Adduné (The Vampire's Game)

by Wendy Potocki

  Part of the reason Reginald objected so strongly was that her father would never have approved of scattering so many of his possessions in less than prominent museums. It had been a stroke of genius on Arthur’s part to exhibit his early finds. It had worked brilliantly. Arthur had just started out and was trying to make a name for himself in the world of antiquities. He needed both publicity and legitimacy. Exhibiting his treasures in well-known museums gave him both – instantly and overnight. And the cost? There was none – only rewards. The exhibitions seared his name in the public’s mind as an authority. Once branded, his name became synonymous with being an authority. From then on, customers came to him – not the reverse.

  As for the number of exhibits, he had deliberately held back. His Egyptian collection had made a huge splash in New York, but his philosophy was to always let the demand outweigh the supply. He stayed true to that motto and displayed only a small percentage of the items collected. It was on this point that Miranda diverged wildly from her father. She wanted the world to see her father’s accomplishments. The treasures were an accumulation of a life’s hard work. She was determined to put it all out there for the world to see. That meant not being as selective in where the items were shipped, or where they were exhibited. Although Reginald had counseled and tried to dissuade her, her mind was made up. It was the first of those exhibits that brought them together on this weekend excursion to the old house. Miranda knew little about Weatherly Manor except that her father had been using the abandoned estate to store some of his treasures. Arthur Perry had picked up the ailing mansion for a pittance because of its run-down condition. Of course, Reginald knew Arthur’s real intent for the old estate. Arthur had wanted to turn it into a bed and breakfast. There was one thing missing – a legend to attach to it. He and Reginald had remedied that situation by sitting around a fire one evening with a full bottle of whiskey. By the end of the night, the bottle was drained and a new, fanciful ghost story had been created. It was identical to the one that he had recited to Miranda. The inflated and false infamous past would be used as a lure to attract customers. Nothing like a haunting or two to bring curious tourists out in droves.

  “I did nothing of the kind,” was the only intelligible reply he could come up with. He hoped it would throw Miranda off the scent. He watched amused as Miranda held the giant key in the door’s lock. She jiggled it a few more times and then looked up at him pleadingly.

  “It doesn’t seem to work,” she conceded, clearly exasperated.

  “Oh, move out of the way,” he ordered, grabbing the key from her and placing it into the keyhole. “I told you this was the original lock. They used muscle back then.”

  Miranda heard the click of the lock opening.

  “And to think of all those hours you wasted in those aerobic classes of yours. Flapping your arms and legs about to that horrid music has done you no good at all. Your father should have put you to work in a field somewhere. Real work might have also lengthened that short temper of yours.”

  “Oh, you! As if a lawyer would know anything about real work,” she said pushing him to the side and opening the door herself.

  “You watch your hands young lady. You’re not in one of those American underground tubes.”

  “You know that they’re called subways. Subways! S-U-B-W-A-Y-S! You graduated from a university or so you say.”

  Miranda pushed the door open. For a moment, she thought she might have been located the missing drawbridge for the loud creak it made.

  “I would think you could remember a two-syllable word. God, it’s dark in here!”

  “My, you are helpless,” Reginald said breezing past her. “I suppose I should expect it given your age and lack of experience,” he said turning on a light switch just in time to gleefully note the displeasure spread across Miranda’s face. She hated more than anything to have her tender years brought up and used as an excuse for her being ignorant.

  Miranda jumped as an overhead chandelier sprang to life. She noted the self-satisfied smirk lurking under that neat moustache of her companion.

  “My being startled had nothing – absolutely nothing – to do with those ridiculous stories you told me. I just wasn’t expecting a chandelier that looks as if it was torn out of the Paris Opera house to be installed in here. It’s a fright you’d see in an old horror movie.”

  Normally, Reginald would have agreed except on these occasions when he’d deliberately take the opposing position. He’d played the same game with her father on numerous occasions. They would both bait each other until one erupted in slapping the other on the back, and suggesting they head to the local pub to mend their differences. Reginald had resettled into the same routine with Miranda. It lessened the loss of Arthur Perry to have her playing her father’s part. Miranda didn’t seem to mind. She’d often initiate the playful banter. He thought maybe she understood what he was trying to do – ease the pain.

