Dazed, exhausted, agitated and not quite yet feeling vindicated, Langston decided that he would in fact open the box now, here in the gloomy front row of Winkleigh Church. Using his thumbnail, Langston popped the latch open, drew in his breath, and lifted the lid.
His eyes danced over its contents for several minutes. There were objects that he recognized immediately, while others left him momentarily puzzled. In reviewing the box's small inventory, Langston discovered that he was now in possession of the following:
A crucifix.
A pistol.
Four wooden stakes and a mallet.
Holy water.
A garlic clove.
A copy of the Book of Common Prayer from 1851.
A slightly yellowed handwritten note reiterated the exact same clue he'd been given so long ago: Bartholomew Gidley has risen from deep sleep in Winkleigh and sits at the right hand of Lyons. Seek his monument in the chapel if you believe me not, and bare your tools for the fight that comes after.
Bare your tools. Bare your tools! B-a-r-e. “It's not a misspelling!” Langston marveled. “For the fight that comes after...” his voice faltered. “The fight that comes after. This... this is a vampire slaying kit.” Tangible twinges of fear cut through Langston's face as he heard himself saying the words.
“And that means... Bartholomew Gidley... is...” Forgetting his injured and still slightly bleeding wrist, Langston slapped his hand over his mouth. “And Lyons...”
Langston closed his eyes tightly. My God, my God, my God... am I being ordered to attack or am I to defend? Langston's words tumbled through his head in free association. And if it's a fraud, it's a damned elaborate one... does this mean I should expect an attack, or initiate one? Langston, who never considered himself a devout man, found his eyes turning up towards the cathedral's arched ceiling with its carvings of about seventy different angels. This is not a duty that I ever wanted to accept, but if it's Your will...
Langston was startled and somewhat angered to find himself in the middle of a prayer. “God is for children and scared people,” he sneered to himself as he pulled the kit shut. While someone clearly wanted him to at least acknowledge the actual presence of good and evil, the discovery of such a well fortified kit did certainly warrant further serious investigation back in London. He tended to his cap and his glasses for a moment, and quickly surveyed the position of the altar table that he'd managed to pull askew. At this point, no longer overly concerned about covering his trails, Langston shoved the table back into place as best he could- but left the shattered mess of a floor, with its small piles of dust and pebbles underneath, untended to.
He opened the church door and discovered that the morning storm had abruptly stopped- at least, the rainfall no longer continued, but a slight breeze had taken its place and trickles of leftover water were falling through the spouts of the gargoyles above. As Langston pulled the door shut behind him, he suddenly had a flash in his mind of how his life had become rich and astonishing- and yet possibly had taken a turn for the worse. He pulled his injured arm into his coat, and tightly held the kit close to his side with the other. As he started to pull away from the church's arched granite doorway, he looked over his shoulder and again was compelled to stop and study the poem that he'd discovered earlier, under the sundial in the apex of the gable. He also took in, with renewed fear, the ominous touch of a granite ball, crudely sculpted into the form of a human skull that rested just above the sundial. As he did so, there was a distant roll of thunder.
Life's but a shadow
Man's but dust
This Dyall Says
Dy we all must.
The rain had stopped falling that November morning in Devon County. However, Kerry Langston stood staring at the inscription until his eyes began to water.
CHAPTER TWO
October 17th, 1937
At 15 Hill Street, Mayfair, London, the male attendant- a retired butler- who was seeing to the needs of a gasping, deathly ill patient shot a quick glance at a nearby table telephone. Wringing cool water from a handcloth over a small basin, he briefly contemplated the possibility of using the phone to summon a doctor. 999, which is now the world's oldest emergency call service, had been in use in London for barely six months, the latest in an ever-increasing list of inventions geared towards public safety. However, because the prominent Briton that lay before him was just moments away from death, the attendant sadly realized in this instance any call for urgent assistance would have been pointless, as this person's pending demise had much earlier been deemed inevitable.
