by P. N. Elrod
“Hey.” He reached out, gently taking one of her hands. “Lemme ask you something.”
Her attention shifted to him.
“Do you think if I slipped the bartender a couple of bucks that he’d let you off early tonight?”
She brightened again. “I’m pretty sure he would.”
“Go find out for me, would you?”
Inga bounced away, and Gabriel’s gaze swept the room again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not one hint of what had happened and just as well.
But four men dead. Just like that.
For the two seconds it took for him to draw and fire and put them down Gabe had been a machine. He’d had no thoughts, no feelings; he’d functioned well with cold efficiency.
Gabe didn’t like being a machine. He suspected that if he allowed it run one time too many it might open a door in his mind that would allow Whitey to return. That would be bad.
Gabe was aware he possessed faults and flaws like other men, and on the really tough nights only a tenuous hold on sanity. He thought insanity had to do with loss of control. But back there he’d been in complete control, of himself, of the situation. He’d gone in, eyes open, knowing—
Four men dead.
He couldn’t feel sorry for them, though.
But shouldn’t I feel something?
He looked for, but didn’t find anything more than a sense of letdown.
Then it occurred to him that he’d not felt the unholy joy he’d seen in Ziemer. Whitey had been like him once upon a time, but not the reborn Gabriel.
That had to make a difference. Maybe that’s what it was about.
Or not.
Or. . .
Inga returned, pulling a coat on, her face bright with a big smile.
Nuts. He’d think about that crap later.
She was much better company.
* * * * * * *
__________
DEATH IN DOVER
Author’s Note: Imagine being asked twice to do a story for an Anne Perry collection! This one sold to DEATH BY DICKENS. It had a short deadline, so there was no time for me to actually read a whole Dickens novel for research, but I did get in enough chapters from A Tale of Two Cities to write this story. Young Jonathan Barrett—not yet a vampire—returns with Cousin Oliver to share an adventure with a future celebrity.
The further adventures of Jonathan Barrett: Gentleman Vampire, are available for download from Darkstar Books, Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and other online retail outlets. Hard copies are also available from Benbella Books, B&N and Amazon.
Dover, England, November 1775
I ventured to pull back the flap of the coach window for a glimpse of what lay ahead and was disappointed by the near-unrelieved darkness. The only glimmer of light emanated from the distant gray sea, which stirred restlessly under a wind out of the bitter north. Some of that cruel zephyr cut its sharp way round the stuffy interior of our swaying conveyance, causing a large, red-haired, red-faced woman to make a most indignant remonstrance against my curiosity.
“Faith, Mr. Barrett, if you’ve pity in your heart, spare us from your gawping lest we all perish of cold. You’ll be seeing the town soon enough. It’s been there for hundreds of years an’ not like to run off now, is it?”
As a gentleman it was my lot to meet harsh speech—at least when it flowed from female lips—with humble apology. I tied the flap back into place. “I do beg your pardon, Miss Pross, and yours as well, Miss Manette.”
By this I acknowledged the smaller, younger lady who seemed to be her mistress. Miss Manette had caught the attention of all the gentlemen since she first came aboard with her forceful companion. The coach’s confines were such as to kindle interest in any member of the fair sex who happened to be there, but her delicate blond beauty would command attention even in a great throng. In Miss Pross, though, she had so fierce and wild a protector that none had been able to draw her into polite conversation.
The passing of pleasantries was difficult anyway. The most innocuous of exchanges had to be conducted at the top of one’s lungs because of the rumbling of our wheels. The violent rocking as we tumbled over broken and muddy roads kept most of us occupied hanging on to leather straps to avoid a degree of intimacy not generally shared by the average English subject with his fellow countrymen.
