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

by Stephen Jones

  The Son himself stepped from the second coach, the crepe on his hat fluttering across his face in the brisk autumn breeze. Syd snapped to attention like the soldiers he had seen outside Buckingham Palace guarding the Queen, and stared straight ahead as the undertaker glided up the steps with the black cloth alternately masking and unmasking his pale and furrowed face. Syd had learned long ago not to fear the dead, but he still feared the man who tended them, and he did not look to the side when he heard the sound of the brass door knocker. Shuffling steps approached the door, and the latch clicked.

  “Mr Callender, please,” said Mr Entwistle.

  “Mr Callender asks that you wait for him outside,” came the reply. The door closed quietly.

  Syd stood so rigidly that he was starting to tremble as Mr Entwistle made his way stiffly down the steps and toward the second coach. Syd’s feelings were a mixture of shock and delight; he saw that the expression on the face of his fellow mute was now genuinely grief-stricken. It was a revelation to discover a household too grand to receive Mr Entwistle, and Syd was far too impressed to do anything but stare when the door opened again to let the funeral party out.

  There was a fat butler, a young gentleman with sandy side-whiskers, and a little lady with gray hair, but what Syd noticed was the one who stood behind them in the shadows. Her skin was fair, her eyes were of the lightest blue, and her hair was a blonde that was nearly white. There was next to no color in her, and she was as beautiful as a statue. All of them were dressed in black, and the little lady had the younger one by the arm.

  “There’s no need for you to come, Felicia,” she said. “It’s not the sort of thing a young lady ought to see.”

  “And yet you’re going, Aunt Penelope.”

  “I’m no longer a young lady, and we can’t send Mr Callender off alone on such a sad errand.”

  “But surely my place is with Reginald, Aunt Penelope.”

  “You’ve done more than enough for him already, and if he loves you he wouldn’t dream of exposing you to such an ordeal. Beside, you’re needed here to keep an eye on the servants, or there won’t be much left of the feast by the time we return.”

  Neither the butler nor his master made any comment on this or anything else, but when the older woman said “I’ll hear no more about it,” the young gentleman took her arm and the butler closed the door behind them. Syd, whose only concern had been the pale angel who stayed behind, recollected himself and returned to his job, escorting Reginald Callender and the angel’s Aunt Penelope to the first mourning coach. One of the horses stirred despite its blinders as they passed; everything else was still but Aunt Penelope’s tongue.

  “A gray day is just as well for a funeral, I think. It’s appropriately solemn, but not really unpleasant. The day we buried poor Felicia’s parents, the rain was so heavy it was almost a storm, and the child was crying so much on top of it, I don’t think I’ve ever been so wet in all my born days. I really think it affected her, too. She’s always been so delicate. A sunny day’s not right, either, though. I remember burying a cousin when the day was so fine that it spoiled the whole occasion. It just wasn’t fitting. No, I think a gray day is best.”

  She gestured decisively with her fan of black plumes and waited for Syd to open the carriage door.

  “Uncle William chose the day, not I,” said Reginald Callender as he helped Aunt Penelope up the step.

  “Nonsense! If your Uncle William had his choice, this day never would have come at all. He would much rather have spent his fortune than left it all to you, Mr Callender. Not that you’ll need it, with such a wealthy wife soon to be yours. It is a fine thing, though, is it not, to see two family fortunes joined along with their heirs?”

  “No doubt,” replied Callender as the door shut behind them and he took his seat beside his fiancee’s aunt. His head throbbed already and he realized that burying his uncle would be more of an ordeal than whatever grief he felt would warrant. Last night he had taken too much whiskey, to calm his nerves and muffle his tactless conviction that he was, in his hour of bereavement, the luckiest man alive. What more could a man wish but riches and a beautiful wife, except to be free of the headache and a chattering woman who seemed to dote on death?

