The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books)

by Stephen Jones

  “I’ll protect your guilty secret, Phil,” promised Isobel Arrington. “What’s over there in your window, Judge?”

  Pursuivant turned to look. “Whatever it is,” he said, “it’s not Peter Pan.”

  Cobbett sprang up and ran toward the half-draped window. A silhouette with head and shoulders hung in the June night. He had a glimpse of a face, rich-mouthed, with bright eyes. Then it was gone. Laurel had hurried up behind him. He hoisted the window sash and leaned out.

  Nothing. The street was fourteen stories down. The lights of moving cars crawled distantly. The wall below was course after course of dull brick, with recesses of other windows to right and left, below, above. Cobbett studied the wall, his hands braced on the sill.

  “Be careful, Lee,” Laurel’s voice besought him.

  He came back to face the others. “Nobody out there,” he said evenly. “Nobody could have been. It’s just a wall – nothing to hang to. Even that sill would be tricky to stand on.”

  “But I saw something, and so did Judge Pursuivant,” said Isobel Arrington, the cigarette trembling in her fingers.

  “So did I,” said Cobbett. “Didn’t you, Laurel?”

  “Only a face.”

  Isobel Arrington was calm again. “If it’s a trick, Phil, you played a good one. But don’t expect me to put it in my story.”

  Drumm shook his head nervously. “I didn’t play any trick, I swear.”

  “Don’t try this on old friends,” she jabbed at him. “First those pictures, then whatever was up against the glass. I’ll use the pictures, but I won’t write that a weird vision presided over this birthday party.”

  “How about a drink all around?” suggested Pursuivant.

  He poured for them. Isobel Arrington wrote down answers to more questions, then said she must go. Drumm rose to escort her. “You’ll be at Deslow tomorrow, Lee?” he asked.

  “And Laurel, too. You said we could find quarters there.”

  “The Mapletree’s a good auto court,” said Drumm. “I’ve already reserved cabins for the two of you.”

  “On the spur of the moment,” said Pursuivant suddenly, “I think I’ll come along, if there’s space for me.”

  “I’ll check it out for you, Judge,” said Drumm.

  He departed with Isobel Arrington. Cobbett spoke to Pursuivant. “Isn’t that rather offhand?” he asked. “Deciding to come with us?”

  “I was thinking about Chastel.” Pursuivant smiled gently. “About making a pilgrimage to her grave.”

  “We’ll drive up about nine tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll be ready, Lee.”

  Cobbett and Laurel, too, went out. They walked down a flight of stairs to the floor below, where both their rooms were located. “Do you think Phil Drumm rigged up that illusion for us?” asked Cobbett.

  “If he did, he used the face of that actress, Chastel.”

  He glanced keenly at her. “You saw that.”

  “I thought I did, and so did you.”

  They kissed goodnight at the door to her room.

  Pursuivant was ready next morning when Cobbett knocked. He had only one suitcase and a thick, brown-blotched malacca cane, banded with silver below its curved handle.

  “I’m taking only a few necessaries, I’ll buy socks and such things in Deslow if we stay more than a couple of days,” he said. “No, don’t carry it for me, I’m quite capable.”

  When they reached the hotel garage, Laurel was putting her luggage in the trunk of Cobbett’s black sedan. Judge Pursuivant declined the front seat beside Cobbett, held the door for Laurel to get in, and sat in the rear. They rolled out into bright June sunlight.

  Cobbett drove them east on Interstate 95, mile after mile along the Connecticut shore, past service stations, markets, sandwich shops. Now and then they glimpsed Long Island Sound to the right. At toll gates, Cobbett threw quarters into hoppers and drove on.

  “New Rochelle to Port Chester,” Laurel half chanted, “Norwalk, Bridgeport, Stratford—”

  “Where, in 1851, devils plagued a minister’s home,” put in Pursuivant.

  “The names make a poem,” said Laurel.

  “You can get that effect by reading any timetable,” said Cobbett. “We miss a couple of good names – Mystic and Giants Neck, though they aren’t far off from our route. And Griswold – that means Gray Woods – where the Judge’s book says Horace Ray was born.”

  “There’s no Griswold on the Connecticut map anymore,” said the Judge.

  “Vanished?” said Laurel. “Maybe it appears at just a certain time of the day, along about sundown.”

