The Vampire Tree

by Paul Halter

  I couldn’t help but remember his words later, after events as incredible as they were tragic, which ended once and for all the happy days I had known up until then.

  7

  Shortly before noon, Roger came into the kitchen, proudly displaying two cocktails on a tray.

  ‘Taste this,’ he said, offering one to Patricia, who wiped her hands on her apron before taking it. ‘It’s my own invention, tell me what you think. There’s rum, port, apricot liqueur and carrot juice... for starters, but I won’t tell you everything. I have my own little secrets.’

  Patricia shot her husband a quick look, wondering if it was their recent quarrel which had prompted him to be so considerate.

  Clouds over the young marriage already? It was their second or third argument since they’d installed themselves here, and always about the same subject. Roger was fanatical about some things, such as how papers, tools and the contents of the refrigerator should be organised. Patricia had attempted to rearrange the latter, which was situated in his workshop, which also served as a pantry. Roger had argued so heatedly about it that she had stormed back into the kitchen, furious at having been treated like a child.

  As she took the offered glass, garnished with a slice of lemon, she thought amusedly about their tiff and the futility of it.

  ‘Have you thought of a name for it?’ she asked lightly.

  Roger ran a hand through his hair and thought for a moment:

  ‘What about “Roger’s Cup,” or is that being too modest?’

  ‘I would have thought “Red Devil,” because of the grenadine colour. Mmmm, not bad.’

  In fact, Patricia didn’t want to disappoint Roger, for she’d had much better cocktails in the past.

  Roger cleared his throat:

  ‘I’m assuming that’s an understatement, and you really meant to say “excellent.”’

  Patricia planted herself in front of her husband and looked at him tenderly:

  ‘Of course, silly billy, it’s excellent!’

  ‘Now, to whom can we drink a toast?’

  ‘Why, to Lavinia, of course,’ replied Patricia, surprising even herself.

  ‘That’s a great idea, darling,’ exclaimed Roger enthusiastically. ‘But what made you think... Oh, I see, you’ve started to read her diary. What did you think of it?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t got very far, and it was a bit slow at first, but as soon as she started writing about Eric, it got a lot livelier.’

  ‘You’ll see, it’s after that when things start to get interesting. After the tragedy, when she insulates herself from the others... in her head.’

  Patricia went to take a look at the roast sizzling in the oven.

  ‘What I don’t understand—and I haven’t got to the part with the details yet—is Eric’s murder. From what you’ve said about it, it seems to have been impossible.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. And not just because of Lavinia’s diary, which tends to exaggerate the fantastic side. What happened was indeed exactly as she described it. I’ve had the opportunity to do some research since I first read it. Everything she writes is correct, at least as far as the tragedy itself is concerned. We can talk more about it when you get to that point. Haven’t you been to see her yet?’

  ‘See who?’

  ‘Why, Lavinia, of course.’

  Patricia licked her wooden spoon.

  ‘Wha—what?’

  ‘I’m pulling your leg, darling. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost! I mean her grave, of course. She’s buried in the cemetery behind the church, but I don’t believe I told you that yet.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  ‘No matter. Drink up. That’ll put the colour back in your cheeks.’

  ‘Roger, there’s something bizarre going on here.’

  ‘Where? In the house? In the village?’

  Patricia looked absent-mindedly out of the window.

  ‘I don’t know. Several little things. My own experience, to begin with. And then... for example, that Mr. Fielding, whom we talked about before... I saw him just now, walking around here...’

  ‘There’s no law against it.’

  ‘I had the distinct impression he’s only interested in our house.’

  ‘Well, if he’s that interested, why don’t we invite him over?’

  Chisel in hand, David studied Patricia for a long time. She was lying on a table with her elbows leaning on a pile of newspapers so as to raise her bust, in a pose carefully arranged by the sculptor. She was wearing a cotton shirt and pants, which would be exchanged for a sheet at the next sitting in order to impart a classic touch.

  He had chosen the theme of Philemon and Baucis, with emphasis on the latter’s transformation into a tree. The finished work was to be a mixture of modern and classical art. Patricia had declared she had no fixed ideas on the matter and would only give her opinion once it was finished.

  ‘Wood is not a particularly easy material,’ said David, slightly changing the position of one arm. ‘In fact, my chisel is guided by its structure... There, don’t move. That’s perfect.’

  The sculptor’s studio was a vast room with hardly any free space. The wood-turning machines, the wood itself and other miscellaneous objects cluttered up the space and made it difficult to move about. On the other hand the light from the two large bay windows provided perfect clarity.

  During the first few minutes the only sound to break the silence was the sculptor’s chisel as he worked feverishly around the edges of the wood between long stares at the model. Patricia stared back in turn, as still as the statue she was to become. She had learnt from her husband that David was his elder by several years and that became apparent as the clear light chiselled lines on his face, as his expressions went from satisfied smiles to scowls of irritation. Yet, when crossing him in the street, with his timid smile and blond hair swept across his high forehead, it was easy to mistake him for an adolescent. He had the dreamy air of a true artist and Patricia could easily imagine him going around, scarf flapping in the wind, reciting poetry in a loud voice. He had a considerable amount of charm and it was astonishing to her that he lived alone in such a large house. Of course, that didn’t prevent him from having affairs, thought Patricia. In the village, maybe? Surely Roger would have told her.