  “It’s a tragedy, the funeral party being so small, don’t you think? Of course everything has been done in the very height of fashion, but it seems a shame that nobody’s here to enjoy it.”

  “My uncle survived all his partners by some years, and I am his last living relative, as you know. The last of the Callenders. There is simply no one left to mourn him.”

  “And Felicia looked so lovely in that black silk! She can’t keep wearing it, you know; she’s not really in mourning, but it was so dear that it certainly should be seen. I took her to Jay’s in Regent Street, you know. They make a specialty of mourning, and they furnished both of us for your uncle’s funeral.”

  “Very handsomely, to be sure,” murmured Callender, laying a hand beside his head in a gesture that he hoped would suggest intelligent interest while still providing him with the opportunity to massage an aching temple. The motion of the coach was beginning to make him slightly sick.

  “Of course I’ve had dresses from Jay’s before; so many of one’s friends and family seem to die as the years pass. I think the widow’s weeds are most attractive, but a woman can’t be a widow before she’s a wife, can she?”

  Callender might have answered, but Aunt Penelope had turned from him to gaze out of the coach at the streets of London. “I see you have chosen to travel by way of the park,” she said. “Very wise, I’m sure. I thought you might have chosen the shorter route instead, where we should hardly have been seen at all.”

  “It was my uncle’s wish,” said Callender. “He left instructions for his funeral with his solicitor, Mr Frobisher.”

  “What a clever man! I never thought of such a thing, but I must certainly make plans for my own passing at the first possible moment. Of course I have no fortune to compensate my heirs for the expense. . . .”

  “I am sure that Felicia will be happy to accommodate you,” sighed Callender.

  “Do you think so? Yes, I suppose she will. Such a generous girl, and such a spiritual nature. Her thoughts are always with the angels.”

  Callender wished fervently that Aunt Penelope could be with the angels too. He closed his eyes and thought of Felicia. Just a moment’s peace would be enough to bring him sleep.

  “Then Kensal Green was your uncle’s choice as well?”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Callender, pulling himself back to consciousness.

  “Kensal Green, I said. All Souls Cemetery. It’s certainly where I would choose to rest in peace. I visit there sometimes, and I still think it’s the loveliest cemetery in London, even if there are a few that have opened since. The first of anything is often the best, don’t you think? And of course anything would be better than one of the old churchyards. You must have heard the stories about the pestilence bred in those awful places, and about the way the skeletons were dug up and stored in sheds to make way for more graves? It’s enough to make a body shudder.”

  Callender looked up to see if she were shuddering, and almost thought he saw her waving at a passerby, but he could not be certain. Although thoroughly dismayed by her enjoyment of the proceedings, he decided to resign himself. He had little choice in any case, and a day of pleasure for his beloved’s maiden aunt was a small enough additional tax on the life of happiness that lay before him. He settled back in his seat as the coach rolled on.

  Felicia Lamb closed her book and sat for a moment staring into space. Critics had attacked the novel and its unknown author, Ellis Bell, and Felicia admitted to herself that she had sometimes been dismayed by the savagery of its setting and the brutishness of its characters. Yet something in the story had compelled her interest: the idea of an immortal love that transcended even death. Such a passion both fascinated and frightened her; half of her longed for something like it, but she r
ealized that destiny had decided to provide her with a much more practical match. Reginald Callender had his virtues, as her Aunt Penelope was frequently at pain to point out, but she could hardly imagine anyone accusing him of a supernatural longing. Perhaps it was just as well, Felicia thought. She knew that she was inclined toward morbidity, as certainly her father’s sister was, so it was possible that her fiance had been sent to help keep her feet firmly planted on the ground.