The withered, bedridden man could no longer see the golden signet ring on his right little finger that bore the motto of his family crest, BE MINDFUL. The melodical clip-clop of horses pulling a Sutton & Co. carriage down the street was lost on his expired hearing, nor was he aware of the double-decker buses as they roared by with their advertisements for P&O Cruises or Craven Plain Cigarettes emblazoned on their sides. Never again would he hear, no doubt to the relief of his long-suffering wife, the occasional cries of “Coward! Coward!” from the mouths of a few spiteful children as they passed by his door out on the street. It was a cruel ritual that had continued, nearly unabated, for decades.
Scattered about his bedroom- and indeed, also to be found in many drawers and cabinets of his domicile- were sheets and papers, some crumpled and even yellowed with age; others were far more fresh, but in all instances they bore the scribblings of an unsteady hand. Each page featured variations of more or less the same drawing: a flag, with a large star, at times unfurled and wavy, at other times flat and uninspired. On a few of the pages, the drawing took up the entire sheet. On others, there seemed to be endless variations on the same theme: one flag, with one large star. None of the artwork bore the signature of its creator, who had by now lost the ability to see or even be very much aware of any of it. Those close to him suspected his obsession with trying to perfect the image of a flag was one of the very few activities that seemed to bring him any sense of comfort.
The reason the 74-year-old man had almost completely lost his senses was a devastating stroke that had felled him about a week before. His physical existence had been a miserable one for some time now; diabetes had forced the recent amputation of his right leg. Spiritually, his friends and family would later say, he'd been dead for about a quarter-century.
The loss of the leg, which had proven excruciatingly painful, reduced a vital sportsman to a life constrained by the necessity of crutches, and a wheelchair. Never again could he avail himself of the solitude of fishing for salmon and trout at his lodge on the west coast of Ireland. Distant memories of youthful success in the sports of association football and lawn-tennis were banished to a sort of mental incinerator, where indeed a copious amount of smoke managed to pollute a mind that was destined never to be quite clear again.
His beloved Berkley Square, a large, leafy square just steps away from his prestigious Hill Street home, now lay tantalizingly out of reach. On some afternoons he had permitted himself to enjoy the act of feeding the small park's pigeons, or occasionally could be seen quietly conversing with one of London's many transients. It was not an uncommon occurrence to witness him discreetly pressing into their hands whatever he had in his pockets at the time, be it his last cigarette or ￡5. His approach to his own considerable wealth was at times inscrutable. When in the early 1930s he learned that his household kitchen staff had paid 20p for a tin of salmon, he flew into a rage over the injustice of what he called “highway robbery.” At the same time, if he received word that a relative or colleague had run into trouble with their debts, he'd descend upon them with immediate offers of help- albeit indirectly; this sort of financial communication took place only by telegram or private courier, and never in person.
Much of his life was devoted to acts of charity, making several large donations to the Liverpool Seamen's Pension Fund and the Mercantile Marine Widows Fund. These gifts were presented with little fanfare, and they received meager attention from p
ublications such as The Times. Even so, there were persistent voices, much like the strident cries of the mean little children who paraded past his London home for a generation, that these were only the cynical acts of a coward suffering from survivor's guilt. The insulting cries of “Coward! Coward!” had even been heard outside his Irish refuge, the Costelloe Lodge. Some years before the Lodge had been burned to the ground, supposedly by the IRA, however he and his Irish-speaking neighbors privately suspected otherwise.
