The Vampire Tree

by Paul Halter

  ‘Maybe. Now I remember: his name is Fielding. I had a jar with him once. A pleasant enough fellow. Now can we get back to the subject, darling? Or do you find it boring?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ protested the young mistress of the house vehemently. ‘I want to know everything.’

  ‘Very well. In fact, the story about the witch was just a preamble to the astonishing drama I’m about to describe, and you’ll note there’s a troubling coincidence with regard to your own dream, to say the least. In any case, the story of Lavinia is certainly one of the strangest ever told, and perhaps one of the most beautiful.

  ‘It’s vital to place the drama in its time and in its proper context, which was the end of the last century, amongst the rigid bourgeoisie to which my ancestors belonged. It’s important also to understand the personality of Lavinia, a charming young woman who was the daughter of a rich neighbouring landowner who had just lost his wife. She was supposed to marry Eric—one of our great-grand-uncles—who, at the time, was a lively and very seductive young man.’

  Roger stopped, looking embarrassed.

  ‘I’ll summarise the situation briefly, but you really need to read her diary.’

  ‘She left a diary?’

  ‘Yes, Pat, and what’s extraordinary is that up until now, nobody’s been aware of its existence. I found it in an old chest in the attic, about six months ago, just after I’d started to make an inventory of the place. Carefully hidden inside an encyclopaedia whose pages had been hollowed out. I had vaguely heard talk about this old family history, carefully toned down so as not to offend anyone and, above all, not to tarnish the memory of our irreproachable family. Just think: for me it was like finding buried treasure!’ He spoke with childish enthusiasm. ‘I read the pages voraciously and re-read them several times. You absolutely must read them: the whole diary is quite extraordinary. First of all, it’s an invaluable account for us Sheridans. But it’s also the work of someone with great sensitivity, too great to endure the circumstances of a world which became more and more strange to her. Yes... Lavinia died mad. But let me begin at the beginning.’

  Roger settled down in his armchair and looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘It was shortly after Lavinia and Eric had become engaged that the Sheridans decided to throw a ball, for whatever reason. It was a harsh winter evening, with heavy snow and a howling wind. The ball was held in the lounge, which probably isn’t much different now from how it was then. It was a great success, during which everyone drank and danced into the small hours, despite the inevitable petty incidents, such as when Victoria, a distant cousin of Eric, fainted; or when she slapped the face of Peter, Eric’s older brother, who had been courting her without success for a long time.

  ‘Lavinia, who had danced almost without a pause the whole evening, was one of the first to retire, worn out by the joyous festivities. She reached her room at the rear of the house and fell rapidly to sleep, despite the groaning of the tree, the agitated movements of its branches and the wailing of the wind. But, in the middle of the night, she had a very strange nightmare....’

  ‘Like mine, I suppose?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘I can’t say I find it surprising, with that sinister tree so close to the window. I swear to you, Roger, never in my life will I spend another night in that room.’

  ‘You’re very well placed to appreciate her dream.’

  ‘Better than anyone.’

  ‘Her nightmare was similar to yours, with the tree taking on human characteristics, but in her dream it attacked Eric. She dreamt that the tree strangled her fiancé there, just in front of the window, which naturally aroused her from her nightmare. When she awoke, there was not a sound in the house. She didn’t dare look at the cursed tree and went back to sleep. But the real nightmare started the following day.

  ‘In the morning, the first thing she noticed was the dazzling coat of snow which covered the entire countryside. Here and there could be seen the skeletal silhouettes of the trees, including the one close to the window. But she became filled with dread when she noticed a silhouette, human this time, lying almost at the foot of the tree but on the other side...

  ‘And she wasn’t mistaken. It was Eric. Dead. Strangled.’

  ‘Oh, My God!’ cried Patricia. ‘How horrible! Someone murdered him while she was having her nightmare?’