  She laughed, but the Judge was grave.

  “Here we’ll pass by New Haven,” he said. “I was at Yale here, seventy years ago.”

  They rolled across the Connecticut River between Old Saybrook and Old Lyme. Outside New London, Cobbett turned them north on State Highway 82 and, near Jewett City, took a two-lane road that brought them into Deslow, not long after noon.

  There were pleasant clapboard cottages among elm trees and flower beds. Main Street had bright shops with, farther along, the belfry of a sturdy old church. Cobbett drove them to a sign saying MAPLETREE COURT. A row of cabins faced along a cement-floored colonnade, their fronts painted white with blue doors and window frames. In the office, Phil Drumm stood at the desk, talking to the plump proprietress.

  “Welcome home,” he greeted them. “Judge, I was asking Mrs Simpson here to reserve you a cabin.”

  “At the far end of the row, sir,” the lady said. “I’d have put you next to your two friends, but so many theater folks have already moved in.”

  “Long ago I learned to be happy with any shelter,” the Judge assured her.

  They saw Laurel to her cabin and put her suitcases inside, then walked to the farthest cabin where Pursuivant would stay. Finally Drumm followed Cobbett to the space next to Laurel’s. Inside, Cobbett produced a fifth of bourbon from his briefcase. Drumm trotted away to fetch ice. Pursuivant came to join them.

  “It’s good of you to look after us,” Cobbett said to Drumm above his glass.

  “Oh, I’ll get my own back,” Drumm assured him. “The Judge and you, distinguished folklore experts – I’ll have you in all the papers.”

  “Whatever you like,” said Cobbett. “Let’s have lunch, as soon as Laurel is freshened up.”

  The four ate crab cakes and flounder at a little restaurant while Drumm talked about The Land Beyond the Forest. He had signed the minor film star Caspar Merrick to play Dracula. “He has a fine baritone singing voice,” said Drumm. “He’ll be at afternoon rehearsal.”

  “And Gonda Chastel?” inquired Pursuivant, buttering a roll.

  “She’ll be there tonight.” Drumm sounded happy about that. “This afternoon’s mostly for bits and chorus numbers. I’m directing as well as producing.” They finished their lunch, and Drumm rose. “If you’re not tired, come see our theater.”

  It was only a short walk through town to the converted barn. Cobbett judged it had been built in Colonial times, with a recent roof of composition tile, but with walls of stubborn, brown-gray New England stone. Across a narrow side street stood the old white church, with a hedge-bordered cemetery.

  “Quaint, that old burying ground,” commented Drumm. “Nobody’s spaded under there now, there’s a modern cemetery on the far side, but Chastel’s tomb is there. Quite a picturesque one.”

  “I’d like to see it,” said Pursuivant, leaning on his silver-banded cane.

  The barn’s interior was set with rows of folding chairs, enough for several hundred spectators. On a stage at the far end, workmen moved here and there under lights. Drumm led his guests up steps at the side.

  High in the loft, catwalks zigzagged and a dark curtain hung like a broad guillotine blade. Drumm pointed out canvas flats, painted to resemble grim castle walls. Pursuivant nodded and questioned.

  “I’m no authority on what you might find in Transylvania,” he said, “but this looks conv
incing.”

  A man walked from the wings toward them. “Hello, Caspar,” Drumm greeted him. “I want you to meet Judge Pursuivant and Lee Cobbett. And Miss Laurel Parcher, of course.” He gestured the introductions. “This is Mr Caspar Merrick, our Count Dracula.”

  Merrick was elegantly tall, handsome, with carefully groomed black hair. Sweepingly he bowed above Laurel’s hand and smiled at them all. “Judge Pursuivant’s writings I know, of course,” he said richly. “I read what I can about vampires, inasmuch as I’m to be one.”

  “Places for the Delusion number!” called a stage manager.

  Cobbett, Pursuivant and Laurel went down the steps and sat on chairs. Eight men and eight girls hurried into view, dressed in knockabout summer clothes. Someone struck chords on a piano, Drumm gestured importantly, and the chorus sang. Merritt, coming downstage, took solo on a verse. All joined in the refrain. Then Drumm made them sing it over again.

  After that, two comedians made much of confusing the words vampire and empire. Cobbett found it tedious. He excused himself to his companions and strolled out and across to the old, tree-crowded churchyard.

