Bloody Good

by Georgia Evans

  Now was not the time to mention that Pixies ran in her family.

  “But looking at this, I don’t see how a single, normal man could snap the top of a hundred-year-old oak.”

  “Tell me,” he went on. “Did Mrs. Burrows tell you how to recognize a vampire?”

  “Not really, other than the holy water and crosses stuff was fiction. Seems—at least according to Gran—vampires go back to the days of the Druids, and if this person is one, they don’t disappear into a whiff of smoke and ashes in the sunlight.” A thought struck her. “But it seems daylight weakens them. I had to practically drag him to the car, and I needed help to get him out as he was barely conscious.”

  “But he was injured.”

  He was treating this as possible and reasonable. Maybe she should. “Yes, badly, or so it appeared. A great chunk of wood was jammed in his arm as if he’d impaled himself. Took me forever to get it out.” And now looking at the snapped branches and splintered wood…

  “But you’d recognize him?”

  “Without a doubt, and I’ve not seen him since.”

  They started walking back to the car.

  “Anything else Mrs. Burrows said?”

  She’d skip the bit about Pixies fleeing the Romans. “Vampires are strong. That much in the myths seems to be true at least according to Gran.”

  “Strong?’

  “Yes, extraordinarily strong. Sort of superhuman, I gather.”

  He went silent. A glance in his direction showed he wasn’t just silent. He was silent and ashen. “What’s the matter?”

  “Strong,” he repeated. “Unnaturally strong?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alice, I promised I’d keep this to myself, and Lord knows I hate to break my word, but there’s something you need to know about what really happened Sunday night at the vicarage.”

  She listened intently. What he was saying was incredible, but no more incredible than what Gran claimed.

  “Peter, the man, or whatever he was I found, wasn’t Sergeant Pendragon, but I really think you need to tell Gran this.”

  “Hello, my loves.” Mrs. Burrows was in the kitchen, ironing and listening to Music While You Work. She turned off the radio and included Peter in her smile. “How nice to see you, Mr. Watson. You’ll stay and have a cup of tea, won’t you? And how are things at the Watson farm?”

  “Babies thriving, everyone else half dead on their feet,” Alice replied.

  Her grandmother smiled. “They’ll survive, other parents have.” She filled the kettle and put it on the stove. “Fetch the milk from the larder, please, Alice, there’s a love.”

  In the twenty seconds it took Alice to fetch a bottle of milk, Mrs. Burrows set her eyes square on Peter. “Have something you need to tell me, do you, young man?”

  So compelling and clear were her eyes, Peter found himself fighting the urge to confess to her all that had happened up in Fletcher’s Woods. He stopped himself in time, but shook himself at the weird feeling. “I’d rather wait until Alice gets back. It sounds a bit odd.”

  “Well and good.” She spared him another searching look and set out cups and saucers. “Thank you, my love,” she said, taking the milk from Alice and pouring a little into a jug. “Won’t be long.” She sat down at the kitchen table, nodding at Peter to follow suit. He made a point of taking the chair nearest Alice. Which was no doubt advertising how they’d spent the afternoon.

  “Well then?” Mrs. Burrows asked.

  He told her.

  She paid him the courtesy of listening, but a smile tweaked the corners of her mouth. Had Alice been stringing him along? No, he couldn’t believe that of her.

  “So, Mr. Watson, you believe in vampires, do you?”

  “I’m not sure.” Might as well tell the truth. “But my grandmother and aunts believed in Pixies, and who’s to say vampires aren’t just as a real.” That sounded positively wet but she just nodded with the same little smile as if holding in a secret.

  “As you say, young man, vampires are as likely as Pixies.” He caught the glance she exchanged with Alice, but she didn’t pause. “I’ll keep the full story of the rescue to myself, as Howell wants, but he’s not your vampire. I can promise you that.”

  “You’re certain?” How could she be?

  “I’ve know him years. We’re looking for someone dead. Without an aura. Howell’s is unusual, but it’s alive and flowing with goodness. He’s not an evil doer. I promise you that.”