  Roger continued more slowly:

  ‘Yes, he had undoubtedly been murdered. He couldn’t possibly have strangled himself. It was true that there were marks on his neck which could only have been made by one of his kind. But it was equally true that no human being could have done it! It had snowed very heavily that night, but not after two o’clock in the morning, when Eric was seen alive by the last departing guests. Yet, apart from his own footprints, there were no others near him, nor under the tree, nor anywhere around. The murderer had left no footprints in the virgin snow!’

  ‘But... what does that mean?’

  ‘It’s quite simple: it was unquestionably murder, but either the murderer possessed wings, or he was light enough not to leave footprints when he walked on the snow. Only a supernatural creature could have strangled Eric where he was under the tree....’

  ‘It was the tree...’ murmured Patricia, reliving her own nightmare. ‘The tree strangled him, just as in Lavinia’s dream.’

  6

  The Lightwood library was situated in the primary school building, a large block of red brick overlooking a courtyard shaded by ancient chestnut trees. The sunshine filtered cheerfully through the leaves but didn’t succeed in chasing away the image which had haunted Patricia during the night.

  She had, for fear of further nightmares, postponed reading Lavinia’s diary, which Roger had given her after their talk. But it had been in vain, for she had surrendered to a nightmarish vision in which eager, murdering hands; knotted arms with leaves; skeletal branches with menacing fingers; voracious roots wrapping themselves around a corpse to drain it of its substance; and hands attacking a frail, milky neck, all combined in a depraved and noxious tangle.

  Nevertheless she had, on rising, made a rapid recovery and it was with a jaunty step that she made her way along the alleyway leading to the school courtyard. The entrance to the library, at the rear of the building, had been brightened by window boxes overflowing with spring flowers whose colours, obviously chosen with care, harmonised perfectly with the dark red colour of the bricks. Miss Emily Pickford must be a woman of taste, thought Patricia. The librarian, when she met her, was exactly as she had imagined: close to sixty, thin, alert and wearing her grey-flecked hair in a bun. Pale blue eyes twinkled mischievously behind thick glasses and, with her flower-printed dress, she looked perfectly at home surrounded by bookshelves bedecked with numerous green plants.

  Miss Pickford seemed delighted to learn that her visitor was none other than the wife of the charming Mr. Sheridan.

  ‘Your husband is a man of considerable and varied tastes,’ she gushed. ‘From a purely literary standpoint, we seem to share the same views. He drops in once a week, which is very considerate of him. Not that I’m at all bored here, but it’s nice to spend time with someone as well-read as your husband or David Hale, our local artist. I believe they’re both fascinated by Ancient Greece as well.’

  Patricia knew of Roger’s fondness for ancient history, but suspected him of professing a love for the Greek variety in order to please Miss Pickford, who had already launched into a seemingly interminable paean on the subject.

  Patricia interrupted her to point out that there was a volume of Herodotus’ Histories on one of the side tables, but was careful not to mention that she’d never seen him reading it.

  ‘Herodotus’ Histories. What am I thinking? It’s lucky you mentioned it. You can tell Mr. Sheridan that I’ve managed to track down the second volume, covering the Persian wars. It was the vicar, Reverend Moore, who had it and he’s promised to bring it in by the end of the week. Your husband can pick it up on Friday evening.’

/>   Patricia, looking around at the shelves groaning under the weight of all the books, observed timidly that there were enough books there to satisfy anyone’s literary tastes.

  Miss Pickford proudly agreed and asked if she could be of assistance in helping her visitor find the book of her choice.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Patricia evasively. ‘Let me see... something by one of the Brontë sisters. Although I think I’ve read them all.’

  ‘I think I have just the thing,’ said the librarian and returned rapidly with two thick volumes.

  ‘Very interesting,’ said Patricia, without conviction, thumbing through them. ‘On second thoughts, have you got anything on criminology?’

  She tried to appear casual about this new request, but she couldn’t help noticing the subtle change in the other’s demeanour.

  ‘Something which covers the criminal psychology rather than the details of the cases,’ she added hastily. ‘And not detective fiction, of course. Real cases, like the Vampire of Düsseldorf.’