  After a quarter of an hour, the ice had been broken and they were chatting as if they had been taking tea. And Patricia, instead of asking about her companion, was searching her own memory for souvenirs of her childhood.

  ‘It was a troubled period, but at the time I wasn’t really conscious of what was happening.’

  ‘How old were you at the time?’ asked David, grappling with a knot in the wood.

  ‘Five or six. It was nineteen-forty. All the curtains of our little flat were drawn. We lived in the East End, just south of the Thames. The black-out was great entertainment. What excitement! Despite the regulations, I peeked out of the window. What a sight! Fireworks! The sky lit up! Even though Mama had explained it all to me, I couldn’t connect all those images to bombardments and death. Once, I even crept outside to see those “birds of death” throwing their balls of fire. There were lights everywhere and crashes like thunder. I was probably severely punished, but I don’t remember. I do recall that, at such moments, we prayed a lot. Mama was very religious. I can still see her showing me the crucifix above their bed—a family heirloom, very precious to her, a cross in shining metal—and telling me that, as long as little Jesus was with me, nothing could happen to me. There were many other nights like that, but my memory stops there. I suppose our house must have been bombed and Mama died there. I never knew exactly what happened. I stayed with another family until I ended up in an orphanage. In fact, I never really tried to find out the details of what happened. All I know is that she died during a bombardment. My father had died a few months before that. The factory where he worked was destroyed by bombs dropped by German planes. She never lost her courage, because whenever she had the time, she would look after the wou
nded. She was a very devoted nurse. I learnt that from one of her friends who visited the orphanage. That’s when I decided I would take up the same profession as my mother and become a nurse. I wanted to save people.’

  David put down his chisel and looked solemnly at Patricia:

  ‘I can see how what happened back then has marked you. Even though you weren’t fully conscious of it at the time, as a child your memory must have recorded some appalling scenes.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. Sometimes I’m seized by terrible periods when my mind goes completely blank and I don’t know what I’m thinking. It happens particularly when I’m looking at a flashing source of light, such as when sunlight twinkles on window panes. I see a lot of little lights and I’ve no idea what happens at the time. I curl up inside and I brood... and it can last for several days.’

  ‘It’s obvious that you’re unconsciously dwelling on the agonising moments of your childhood. The flashing lights trigger memories of those terrible bombardments which plunge you into deep despondency. But what does Roger think when that happens?’

  Patricia smiled gently:

  ‘He makes light of it. And he’s probably right. He says he still loves me when I’m “like that.” In fact, he’s never really experienced it....’

  ‘So it’s got better since you’ve been married?’

  Patricia looked pensive:

  ‘Yes, I think so. At least in that respect. But I keep sensing something bizarre ever since I’ve been living in that house.’

  ‘Probably because of the awful nightmare you had on your first night there.’

  Patricia agreed, and went on to describe to the sculptor what she had learnt about their house’s past.

  ‘I think we’ll stop there for today,’ he said. ‘But I am aware of all those old stories. Roger and I have talked about it a lot, ever since he discovered Lavinia’s diary. It’s a very mysterious story and I can understand why it intrigues both of you. As for the other one about the witch buried under the tree, it’s a well-known story in the village. It’s amazing how these old legends keep being told, isn’t it? Four centuries have gone by, and people and places have come and gone, and yet a story about a witch survives. In fact she was more a vampire than a witch....’

  There was a silence, followed by the noise of David Hale shutting a drawer. Patricia looked at his back-lit silhouette with the sun on his blond locks. He stood up and came over to help her down from the table.

  ‘It’s not out of the question,’ he observed, ‘that we’ll have more to say about this in the coming days, in view of all that’s happened here over the past few days.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a connection with the deaths of those children?’

  The sculptor shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘No, of course not. What connection could there be between those crimes and what is probably just a legend, four centuries old, to boot? But it’s possible some people think there is.’

  ‘I see,’ said Patricia, who had something else on her mind, in fact. ‘It’s funny, but the way Roger told me the story I got the impression she was innocent.’

  ‘If Roger left you with that impression, it’s because of me. For it was I who supplied him with all the details, without guaranteeing their accuracy. It’s true that there was some doubt about her guilt, and the village was very divided on the matter. But I note that Roger has spared you some of the details, no doubt not wanting to transform your first days at Lightwood into an exploration of a nightmarish landscape.’

  Patricia threw her head back in a silvery laugh.

  ‘That’s quite possible, in fact. And now, from what you’re telling me, he was right. I have a tendency to dramatise everything, and that’s ridiculous.’

  Patricia seemed suddenly changed. She had just stood up after a long period of immobility and, after a few nimble steps, she opened the door. The warm outside air and the rays of the sun acted like a tonic on her. She turned back towards David, and for a moment it seemed as if she would launch herself into a dance. But she planted herself in front of him and said smilingly:

  ‘I’m listening.’