  She sighed and placed the last volume of Wuthering Heights on the highly polished surface of a table in the center of the drawing room. What light from the afternoon sky pressed through the heavy curtains was weak and dismal; the pendulum of the clock in the corner seemed to push the hours on toward darkness. Surely it was late enough for Reginald and Aunt Penelope to have returned. Against her will Felicia pictured a terrible accident that might at one blow deprive her of the only two people whose lives touched her own. She realized it was a foolish fancy, yet she had lost both her parents at once a dozen years ago, and knew all too well that such things were possible. She had more faith in the next world than she had in her chances for happiness in this.

  She gazed up at the portrait of Reginald’s Uncle William that hung magisterially over the mantel, and she wondered where he was now. The round, ruddy face and the thick body were, of course, in a coffin under six feet of earth, but where was William Callender himself? And where were her mother and father? The spirits of the dead haunted her without ever appearing as phantoms; perhaps she would have been less troubled by them if they had. She longed for Reginald to return and pull her away from such brooding, even though she always half resented him when he did.

  “Shall I light the fire, Miss?”

  A ghost would have startled her less than the voice did, but she realized in an instant that it was only the butler. And while she doubted that flames could eliminate the chill she felt within her, a cheery fire would at least be welcome to anyone returning from a long funeral on a raw autumn day.

  “Thank you, Booth. I think Mr Callender would appreciate it.” She heard his knees creak as he bent before the picture of his late master, and she felt a twinge of regret that she had not tended to the matter herself; it would have been much easier for her than it was for the old man. Her guilt propelled her from the room to supervise the preparations for the funeral feast, but she was not really needed for that, either.

  “Is everything ready, Alice?” she asked the pretty, dark-haired maid. The girl, whose black uniform had lost its white ruffles to the dignity of the day, gave Felicia a curtsey and a small smile.

  “Oh yes, Miss, thank you. Mr Entwistle’s people took care of everything themselves, and it’s very nice, I’m sure.”

  The sideboard was covered with food: a ham, a roast of beef, bread, pies, cakes, and bottles of sherry and port. There was enough to feed dozens of people, though only three were to be served.

  “So much?” asked Felicia without stopping to consider the propriety of conversing with the servants on matters of form.

  “Oh, yes, Miss. I asked them if there might be some mistake, but the gentleman assured me it was all called for in Mr Callender’s will. May I serve you something, Miss?”

  “Thank you, no,” answered Felicia, who had never felt less hungry in her life. “I’ll wait for the others, Alice. Do I hear them coming in now?”

  “I’ll go see, Miss,” said the maid as she scurried off.

  A moment later Felicia was joined by her Aunt Penelope, her eyes bright beneath her black bonnet as she surveyed the lavish meal spread out before her. “Well,” she said, “this is very handsomely done, Felicia. And so it should be, I say. Weddings and funerals are important occasions. Will you pour me a glass of sherry, dear? Just a small one.”

  Aunt Penelope popped a small cake into her mouth as Reginald Callender strode into the room and reached for a bottle of port. He filled a glass and swallowed it at once.

  “A lovely funeral, Mr Callender,” said Aunt Penelope. “And the mausoleum was very splendid indeed. Did your uncle make provisions for you to join him there when you are called?”

  Callender made no reply except to pour himself another drink. He collected himself enough to offer a glass to Felicia, but she refused it and seated herself on a small, straight-backed chair in a corner.

  “I don’t think I approve of closed coffins, however,” said Aunt Penelope.

  Callender’s face turned suddenly hard. “Surely you saw enough of my uncle when he was lying in state, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, to be sure, Mr Callender. I meant no criticism. Sometimes, I suppose, the last look may be too painful to endure. Would you be kind enough to slice me some of that ham? Thank you. And how have you spent the day, Felicia?”

  “In thinking of those who have gone before us, Aunt.”

  “Oh? And what were your conclusions, dear?”

  “Only that there is much to know, and we know very little of it,” said Felicia.

  “Perhaps you will be wiser tomorrow evening, after our visit to Mr Newcastle.”

  Felicia’s eyes widened, and she glanced anxiously back and forth between her aunt and her fiance.