  The gravestones bore interesting epitaphs: not only the familiar PAUSE O STRANGER PASSING BY/ AS YOU ARE NOW SO ONCE WAS I, and A BUD ON EARTH TO BLOOM IN HEAVEN, but several of more originality. One bewailed a man who, since he had been lost at sea, could hardly have been there at all. Another bore, beneath a bat-winged face, the declaration DEATH PAYS ALL DEBTS and the date 1907, which Cobbett associated with a financial panic.

  Toward the center of the graveyard, under a drooping willow, stood a shedlike structure of heavy granite blocks. Cobbett picked his way to the door of heavy grillwork, which was fastened with a rusty padlock the size of a sardine can. On the lintel were strongly carved letters: CHASTEL.

  Here, then, was the tomb of the stage beauty Pursuivant remembered so romantically. Cobbett peered through the bars.

  It was murkily dusty in there. The floor was coarsely flagged, and among sooty shadows at the rear stood a sort of stone chest that must contain the body. Cobbett turned and went back to the theater. Inside, piano music rang wildly and the people of the chorus desperately rehearsed what must be meant for a folk dance.

  “Oh, it’s exciting,” said Laurel as Cobbett sat down beside her. “Where have you been?”

  “Visiting the tomb of Chastel.”

  “Chastel?” echoed Pursuivant. “I must see that tomb.”

  Songs and dance ensembles went on. In the midst of them, a brisk reporter from Hartford appeared, to interview Pursuivant and Cobbett. At last Drumm resoundingly dismissed the players on stage and joined his guests.

  “Principals rehearse at eight o’clock,” he announced. “Gonda Chastel will be here, she’ll want to meet you. Could I count on you then?”

  “Count on me, at least,” said Pursuivant. “Just now, I feel like resting before dinner, and so, I think, does Laurel here.”

  “Yes, I’d like to lie down for a little,” said Laurel.

  “Why don’t we all meet for dinner at the place where we had lunch?” said Cobbett. “You come too, Phil.”

  “Thanks, I have a date with some backers from New London.”

  It was half-past five when they went out.

  Cobbett went to his quarters, stretched out on the bed, and gave himself to thought.

  He hadn’t come to Deslow because of this musical interpretation of the Dracula legend. Laurel had come because he was coming, and Pursuivant on a sudden impulse that might have been more than a wish to visit the grave of Chastel. But Cobbett was here because this, he knew, had been vampire country, maybe still was vampire country.

  He remembered the story in Pursuivant’s book about vampires at Jewett City, as reported in the Norwich Courier for 1854. Horace Ray, from the now vanished town of Griswold, had died of a “wasting disease.” Thereafter his oldest son, then his second son had also gone to their graves. When a third son sickened, friends and relatives dug up Horace Ray and the two dead brothers and burned the bodies in a roaring fire. The surviving son got well. And something like that had happened in Exeter, near Providence in Rhode Island. Very well, why organize and present the Dracula musical here in Deslow, so near those places?

  Cobbett had met Phil Drumm in the South the year before, knew him for a brilliant if erratic producer, who relished tales of devils and the dead who walk by night. Drumm might have known enough stage magic to have rigged that seeming appearance at Pursuivant’s window in New York. That is, if indeed it was only a seeming appearance, not a real face. Might it have been real, a manifestation of the unreal? Cobbett had seen enough of what people dismissed as unreal, impossible, to wonder.

  A soft knock came at the door. It was Laurel. She wore green slacks, a green jacket, and she smiled, as always, at sight of Cobbett’s face. They sought Pursuivant’s cabin. A note on the door said: MEET ME AT THE CAFÉ.

  When they entered there, Pursuivant hailed them from the kitchen door. “Dinner’s ready,” he hailed them. “I’ve been supervising in person, and I paid well for the privilege.”

  A waiter brought a laden tray. He arranged platters of red-drenched spaghetti and bowls of salad on a table. Pursuivant himself sprinkled Parmesan cheese. “No salt or pepper,” he warned. “I seasoned it myself, and you can take my word it’s exactly right.”

  Cobbett poured red wine into glasses. Laurel took a forkful of spaghetti. “Delicious,” she cried. “What’s in it, Judge?”