There were seven of us crammed in rather tight: the two ladies, my good cousin Oliver, myself, and three other gentlemen. The fellow next to Oliver was Sir Algernon. . . something. I’d missed his whole name. He was a tall, handsome specimen, but dolorous of aspect and dressed in the deepest mourning. Traveling with him was his child—a boy of no more than eleven years—also impeccably dressed for sorrow. Because of this outward declaration of a private tragedy we left them to themselves. The man was disinclined to speak, and the boy miraculously slept, leaning against the third gentleman. This was M. Deveau, a Frenchman who was the boy’s dancing and sword master, the male equivalent of a governess.
He and the boy, Master Percy, had the misfortune to share the opposite bench with the females. I say misfortune, for the lady next to Percy was the redoubtable Miss Pross, who acted as a bastion of protection for her delicate charge, who was on her other side. Though it was clear by manner and dress that none of us—for we were one and all clearly gentlemen—would presume to make unwelcome overtures to the young lady, Miss Pross seemed to have decided we were rascally adventurers of the worst sort. I was certain she had a pistol, or at least a leaded cudgel, concealed in the large traveling bag she clutched to her person, and was equally certain she would find a use for it if she determined any of us to be the least importune in our behavior.
“Are there no lights in the town at all?” I asked. Even the most squalid parts of London had lamps here and there.
Oliver barked a short laugh, which roused Master Percy from his slumber. “Oh, lots, but they don’t get much use. It’s a rare lamplighter who makes aught but a poor living in our coastal hamlets on certain evenings. Haven’t you something like it on your Long Island?”
“Smugglers, is it?” They preferred a pitch-dark night for landing goods on shore. Any fellow with a lamp would be looked upon unkindly by such free-traders, often to the point of violence. Indeed, it was said that the lamplighters, unable to make a wage, were themselves in on the smuggling. “I’m positive we do, but the family estate is set well inland, so I’ve not had the opportunity to make a firsthand observation. Of course, one hears tales, and the place has a dark history. It was a haven for Captain Kidd, you know. They say his treasure is buried somewhere along one of the beaches, but none have found it.
As I’d hoped, the mention of that name caught the interest of Miss Manette (and the boy). She peeped shyly at me, her blue eyes bright in the dimness of the coach. “Do you speak of the infamous pirate, Mr. Barrett?”
Had there been space to do so, I would have made her a proper bow of courtesy. A partial one from my seat had to serve, its sincerity marred by the movement of the coach. “Indeed I do, Miss Manette. Long Island, where I am from, was a favorite hiding place for his stolen booty.”
“Where is this island?”
“It is part of the colony of New York in the Americas,” I replied.
“And you are then an American?”
“A loyal American subject of our good King George, God save him.”
A murmur of “amens” went ’round the interior.
Since coming to England to complete my education at Cambridge, I’d learned to answer similar questions with that phrase and thus avoid unpleasant social complications. Things were unsettled enough between Mother England and some few of her wayward children in the New World, and I did what I could to assure my countrymen that I was not one of those troublemakers.
“Why are you come to England, sir? Miss Manette asked. “And Dover in particular?”
“Hush, my ladybird,” admonished her companion. “Vex not the gentleman” —Miss Pross emphasized that word slightly—“with idle questions. I’m s
ure he has other things to think about.”
Her incivility put the devil in me, so I smiled and bowed as well as I could to her, and in such a way that she couldn’t possibly object without looking wholly boorish. “Not at all, dear lady. I am here to read law at Cambridge. My cousin, Mr. Marling, who is to be a doctor, and I are come to Dover to conduct a bit of private business.”
Young Percy stifled an unexpected guffaw. I took that to mean he well understood our errand, which made him perceptive beyond his age. The noise of the wheels grinding upon the road served to cover his sudden expression of amusement, so the ladies quite missed his reaction. Not so for M. Deveau, who, from the glint in his eye, also guessed the truth of the matter.
“Will you be proceeding to the Continent?” asked Miss Manette.
“I think not. Is that your destination?”
“I believe so, sir.”