  This talk of auras was a bit strange. Heck, the entire conversation was beyond reason, but here they were, as the kettle boiled on the stove, contemplating and discussing the existence of the walking undead. And Pixies.

  When Mrs. Burrows got up to make the tea, Peter took the chance to whisper to Alice. “It’s all so far-fetched, Alice. It really is.”

  The old lady had sharp hearing. “More far-fetched than waiting for the invasion? No, young man, something is afoot right now. I sense it. Alice saw it. And you came in at the tag end of it all. We all need to be very vigilant, and I’m going to talk to Howell,” she said as she carried the pot to the table.

  “Hang on. You said you’d keep that between us.”

  “Don’t worry, my love. I won’t let on you told me anything, but he’s in the heart of the village, not up on the hill like we are. He’s busy with things and hears a lot. He’ll keep his eyes and ears open. He’s a good man.”

  “Yes.” Good, honest, and accepting. “I’d hate him to know I’d broken the confidence. I wouldn’t have but…”

  “Alice got you thinking. That’s good. You just thought in the wrong direction. We need to find that disappearing creature. I think he knows what’s going on.”

  Sounded as possible as holding back the invasion with the wooden rifles stacked in the cupboard in the village hall.

  After she’d said good-bye to Peter, resisting the urge to kiss him—a foolish move since it would be broadcast all over the village by supper time—Alice went back in the house.

  “Gran,” she said, stacking the cups in the sink. “What makes you think Sergeant Pendragon can help?”

  “Child!” Gran shook her head “Why do you think? He’s Other, like us.”

  She almost dropped the last cup. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean, Alice? He’s Other. He’s not vampire, and he’s not Pixie. His aura has a light in it that no pure human even had.”

  Better concentrate on sudsing up the saucers. Gran’s Pixies stories had always seemed too far fetched. Village talk about Mother Longhurst being a witch, Alice had always dismissed aa nonsense. This vampire talk beyond was beyond reason, but she couldn’t deny what she’d witnessed.

  If Sergeant Pendragon really was some sort of mystical creature, what else lurked behind the tidy tile-hung and flint cottages that lined the village street?

  Alice wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  The old cliché about walking on air was completely, absolutely, and categorically true. Peter resisted the urge to sing as he cycled down to the village, but he did hum to himself. He was in love! Soppy, bone-tingling, and mind-scrambling love and he’d never been happier in his life. Did Alice feel the same? He hoped so. So far she didn’t appear to find him too repulsive, and a man lived on hope.

  He’d see her almost every day, and it would take all he had to keep his feelings tamped down. But he’d do it. For her sake. The last thing she needed was the village gossips wagging tongues about her. You’d think with invasion worries and bombs dropping people would have more on their minds than the two of them, but he knew better. He knew exactly how villages thrived on gossip.

  They’d just have to be very, very discreet.

  He was halfway down to the village, and trying to decide if it was worth stopping by Whorleigh’s on the off chance of cigarettes, or wait until the morning when they were supposed to come in, when someone called his name.

  It was Sid, out of school and with a man. “Mr. Watson! My dad’s here. He
came early!”

  The boy’s face shone with excitement, and as Peter paused and watched them walk down the lane from the station, he saw the resemblance. Mr. Arckle was taller and broader, but his smile matched Sid’s.

  “How do you do, Mr. Arckle? I’m Peter Watson.”

  “Oh! You’re the one saved my boys. Sid’s been telling me.”

  With a lot of help from Sergeant Pendragon. “I was glad I could.”

  “Nowhere near as glad as I am, sir,” he replied, taking Peter’s hand with a firm grasp. “Those boys are all I have. Hurt me something proper to send them away but I thought it for the best. Never thought Old Jerry would get them here.”

  “He didn’t,” Peter replied, “but Dave’s still in hospital, you know.”

  “So Sid’s been telling me. I want to see him. Soon as I can.”

  “We’ll have to see what we can do about transport. There’s buses.”