  “Not only ground beef and tomatoes and onions and garlic,” replied Pursuivant. “I added marjoram and green pepper and chile and thyme and bay leaf and oregano and parsley and a couple of other important ingredients. And I also minced in some Italian sausage.”

  Cobbett, too, ate with enthusiastic appetite. “I won’t order any dessert,” he declared. “I want to keep the taste of this in my mouth.”

  “There’s more in the kitchen for dessert if you want it,” the Judge assured him. “But here, I have a couple of keepsakes for you.”

  He handed each of them a small, silvery object. Cobbett examined his. It was smoothly wrapped in foil. He wondered if it was a nutmeat.

  “You have pockets, I perceive,” the Judge said. “Put those into them. And don’t open them, or my wish for you won’t come true.”

  When they had finished eating, a full moon had begun to rise in the darkening sky. They headed for the theater.

  A number of visitors sat in the chairs and the stage lights looked bright. Drumm stood beside the piano, talking to two plump men in summer business suits. As Pursuivant and the others came down the aisle, Drumm eagerly beckoned them and introduced them to his companions, the financial backers with whom he had taken dinner.

  “We’re very much interested,” said one. “This vampire legend intrigues anyone, if you forget that a vampire’s motivation is simply nourishment.”

  “No, something more than that,” offered Pursuivant. “A social motivation.”

  “Social motivation,” repeated the other backer.

  “A vampire wants company of its own kind. A victim infected becomes a vampire, too, and an associate. Otherwise the original vampire would be a disconsolate loner.”

  “There’s a lot in what you say,” said Drumm, impressed.

  After that there was financial talk, something in which Cobbett could not intelligently join. Then someone else approached, and both the backers stared.

  It was a tall, supremely graceful woman with red-lighted black hair in a bun at her nape, a woman of impressive figure and assurance. She wore a sweeping blue dress, fitted to her slim waist, with a frill-edged neckline. Her arms were bare and white and sweetly turned, with jeweled bracelets on them. Drumm almost ran to bring her close to the group.

  “Gonda Chastel,” he said, half-prayerfully. “Gonda, you’ll want to meet these people.”

  The two backers stuttered admiringly at her. Pursuivant bowed and Laurel smiled. Gonda Chastel gave Cobbett her slim, cool hand. “You know
so much about this thing we’re trying to do here,” she said, in a voice like cream.

  Drumm watched them. His face looked plaintive.

  “Judge Pursuivant has taught me a lot, Miss Chastel,” said Cobbett. “He’ll tell you that once he knew your mother.”

  “I remember her, not very clearly,” said Gonda Chastel. “She died when I was just a little thing, thirty years ago. And I followed her here, now I make my home here.”

  “You look very like her,” said Pursuivant.

  “I’m proud to be like my mother in anyway,” she smiled at them. She could be overwhelming, Cobbett told himself.

  “And Miss Parcher,” went on Gonda Chastel, turning toward Laurel. “What a little presence she is. She should be in our show-I don’t know what part, but she should.“ She smiled dazzingly. “Now then, Phil wants me on stage.”

  “Knock-at-the-door number, Gonda,” said Drumm.

  Gracefully she mounted the steps. The piano sounded, and she sang. It was the best song, felt Cobbett, that he had heard so far in the rehearsals. “Are they seeking for a shelter from the night?” Gonda Chastel sang richly. Caspar Merritt entered, to join in a recitative. Then the chorus streamed on, singing somewhat shrilly.

  Pursuivant and Laurel had sat down. Cobbett strode back up the aisle and out under a moon that rained silver-blue light.

  He found his way to the churchyard. The trees that had offered pleasant afternoon shade now made a dubious darkness. He walked underneath branches that seemed to lower like hovering wings as he approached the tomb structure at the center.

  The barred door that had been massively locked now stood open. He peered into the gloom within. After a moment he stepped across the threshold upon the flagged floor.

  He had to grope, with one hand upon the rough wall. At last he almost stumbled upon the great stone chest at the rear.

  It, too, was flung open, its lid heaved back against the wall.

  There was, of course, complete darkness within it. He flicked on his cigar lighter. The flame showed him the inside of the stone coffer, solidly made and about ten feet long. Its sides of gray marble were snugly fitted. Inside lay a coffin of rich dark wood with silver fittings and here, yet again, was an open lid.