If you shoot us, and she didn’t want you to, she’ll be very cross. But if you don’t shoot us, and she wanted you to, you can always shoot us later.”
The brothers looked questioningly at one another and then nodded slowly.
“She’s right,” said the fake judge.
They lowered their rifles, and at that instant, Sylvain and the Dupondts rushed them, wrenched the rifles away from them, and began pinioning their arms with neckerchiefs and belts.
“I didn’t bring you up to go around shooting people!” roared a father.
“You ran away. You didn’t bring me up at all,” said the son querulously, and got a clip round the ear.
“Officer,” said the real judge, “arrest these men on suspicion of smuggling, kidnap, assault and attempted murder and bring them to court.”
Sylvain saluted. “Immediately, Judge.”
It was good to see things working as they should.
Mary Garden went over to the mayor and tugged his sleeve. “Was it you that booked me? It’s nae my fault I didn’t get to sing. You still have to pay me.”
The mayor looked at me helplessly. “What’s she saying?”
“She wants her money,” I said.
“Tell her agent to invoice me,” said the mayor.
Mary Garden, who understood French perfectly well even if nobody understood her, raised an eyebrow. “That’ll be right,” she said.
“Citizens!” called Sylvain as he and the Dupondts escorted the sons away. “You’re needed in the courtroom as witnesses.”
The mayor set off with a jaunty smile, clearly thinking that he had avoided paying the performance fee. He would learn about Aberdonians soon enough.
As Mary Garden and I followed on, I asked her, “What about Mr Debussy’s fee?”
“What about it?” she asked, and I saw she had perfected the Gallic shrug. “I’m nae his Maman.”
The gloom of dawn was breaking over the distant mountains and as we walked through the village to the court, window shutters were pulled open and villagers watched us curiously.
Judge Dupond with a D was already robed and seated behind a long wooden table when Mary Garden and I reached the courtroom, pen, ink and papers in front of him.
The sons were standing in a forlorn little group, flanked by Sylvain. The other Dupondts, the fathers, Madeleine and the mayor had settled themselves on the public benches. Mary Garden and I were just joining them when there was a sudden excited cry from the doorway, “Papa!”
Cart Woman’s daughter raced across the courtroom and hurled herself into the judge’s arms.
Cart Woman came into the court, followed by hordes of inquisitive villagers, some of whom managed to get seats while the rest were obliged to stand. She nodded to Judge Dupond.
“Husband. Good morning.”
He nodded back. “Wife.”
“I’m glad to see you alive,” she said. “Are you well?”
“Wife, you can see I’m working. I have no time to chat.”
She subsided, but she was smiling.
“Papa.” Cart Woman’s daughter tugged at her father’s judicial robes and clambered on to his knee.
“Daughter,” he said sternly, “I’m working.”
In answer, she wound her arms round his neck. He put up his hand to disengage her, provoking disapproving muttering from the public benches.
“Leave her be. She’s not doing any harm,” called a villager.
“That little girl has missed you every second of every day,” called another.
Cart Woman’s daughter looked up at her father. “But I just got on with things,” she assured him.
“Good girl,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
“Prisoners in the dock, do you have any objection if she stays?” he asked the brothers, who, like everyone else, were surreptitiously wiping away tears at the sight of the touching reunion.
“Absolutely not,” said the fake judge.
“It would be a crime to send her away,” said the fake teacher.
“And there’s far too much crime in this village already,” said the fake undertaker and cheesemonger.
“Don’t I know it,” said Judge Dupond. “Offic
er, your report.”
“Judge.” Sylvain saluted and took his place in the witness box. “I recently became aware of unusual activity around the town hall at night, and decided to investigate. For two nights, I kept watch, but I saw nothing untoward.”
“That’s because we saw you,” explained the fake undertaker and cheesemonger, “and we kept away.”
“Shut up, you fool!” snapped the fake schoolmaster. “You’ll incriminate the lot of us.”
Judge Dupond handed the gavel to his daughter, who whacked it down on the bench with enthusiasm.
“Silence in court,” he ordered. “Except for the witness. Continue, officer.”
“The next day, I found a note had been slipped under the door of the police station, which I construed as a threat, warning me off.”
“What did the note say?” asked the judge.
“It said ‘Remember you must die.’”
Madeleine jumped up. “You never told me that! You promised we would never have secrets from one another, and now I find you’ve been concealing death threats from me!”
“Silence in court!” repeated the judge. “Sit down and be quiet, madame!”
“How dare you talk to my wife like that?” thundered Sylvain. “And may I point out that this is a private conversation?” He turned limpid eyes on Madeleine. “Beloved, I said no secrets apart from police business. The death threat was sent to me in my capacity as a police officer.”
“Forgive me, beloved,” whispered Madeleine.
“Love means never having to be forgiven,” Sylvain assured her.
The judge cleared his throat. “Did you have any idea who sent the note?”
“None. I presumed it was intended to warn me off my investigation. But I know my duty. For a third night, I conducted surveillance of the town hall. I saw movement near the back of the building. As I went to investigate, I was set upon by a number of assailants, and a hessian bag was pulled over my head.”
I shuddered in reminiscence.
“I heard a man’s voice say, ‘I’m disappointed. We sent you a note. I thought you could read.’”
“Did you recognise the voice?” asked the judge.
“I did,” said Sylvain.