  “Then I’ll get one. Just as long as I know where I’m going. I can speak the language if I get lost.”

  Judging by the strong London accent, Peter wasn’t too sure. “We’d best have a word with the doctor first. She was going to phone the hospital and see how everyone was doing. He wasn’t the only casualty.”

  “So Sid said; right shame about the vicar’s lady. This war is a bad business, make no mistake. Still, I’m here with my boy and I’ve got two days off.”

  “That all, Dad?”

  “Son, there’s a war on. Can’t be taking time off to gallivant. I’m needed back at work.” He turned to Peter. “I work in a pie factory and bakery; feed half of London, we do.”

  They were passing the school when Sid asked, “Think I should go back, sir?”

  “Sir” was not a address he was used to. “How did you get out of school?”

  “I was in class when Miss Barkin came in and said the head wanted to see me. So off I goes, thinking I might be in trouble for taking yesterday off school, but she says the stationmaster just called. My dad had arrived from London and didn’t know where to go. She asked if I wanted to go meet him. I said ‘yes’ and ran all the way.”

  “It’s only another half hour. I doubt if they expect you back. Might as well take your father home and give him a cup of tea. I bet he could use one.”

  “You’re right there, sir. Proper parched I am.”

  “That’s settled then. You go in and put the kettle on, Sid. I need to go up to the ARP post; I’ll tell Sergeant Pendragon your father’s here.” And check what was needed with another mouth to feed tonight.

  Chapter 22

  “Would you mind answering a few questions, sir?”

  Eiche looked at the police constable. Yes, he did mind, and was tempted to tear out the man’s throat for his impudence, but that was ill-advised while standing in front of the village stores with half a dozen witnesses, all with ears flapping. “By all means, Constable Parlett. I do have the name right, don’t I?” The yokel nodded, like the fool he was. “What can I do for you?”

  “Sergeant Jones had a few questions, nothing much, but we’d be glad of your help. Would you come down to the station, please?”

  The so-called police station was a lean-to built onto the brick house where Sergeant Jones lived with his numerous children. Eiche had seen them running around in circles and playing. Odd the way mortal children spent their time. Eiche had no memory of playing, but it had been a few centuries past.

  “Would now suit you, sir?”

  Not in the slightest. He had much better things to do with his time but…“Of course, Constable.” Might as well find out what the man was blathering about. Another snag over dear Aunt Jane’s return home, he supposed.

  They walked, side by side, the hundred yards or so to the police station. It was on the opposite side of the village from the church and the damaged cottage he couldn’t wait to get back to. A vampire needed a safe rest and camping out in Jeff Williams’s three-roomed cottage, even if he did have the bed after relegating Williams to the floor, wasn’t Eiche’s idea of comfort.

  “Here you go, sir.” The constable opened the door for him. “Sergeant will be with you in a minute. I’ll get you a cup of tea while you wait.”

  “Don’t bother.”

  Mistake that. Constable Parlett stared at him. “You sure, sir? It’s no bother. The pot’s always ready.”

  Bother or mortal convenience weren’t a concern. “Thank you, but I had one a short while ago.” Now, if the constable had offered his veins…

  “Very well then, sir. I’ll tell the sergeant you’re here.”

  He left Eiche sitting on a rather hard, high-backed bench. Moments later the fat sergeant appeared around a door to the left. “Afternoon, Mr. Oak. Thank you for coming in. This way, please.”

  Eiche found himself sitting on another hard, high-backed chair across from the sergeant’s cluttered desk and very much aware of the constable standing behind him. As witness, no doubt.

  “What can I do to help you, Sergeant?” Might as well act the helpful, concerned citizen.

  “We’ve a few questions about Miss Jane Waite. Your aunt, I believe?”

  Time to evade a little. “Actually she’s a distant cousin. I always called her aunt growing up. A courtesy title, you understand, and the title stuck.” What the hell was this about?

  “I understand, sir. We all have a few extra aunts like that. You’ve know her for years then. Since you were a child.”