  “Newcastle? And who, pray tell, is Mr Newcastle, that you should visit him at night?” demanded Callender, brandishing the carving knife as he passed a plate of ham to Aunt Penelope.

  “Why the spirit medium, of course,” she said as she took the plate. “We passed his house on the way to Kensal Green.”

  Felicia sank back farther into her corner under Callender’s accusing stare. “The spirit medium!” he roared, then turned to Aunt Penelope. “Is this some of your nonsense?”

  “It is my own idea, Reginald,” Felicia said quietly.

  “I positively forbid it.”

  “You will forbid me nothing before I become your wife. You know how I long to know what lies behind this life. Why should you want to deny me?”

  “Because it’s all fraud and nonsense and superstition. How can an intelligent girl like you believe in such antiquated fancies in this day and age? This is 1847, and we are in an age of progress when such things should be cast aside once and for all.”

  “We progress in many things, Reginald; and why should not the knowledge of what lies beyond the veil be one of them? You must have heard of what Mr David Home has achieved, and I am told that Mr Newcastle’s gifts are even more remarkable. I am certain that there are persons with the ability to see things that are invisible to us.”

  “What they see that’s invisible to you is that you are a gullible woman with too much money. What’s dead is dead, Felicia, and best forgotten.”

  She rose from her chair and clasped her hands together earnestly. “But the dead do live on, Reginald. How can you doubt it? Aren’t you a Christian?”

  Callender hacked viciously at the ham. “Yes, I’m a Christian. Church of England every Sunday, and money in the plate. But what do you think the Reverend Mr Fisher would say if he knew you were raising spooks? And what do you really know about this fellow Newcastle? Must be a lunatic. It isn’t safe, and I ask you again to forget this folly.”

  “I have promised to act as my niece’s chaperone,” volunteered Aunt Penelope as she helped herself to more sherry. “And in exchange she has agreed to accompany me to the Dead Room at Madame Tussaud’s. Neither of us is quite brave enough to indulge her fancy alone, but we do intend to have our curiosity satisfied, Mr Callender.”

  “What? The place Punch calls The Chamber of Horrors? That’s a fine place for a sensitive girl, I must say, but at least I suppose it’s harmless. But this master of goblins is quite another matter. He’s either a charlatan or a madman, and the fact that you are two helpless females instead of one does nothing to reassure me. I’ll wager he wants more than a few shillings for admission too, eh?”

  Aunt Penelope moved to her niece’s side and put a hand on her shoulder which Felicia took gratefully.

  “We shall not be dissuaded,” said Aunt Penelope.

  Callender
smiled ruefully. “Then I suppose I must accompany you,” he said.

  “Oh, Reginald, will you?” Felicia asked eagerly. “Please come with us. I hope to speak with my mother and father again, and perhaps Mr Newcastle will let you commune with your Uncle William.”

  “I trust my Uncle William is happy where he is, Felicia, and I would not wish to drag him down again to the clay, even if I believed I could. Let him rest in peace, I say.”

  He put his arms around Felicia and led her across the room to a love seat as far removed as possible from the food that the dead man had ordered. “Can you not forget the dead?” he asked her. “We are among the living now, and whatever questions we have to ask of our forebears will be answered in due time. Until then, it is our duty to live our lives as best we can. Will you live for me instead of these idle dreams?”

  Felicia’s fingers stroked his face, but her eyes remained distant, “How can we know what we should do,” she demanded, “when we do not know what lies ahead of us? How much pleasure can we take here, when we know it is only a school for the lessons we shall learn?”

  “We may have been born to die,” said Callender, “but that is only part of it. The pleasures offered to us here are not our enemies. We are young and wealthy, Felicia. We are blessed. Let us not spurn fate’s favors.”

  “He’s right, you know,” said Aunt Penelope as she cut into a pie. “We shall be quit of this world soon enough without denying it. But still, Mr Callender, we shall make our visits.”