Under the hard glare of Miss Pross, I knew an inquiry over why the ladies would hazard the Channel in this unsettled season would be too direct. “Then I wish you a very easy and uneventful journey.”
“You are most kind, sir, but ’uneventful’?”
“Indeed, miss. It is a gracious fate who allows us to be free of cares when traveling. I was half bored to death when making my crossing to England, but it was a blessing. All travelers should be afflicted with acute boredom, for that means a safe passage.”
I was rewarded with a smile for this and might have pursued the topic further, but for being interrupted by a change in our pace and a shout from the coach driver. Our arrival was at hand. I burned to have another look as we rolled into town, but Miss Pross wore a glower sufficient to discourage a saint from praying, so I forced myself to have patience until we came to a stop.
The head drawer for our hotel—which happened to be the Royal George—pulled open the door, welcoming us to Dover. The ladies gathered themselves and were the first out. Sir Algernon was next, then followed my cousin with me straight behind. The boy had politely indicated I should proceed him, and M. Deveau was last. I think Master Percy wished to avoid a continuation of his proximity to Miss Pross. She was shouting in a most challenging manner for people to make-way-make-way for her “ladybird,” though the only ones about were the driver and the drawer, who showed no concern for this display and went about their business of unloading the coach.
The night air was the chill and deadly damp as only England can make and rife with the slimy stink of dead fish. Still, it was better than the stuffy coach. Thunder grumbled angrily in the distance, and I was thankful we’d arrived ahead of what promised to be a wonderfully malicious storm. I stretched my cramped cold body, feeling the strange shakiness that inevitably follows the abrupt cessation of a long, uncomfortable ride. Oliver seemed to be in the same sate of shock from the change.
“I say, Coz,” he said, distracting me from looking about. “Let’s have something hot to restore the flow of blood, then I’d dearly like to put myself around a joint of beef if they have one.”
At this reminder I realized I was quite hollow. As Miss Pross pointed out, Dover would not be running off. It struck me that wandering about after dark in a strange town populated with smugglers would be as unhealthy as the dank air.
Oliver had stayed at the hotel on previous journeys, and after sending up our travel cases, led us to the coffee room, which was quite large, the long, low ceiling stretching far away into shadows. It smelled divinely of that hot, black brew, and we availed ourselves of a curative dish each, well-laced with good French brandy. With it, we threw off the rigors of the road, along with our cloaks and hats, and took up a post before a sizable fireplace. The ladies and their baggage were conducted upstairs to more private quarters for their refreshment. Sir Algernon and Percy took themselves to a dim corner, giving their order to a waiter, content with their own company. M. Deveau was elsewhere, probably securing rooms for his master and young charge. The only other occupant was an orderly-looking man of sixty or so, dressed in drab brown, which made a sharp contrast to his shining, flax-colored wig. Another waiter approached him respectfully.
“Miss Manette has arrived, sir,” he said. “She says she would be happy to see the gentleman from Tellson’s, if it suits your pleasure and convenience.”
“So soon?” asked the man in brown.
The waiter’s response escaped my hearing, for I noticed the father and son both looked up at the mention of Tellson’s, a name I did not recognize. The brown-clad fellow left, unaware that they marked his departure.
“What’s Tellson’s?” I asked Oliver, who also noticed the exchange.
“Bankers. Very old and so fearfully respectable even my mother has nothing to say against them.”
“They must be truly formidable. Wonder what’s afoot to bring one of their people out to meet with the fair Miss Manette?”
“No business of ours or so that Pross creature will inform you. You’ve not a hope with the young one, dear Coz. Besides, what would the beauteous Miss Jones say if she knew your attention had wandered from her?”
I pretended to unconcerned by that prospect. “Wandered? I was only making conversation to pass the time. You had plenty of chance to have a try, but you didn’t, so I stepped in.”
“Oh, bother, I never know what to say to proper young ladies, especially when they are so closely chaperoned. It’s dangerous, too.”
“How so?”