  Where was this heading? Damn that the constable was here, too. He could probe one mind but not two, and he certainly didn’t want a witness to the event. “Yes, I was quite small when I first knew her.” Damn! His cover hadn’t included these details.

  “So, sir, would you know where she’d worked and lived prior to retiring here?”

  He had been unprepared. Damn. Better stick to the fiction he established in the pub the other night. “She lived in Yorkshire. Where exactly she worked, I’m not sure. I don’t think I was ever told. People don’t tell children everything.” Nice touch that.

  “Would you know what line of work?”

  “She was a teacher.” At least according to the cover he’d learned.

  “Could be,” Jones said, almost to himself. He looked up at the constable. “Better have that checked, Parlett. See if we can’t find out where she worked and what she did in her spare time.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “Do you know if your aunt spoke German, Mr. Oak?”

  This he’d been briefed on. “Yes. She was quite an accomplished linguist. Spoke French and Italian fluently, too.”

  “You used the past tense, Mr. Oak. She’d not dead yet, you know.”

  “I meant in her youth.” He wasn’t getting caught out there. “I’m not sure in later years how much she traveled or used those languages.”

  “Had she ever been to Germany? That you know of, of course.”

  Where was this going? If he only knew he could give the damn answers they wanted. “I’m sure she had. She’s traveled widely. Even worked abroad at one time I heard.”

  “Did you hear where she worked—taught, I think you said—abroad?”

  Damn! The old biddy should be here to answer these. “Italy, I believe.” Let them try to confirm that.

  “Would that be before or after she taught in Yorkshire, sir?”

  Were they trying to trip him up? If so, he might just have to dispose of two policemen. He had a mission to accomplish and these two plodders were not getting in his way. “Before, I believe. The exact years I don’t know.”

  “Sure it wasn’t Germany?”

  Why keep harping back to that? “No. It could be but I never heard it said she worked there.”

  “Fair enough, sir.” He spent a few minutes looking at a page of notes that he kept carefully angled so Eiche couldn’t read it upside down. Irritating that. “You think your mother might be able to shed some more light on Miss Waite’s work history?”

  “I’m sure she could have, Sergeant, but unfortunately
, my mother’s dead.” And had been for nigh on five hundred years.

  “I see. So you don’t know much about her as you were a child and wasn’t told these things, and your mother who might know is no longer with us. Any other family members who might help us?”

  This was way beyond his cover. If he were mortal, he’d be nervous. But he wasn’t. “I wish there were, Sergeant, but I’m an only child and apart from Aunt Jane, I never knew any of my mother’s family. They cut her off when I was born.” Nicely convenient that was.

  Maybe too much so. “I see. Everyone cut off contact except Miss Waite, a distant cousin.” This was sounding like a Victorian melodrama, but damn, he hadn’t been given this background.

  “Pity you don’t know more about her, sir. It really would have helped us.” Helped to do what? “I’m new around here, sir, but did you visit Miss Waite much before the war?”

  “No. I meant to and we exchanged letters and Christmas cards, but no, I never got down to see here.”

  Pause while he scribbled a note. “Oh, by the way, sir—” He spoke without looking up. “Mind if I have a look at your identity card?”

  Yes, he did. “With pleasure, Sergeant.” He took the card from his inside pocket and handed it over.

  Was this about the old bitch or about him? Had Weiss or one of the others been caught and blabbed? How could they have been caught? They were vampire. Just as he was vampire and being subjected to an inquisition.

  His ID card got a very careful going over. He’d been assured the coding in the number marked him as engaged in important, secret work. He hoped they hadn’t lied.

  Seemed not. He was handed back his card. “Thank you, sir. We just need to check everything, you not being a resident of these parts. You understand?

  “Perfectly. And while I’m here, have you any idea when my aunt’s house will be habitable again? The damage wasn’t that severe.”

  “Not too long I don’t think. Takes a while to repair roof and chimney damage these days. We’re just making sure.”

  Of what? “Constable?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  The man still hovered behind. “May I take you up on that offer of a cup of tea after all?”