In truth, the shell that surrounded this man was unbreakable. Prior to the physical deterioration he suffered in his later years, his gait on the sidewalks of London was for the most part a brisk one that was not conducive to being approached; he would be the instigator if there was to be any human contact. He wore a bowler hat at a downward angle that did not allow his eyes to be invited into even a silent moment of communication. As for his facial expressions, what appeared to many people to be a smirk was actually tight uncertainty; his eyes, when observed by a distance, frequently carried a gaze that was described by one acquaintance as the sort of grim stare one might expect from a visitor at a graveyard. Within his personal reality, he surmised that his eyes had become susceptible to some form of early onset cataracts ever since the night his life had taken a disastrous turn. He was reluctant to seek help for his condition out of a sense of discipline, and also a nagging suspicion that any physician would dismiss his fears as medically impossible nonsense. As a result, white angular lines always seemed to hover within the periphery of his vision. His desire for privacy had its roots in a comfortable yet, ultimately, somewhat mundane life that appeared to be some sort of self-imposed sentence.
His physical presence was an imposing one- six feet, four inches tall, handsome features, with a moustache that was meticulously waxed whenever he was spotted in public. In his agonal moments, under the mournful eye of the lone attendant (and not his wife, who had been removed from the room due to her inconsolable sobbing), he lay on his deathbed with his leg abbreviated and his breathing shallow; he bore little resemblance to the sportsman who had once walked the streets with confidence and dignity. This was a man who at one time could quite easily and comfortably enjoy a ten-course Edwardian meal with its massive portions and rich offerings. A short time after such a feast, he would then embark on a jaunt down James Street in Liverpool at a pace that would shame others, as they tried to keep up with him as he took brisk walks to the Mersey. As life unfolded, and terrible events began to take their toll, he seemed to punish himself as he restricted himself to a plate of cold turkey every night, with perhaps a salted cucumber and a decanter of scotch nearby. He would rarely take his meals with his family. Household staff held their tongues as he almost seemed to insist that his dinner be a poor and untidily served one.
Some said his seclusion served a rough form of justice. Indeed, the newspapers of the day certainly did not embrace him as a quiet, wealthy but charitable Englishman but rather as a symbol of greed and cowardice. This unfortunate but enduring characterization no doubt gained traction when it was supported by no less than William Randolph Hearst, the immensely powerful American publisher whom the unfairly named Hermit of Hill Street had managed to alienate many years before through business dealings. Hearst could be ruthless if provoked, even at times lashing out at supposed enemies when they honestly held no grudges. In this instance, it was believed that a minor rebuff of a business offer had been taken as a vile personal affront, and Hearst's resentment would brew for decades. When the opportunity came to settle this personal score, after unspeakable tragedy had engulfed and nearly devoured his foe, he didn't hesitate to act.
Apocryphal stories abounded, including one in which he was said to always purchase a ticket for the seat next to him whenever he attended the theatre, allowing him to protect himself from human contact by placing his suit and hat at his side. That story never addressed several inconsistencies, including what some saw as an act of practicality: it was not at all uncommon for the well-heeled to purchase an extra ticket for the convenience of having their belongings ready to go at a moment's notice, and that action had no connection to a desire to avoid other people. Indeed, a true hermit would be more likely to purchase seats on both sides. Another flaw in the story was his infrequent and unlikely placement in a theatre- this was a man who mostly allowed himself leisure in solitary outdoor activities such fishing or shooting, or else he could be found sequestered at home, fastidiously attending to his collection of newsclippings. Curiously, he literally spent decades cataloguing each and every mention of himself in the press, yet never shared his leather bound volumes with anyone.
The recent violent explosion of blood in this paralyzed man's brain had vanquished any chance of ever sorting out his true motives. Surrounded by his scribbles of stars, The Hermit of Hill Street breathed his last on Sunday, October 17th, 1937, a rather cloudy day that saw the weather become increasingly unsettled. His funeral was held four days later at St. Paul's, Knightsbridge. His remains were cremated and buried at Putney Vale Cemetery, in the furthest corner of the burial ground. He was survived by his wife of 48 years, and two sons and two daughters. His obituary in the Times came under the headline, AN ABLE SEAMAN. His epitaph, the biblical phrase from the Book of James, Chapter 3, Verse 4:
'Behold also the ships, which though they be so great, and are driven of fierce winds, yet are they turned about with a very small helm, whithersoever the governor listeth.'