“One stray remark about the weather, a cordial smile, and before you know it you’re engaged. I’ve seen it happen countless times. Those London girls are the most frightful predators you’ll find this side of any wilderness. They can’t abide the sight of an unmarried man, and from birth are set up and schooled for the sole purpose of getting an otherwise happy fellow under wedlock-and-key.”
“What’s this? Has your mother found another prospect for you?”
He shuddered. “I shall have to engage myself in some sort of revolting tomfoolery so she won’t speak to me for the next few months. By then the wretched girl will have moved on to stalking another victim.”
“Take care what you wish for.” I thought about the delightful Miss Manette and our too-brief exchange. “I don’t think she’s English-born, though. Did you not mark her accent? Very slight, but charming.”
“French, I’ll warrant, considering the name. She’s probably off to Calais to meet with relatives, and the banker’s here to provide her with a bit of spending money and perhaps protection for it. Though God help any thieves trying to get past the Pross.”
“Indeed.”
The waiter came to us in our turn, inquiring what we would like in the way of food.
Some short while later, replete with half the contents of the kitchen inside our bellies, we were in a wonderfully lethargic mood. The cafe noir made us wakeful, though. Instead of going up to the room prepared for us, we idled before the fire, content to slowly roast, smoking our pipes.
“When?” I asked Oliver.
He looked at a clock on the mantel. “Not too much longer. Word will be about. We can expect someone at any time.”
“And you’ll be able to trust him?”
“Certainly not, but that’s what makes it so amusing.”
M. Deveau had returned to break bread with his master, and that party lingered at their table for a time until Sir Algernon retired upstairs. Young Percy had schooling to do, though. He and Deveau produced books and papers and went to work. I caught enough to hear a French lesson in progress. Percy had an excellent accent, speaking as rapidly as a native. Mine was quite rusty by comparison, and though I had a good and careful tutor at his age and after, I wasn’t up to his rapidity of speech.
Our digestion was abruptly cut short by some sort of disturbance upstairs.
“What’s that?” Oliver asked, stirring from his near-doze. “The Pross is raising the devil.”
“Or fighting him,” I put in. “What a row.”
A moment later the owner of the George came quickly into the coffee room, and upon
spying us, approached. “Mr. Marling?”
Oliver sat up straight. “Yes?”
“There is a—that is—the young lady—has been taken suddenly ill, and Miss Pross says that you are a doctor. . . .”
“Well, not quite yet I’m not, but I can have a look at her if you like.”
The man seemed supremely relieved. Oliver, perhaps anxious to prove himself already worthy of practicing the physician’s art, took himself off with a cheery wave to me.
The disturbances temporarily halted the French lesson. M. Deveau closed the book they studied. “Ah, M. Percy, this is of little interest to you when some real adventure takes place only a room away, is that not so?” His English was as superb as the boy’s French.
“Indeed, sir,” responded Percy, his gaze fixed on the door through which Oliver had gone. In the distance one could hear the outraged Miss Pross carrying on with much gusto.
“Then go satisfy your curiosity while I have a pipe.”
For all his obvious eagerness to leave, the boy bowed to each of us before departing, as grave as any gentleman thrice his age. Then he clattered upstairs, a child again.
“May I join you by the fire, Mr. Barrett?” asked Deveau.
“Please.”
He rose and came over, prepared his pipe and lighted it, and stood silhouetted before the flames, warming his back. The storm had arrived in force by now, and some of the rain made its way down the chimney to strike hissing on the burning wood. It made one humbly grateful for the pleasures of being under a solid roof with good food and ready warmth at hand.
“You English have an excellent idea of how to build a proper fire,” he remarked affably. “There are homes in France where such a space would be used as a receiving room.”
I enjoyed his exaggeration and offered to share from the bottle of wine Oliver and I had been working through. Deveau accepted with thanks and asked when I expected to place an order for more. He had rightly deduced the nature of our errand to Dover.