  ‘The Vampire of Düsseldorf,’ repeated Miss Pickford, not taking her eyes of the visitor. ‘Are you looking for something about that specific case?’

  ‘No, no that’s just an example.’

  ‘What a coincidence,’ continued the librarian, ‘Miss Rellys was in, just this morning, asking for the same thing!’

  Realising the game was up, Patricia changed course and, affecting a repentant tone, confessed:

  ‘In fact, I’m trying to educate myself on the subject. It’s because of the children. It’s frightening what’s happening. I’m trying to understand what goes through the heads of such maniacs.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s what’s motivating Miss Rellys, although she didn’t say so. But I’m sorry, she has our only book on the subject. It’s a fairly massive work, treating both criminology and demonology. Quite fascinating, by the way. Come to think of it, demonology is one of Reverend Moore’s hobby horses, not surprisingly, given how many times the devil appears in his sermons. You should pay him a visit. He’s a bit grumpy and rather stern, but I’m sure he’d be happy to talk to you.’

  Patricia replied that she’d think about it and Miss Pickford suddenly fell silent. She seemed lost in contemplation of the green plant in front of her, but her expression betrayed a growing emotion.

  ‘What I can’t understand,’ she said, ‘is how anyone can take a life like that, gratuitously, like a vulgar iconoclast. Look at that plant: isn’t it a miracle? Who could dream of destroying it? Look at the harmonious lines and the elegant leaves. No unnecessary embellishments: it’s simply beautiful. “Nothing in excess,” to quote Solon the Sage. The just measure, so beloved of the Greeks. You only have to look at what they created to be convinced. Who could dream of destroying such beauty? And yet ... God wasn’t a Greek the day when men not worthy of the name razed its splendours to the ground. Sometimes one of the local brats takes my flowers out of vandalism. I kept telling myself that just meant that barbarism wasn’t dead, but that was before they found the first body... It’s unimaginable... only madness can explain it. I can’t understand why the police haven’t already apprehended the maniac. He must be easy to detect.’

  Patricia doubted that but preferred not to contradict Miss Pickford before taking her leave of her with the two books. She knew very well what the librarian had been trying to say, but had found her way of putting it rather curious, and her last remark frankly naive.

  On the way out she bumped into David, who seemed lost in thought. When he noticed her, he seemed agreeably surprised.

  ‘I was hoping to see you. Have you forgotten my offer?’

  ‘No, of course not. We’ve just been so busy of late, Roger and I. I’ll drop by... tomorrow, shall we say? Would that be convenient?’

  ‘Come at any time, I’m always in my studio. When I chose this profession, I had no idea I’d be working all hours.’

  ‘In that case....’

  ‘No, no,’ protested David with an embarrassed laugh. ‘It’ll be a pleasure to get out of the daily routine and do something more creative.’

  ‘More creative?’ repeated Patricia, frowning. ‘Are you planning to modify me?’

  ‘I’m quite a visionary,’ claimed David. ‘But, you’ll see: you won’t be disappointed. See you tomorrow.’

  Later, as she was about to go to bed, Patricia again wondered what she would look like, once her wooden double was finished. Roger, busy with a blocked sink in the kitchen, had yet to join her. Mechanically, she picked up the three volumes of Lavinia’s diary.

  The writing was delicate and regular and presented no difficulty to read. Patricia skimmed through the first pages, in which Miss Lavinia Hartland described the rather insipid life she was leading in a spacious residence in the region, the only event of interest being the death of her mother. With the appearance of Eric, the style changed.

  What an extraordinary man! And so amusing! The way he told the story about the maid who went to meet the groom behind the stables had us in stitches. What a contrast with his miserable brother Peter. Even so, when he looks at me he does seem almost human! I nicknamed him Cromwell, whom he does resemble a bit, and he was mortified. My Goodness, how harshly I treat him! But I have to admit that, next to Eric, he does cut a pitiful figure. Someone who’s really annoying is Victoria, a distant cousin. She struts about as if she’s his fiancée. But I don’t think she’s very sure of herself, because she’s always adjusting her crinoline and patting her hair whenever she passes a mirror. I don’t think she’s happy about her upturned nose either, and who can blame her? I’ve nothing against her personally, but she keeps hovering around Eric. She would do better to take an interest in Peter. I’m sure he wouldn’t turn her away if she set her cap at him. Now that would be funny!