Flags would fly at half-mast in Liverpool upon his death, but it could be argued that to many, Liverpool itself had been in a half-mast status for more than two decades. One pennant that had long maintained a painful and tattered visage for Liverpudlians, as well as for the newly deceased Londoner, was the prominent flag of red featuring one white five-pointed star. That banner belonged to the White Star Line, and the White Star Line belonged to the just-deceased Hermit of Hill Street, Joseph Bruce Ismay. And that company's marquee ocean liner was the RMS Titanic.
CHAPTER THREE
December 11th, 1911
Nearly three weeks had elapsed since Kerry Langston made his astonishing discovery in Winkleigh Church, and he had notified no one. Sipping tea in his modest flat on Brathway Road in the Wandsworth borough of London, he studied a district map that showed his current northern position in relation to Edwards Lyons's territory in Kingston-Upon-Thames. For days he had acknowledged to himself the irony of the fact that he was indeed looking down on Lyons, literally and figuratively keeping him under surveillance.
Arriving home in Wandsworth a few weeks before had been an unpleasant affair. Langston's landlady, a penny-pinching, disagreeable old cuss known only as Mrs. MacDowall, had unfortunately been in the vicinity of Langston's door when he tried to dash in as quickly as possible to avoid any unwanted human contact. Of course, as always, she had seen him, and simply had to know where he had been and “Just what exactly is that 'orrible scratched-up thing you've got shoved under your arm?” Langston invented a succinct lie that the vampire kit he'd clumsily tried to hide from her actually contained medicines- and immediately regretted doing so, fearing that somehow, someway the opportunistic Mrs. MacDowall would try to levy some sort of extra fee on him for harboring pharmaceuticals on her property. Luckily, her interest seemed to die out quickly, and Langston was able to take his leave and at last enclose himself in his home. “Smelly, scabby, toothless old crone,” he had groaned to himself.
His ever-sensitive stomach lurched once more. He closed his tired eyes, and as he drew long and hard off his cigarette, images of bullet holes and blood danced over a dark mental canvas. Langston was certain that a decisive attack on Lyons and his association with the dark arts would lead to some sort of bloodshed. While he desperately tried to assure himself he was overreacting, the infamous Siege on Sidney Street that occurred in London earlier that year had convinced him he was in an untenable position. That battle on London's East End had ended with the deaths of at least two politically motivated and heavily armed anarchists,
along with three policemen, and a firefighter. Langston believed that any attempt to confront Lyons would undoubtedly place himself in great danger, given the details of his sinister activities. However, his greatest fear lay in the possibility of putting others at risk. He could only surmise how Lyons might react if confronted, especially after uncovering the vampire kit.
Langston had covered the siege on London's East End for the Daily Chronicle, and while he was loath to admit it, doing so had caused him great emotional damage. He had bundled himself against the cold that day, and had watched in awe as Scotch Guards armed with rifles opened fire on the north end of Sidney Street, seeking revenge for the earlier deaths of three policemen. He watched in nervous fascination as the besieged house caught fire, and frantically tried to take notes as Special Branch soldiers carried out both the murdered and the injured. He tried to remind himself these culprits were scum of the earth burglars and killers, but as he watched their bodies being laid out on the cold and wet cobblestone, he couldn't help but acknowledge that these men were dead. Dead. Laid out on the street, in full view of civilian eyewitnesses, and that's all they were ever going to be.
The anonymous letters that had prodded him into investigating Edward Lyons, though unnerving in both their description of the MP and numerous unspeakable acts, they managed to provide a strange sense of comfort for Langston. The letters spelled out in explicit fashion what a vampire's world consisted of, including what were called “mutual feedings,” where two vampires would engage in what could best be described as a bleeding embrace. There were mysterious mentions of an Argued Prophecy, involving those controversial claims of the upcoming ascension of a vampiric leader, along with a vivid account of a vampire's constant thirst for something called “blood credits.”
Call Me Ismay Page 3