  David stared hard at her for a moment and then, before sitting down on one of the chests, pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

  ‘First of all there were the wounds on the throats of all the children. It seemed that, as well as being cut, they’d been bitten. Then there was the strange youthfulness of Liza Gribble. You know what legend says about vampires: they use the blood of their victims as a source of rejuvenation. In other words, Liza Gribble was so well preserved because she slit young children’s throats in order to drink their blood.’

  ‘And that was their proof?’ asked Patricia indignantly.

  ‘What do you want me to say? In those days, people didn’t ask too many questions.’

  ‘Were they idiots?’

  ‘No, obviously. The story is exaggerated, without a doubt. What I mean to say is, faced with so many disappearances of children, something had to be done, and done fast. It seems that Liza had kept one clue to her age.’

  ‘A mark on the skin indicating her date of birth, like houses?’

  David shook his head slowly.

  ‘No. And, once again, it all has to be taken with a pinch of salt. Time can change the perception of events considerably. It was her hands. Liza Gribble had the face and body of a young woman, but her hands were wrinkled, like those of an old crone!’

  8

  Thursday, June 12

  Maude Rellys was viewed in Lightwood as a “character,” which she undoubtedly was, and she would have argued violently with anyone who described her otherwise. She fervently denounced the rigid and insipid life style of those who had brought her into this world, the landed gentry, whose only laudable acts were the checks they sent her from time to time to compensate for any failure on her part to sell her works.

  Full of vitality, Maude was twenty-five years old and, with her regular features, possessed a haughty beauty. Her close-cropped, jet-black hair had the silky sheen of a black panther and she had the character to match: it was not unusual for her to labour on a canvas for days and then chuck it in the fire if it failed to please her. The large fireplace was, in fact, one of the dominant aspects of her cottage, of rustic build but with carefully chosen features.

  Despite such outbursts, she remained calm and serene with her friends—mostly spoiled rich kids whose main activity was hitting tennis balls at one another. She was good at the game, having won several tournaments in the region. The practice court she used was in the closest village to Lightwood, and that was where she had met Roger a few months before. Since then, they had often practiced together and had a drink at Maude’s house afterwards, as was the case that afternoon.

  ‘So, just like that, you’re a married man,’ she said, tossing her sports bag on the sofa. ‘You could at least have warned me!’

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ asked Roger, settling in one of the comfortable armchairs in front of the vast brick fireplace.

  ‘Yes. I met your wife the other day. Not bad, I must say. You have good taste, but it wasn’t fair play.’

  ‘Fair play?’

  ‘Why, yes. It happened so quickly I didn’t have a chance to try. What will you have? Your usual whisky?’

  Roger crossed his arms behind his neck and smiled cynically:

  ‘Come off it, Maude ... Yes, a Scotch, please, with a large glass of water—you’ve worn me out ... If I’d made the slightest advance, you’d have brushed me off with disdain, like Cleopatra with a presumptuous slave.’

  ‘I might have been more subtle about it, but I accept the comparison. I’ve always thought I had a bit of the Egyptian queen in me.’

  ‘It’s easy to be sorry after the event, now you can be sure there’s no risk.’

  Maude raised an eyebrow in surprise:

  ‘Really? Don’t be so sure. By the way, does your wife know you’re here?’

  ‘Here? No. All she knows is that I went to p
lay tennis. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just wondered whether she’d appreciate... She’s not too much of a stick-in-the-mud, I hope?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. But she’s certainly not as... modern as you.’

  Maude didn’t reply. She placed a tray in front of Roger with a glass, water, and a bottle of whisky on it.

  ‘Serve yourself. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. I’m going to take a shower. Feel free to admire my latest work... Over there by the door. Sunset behind a mountain range, supposed to be the Carpathians. Ah! I was forgetting... Tell me, Roger, do you know how to keep a secret?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Promise me, won’t you? I want to have a clear conscience.’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I hope you won’t be upset.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Well, then: my uncle has a friend who works with the police. A certain Dr. Twist. A sort of Don Quixote, quite amusing in his own way. He came to see me this morning with one of those Scotland Yard types. They asked me to help them, secretly of course, by keeping an eye out in the village. They think it’s likely that the lunatic who’s slaughtering all the children lives around here. I talked to them about everyone, particularly about the newest arrivals: the most suspect, you might say... Do you know who I told them about?’ Roger looked up with an incredulous expression on his face. ‘You, my dear. Yes, you. As far as I know, you’re the latest arrival. Which makes you the prime suspect. That’s the way it is, chum. I’ll leave you to think about it.’

  When Maude returned a few minutes later, dressed in magnificent velvet dressing-gown which reinforced the impression of an Egyptian queen, she found her friend stretched out on the sofa, whistling, his eyes riveted on the painting.

  ‘So, Roger, what do you think of my latest effort? And what’s that air you’re whistling? It seems familiar.’

  ‘It’s Grieg... So, Maude, as I understand it, you’re determined to bring about my downfall? First of all, you’ve tried insidiously to lure me off the straight and narrow, with the kind of provocation at which you excel. Then you turn me over to the police. I’m asking myself if there’s ever been a more perverse woman in history—and there are certainly plenty of candidates.’