  I couldn’t believe my ears! First of all, I was intrigued by the way he said: “My dear, I must talk to you.” Papa had never spoken to me like that before, and he seemed ill at ease as well. I shall try to reproduce that famous conversation we had in his study.

  The pompous air he adopted before he spoke made me anxious.

  ‘Lavinia, my dear, you are now twenty-three years of age and it is time that we talk of your future.’

  ‘I’m thinking about it, Papa. It’s a subject of interest to me.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. And I shall be here to help.’

  ‘I’m sure of that, Papa. But I’m not particularly worried.’

  He looked sharply at me:

  ‘And why might that be?’

  ‘Well, because... because we lack for nothing. Because I’m your darling only child... and you’re rich!’

  ‘Rich? Undoubtedly, but that could change. In business, one can lose a fortune from one day to the next.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re going to be poor?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m here to look after things. But times are difficult... and one sometimes has to reconsider things... All of which brings me to the partnership which Mr. Sheridan has proposed and I have decided to accept. Combining our two businesses will make us much more capable to cope with the vagaries of the market.’

  ‘But he’s a friend of yours. What problem could there be? And why are you looking so serious?’

  ‘Because, in business, friendship doesn’t really count for much. It’s better to take additional precautions. And one can never be too cautious. To come to the point, Mr. Sheridan and I have concluded that Eric and you—who don’t appear averse to one another—would make a very fine couple.’

  I don’t remember what I said at that point, but my heart skipped a beat.

  Papa stood up and said, with great solemnity:

  ‘Take as much time as you need to think about it, my dear, but I’m afraid the decision has already been taken.’

  As he was leaving the room with a determined step, I rushed towards him, my eyes full of tears:

  ‘Papa... But... I’ve already decided... I agree... I’m prepared to make the sacrifice!’

 
The first time I saw Eric after that episode, we couldn’t stop laughing, as if we had pulled off the prank of the year. The only person who didn’t appreciate it was Victoria. I found that she’d aged suddenly (she was only one year older than I.) She looked like her royal namesake, grey and calculating. She would have been a good match for Peter because he, too, looked at me strangely. Reproachfully, to be precise. If he’d announced he was entering a religious order, I would not have been surprised. Eric and I got on like a house on fire. After our first kiss he drank half a bottle of whisky to celebrate and finished up drunk, which amused everyone but me. But he was mine and I was very proud of that. All my friends envied me and I exulted inwardly.

  Our engagement followed quickly and the event was celebrated at the Sheridan residence. It was an evening in late November, which I remember well. There was a thick fog and it was bitterly cold. What a pleasure, after a freezing fiacre ride, to find ourselves in a warm house with a festive atmosphere. There was punch aplenty and a violinist and an accordion player, and we danced into the small hours. I was the queen of the ball and Eric’s dancing made my head spin. He was the life and soul of the party and kept everyone in fits of laughter with his jokes and pranks. He cut a few ties, including Cromwell’s, who didn’t appreciate it at all. Nevertheless, a good time was had by all, which is why I was surprised to find him, after the party was over, sitting outside the front door in his shirt-sleeves oblivious to the biting cold, watching the last cab disappear. When I asked him what was wrong, he replied without looking at me:

  ‘Someone doesn’t love me.’

  ‘Are you talking about me?’

  ‘No, not you, of course.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just feel someone doesn’t love me.’

  He made it clear that he had detected hostility towards him. But, despite my questions, he would not be more precise. And I couldn’t tell whether it was just a vague impression, or whether he knew precisely the source of the hatred. Someone hated Eric? That seemed absurd.