  “You Americans are obsessed with your little cinematic offerings. I’m surprised you leave your houses at all what with all your reruns of that trash produced in Hollywood. God forbid any of you Americans actually pick up a book and read a classic. Case-in-point, it doesn’t take any real intelligence to use a microwave now does it?”

  Miranda let his remark pass by without responding. Maybe later she’d pick up on it – when he was off guard. Right now, she had other things on her mind, like taking in all her father’s treasures. She had no idea so many were housed here. She was upset that there were as they’d all have to be counted. It meant spending more time in this old manor house than anticipated. She’d felt unsettled even before she’d walked in and it was getting worse. There was a chill in the air that reinforced her initial feelings of discomfort. She took the blue sweater loosely tied around her shoulders and put it on. Even with it on she was shivering.

  “Are you cold, Miranda?”

  “Yes, it’s appallingly frigid in here. Quite at odds with the beautiful summer day outside.”

  Reginald put down his briefcase and headed for one of the many fireplaces. He’d never admit it to Miranda, but he’d felt the drop in temperature as well. He’d never felt such a disparity on previous visits, but he knew what to do to remedy the situation. He strode into the large parlour. They’d be working in this room for most of the day and a blazing fire would help.

  He knelt down putting a moderate size log in the hearth. He grabbed some kindling from the side and lit a fire by use of the matches kept on the marble mantle. He stayed low, rubbing his hands together vigorously. Reginald wondered idly where the caretaker, Willie Figgs, was. He stopped by regularly to make sure everything was in order, but they were hours of Willie’s choosing and not a set schedule. Reginald reasoned he hadn’t been here this morning. If he were somewhere in the house, he was sure there would be a fire going. And if he’d left, there would be the embers of one that had been put out. Reginald hoped that Willie would stop by. He needed to pay him for last month’s work. Reginald could have put the payment in the mail, but wanted to thank him in person for the good service given to Arthur Perry over the years. While the non-too-arduous job supplemented William Figgs’ retirement income and allowed him to live a little grander than would have been permitted, Reginald felt that loyalty always needed to be rewarded. Arthur believed the same and had paid Willie handsomely. In return, Willie kept what he did close to the vest. No one knew the real purpose this old mansion served and they would never know from Figgs’ lips. He was the model of discretion. If someone asked, he’d just say that Arthur Perry was thinking of renovating the old place into a bed and breakfast. It was half the truth and kept the present purpose of the estate’s use secret.

  Reginald glanced over at Miranda. He didn’t like the way she was standing. She was fidgeting – nervous. He now regretted telling her that ridiculous story. It seemed to have spooked her, and he’d unnerved himself in the process. He didn’t like how he was feeling either. He’d been here numerous times, both alone and with Arthur
, and never had felt uneasy before. He had a sudden urge to leave and take Miranda with him, but he resisted the impulse to panic and run.

  He turned his head uttering, “Most of these places are like this – cold, drafty, damp, imposing. I shouldn’t worry about it too much.”

  “Worried? Why should I be worried? It’s just an old house.”

  He put two more logs on the fire and replaced the screen. He walked solemnly over to her.

  “Miranda, I’m sorry if I frightened you. I was trying to help and I’ve made a mess of it. There was no truth in what I told you. None at all”

  Miranda threw her shoulders back and tossed her thick hair to the side. Her dark eyes were darting and in constant motion. Reginald wished he could have taken the wild stories back, but he couldn’t.

  “I know that! You think I don’t know you made the whole thing up? You really must think I’m a child!”

  Reginald put his hands on the top of shoulders in a fatherly gesture.

  “You’re no child. You’ve grown up to be a lovely young woman, but you are so like your father,” Reginald felt tears well up in his eyes. He turned away from her quickly walking over to a window and drawing back a heavy brocade drape. “Now what do you say we get started?”

  He saw the small smile appear. He wished again he could take back what he’d done. He’d wanted to spend time with his goddaughter and almost ruined the opportunity. He was no psychologist, and yet he’d tried to act like one. He had purposely accompanied her to enjoy her company and the day. The fact she reminded him so much of Arthur was another reason. When he was with her, he knew that a piece of Arthur was still with him – that he lived on through his daughter. Reginald could see it every time he looked in Miranda’s eyes. He resisted the temptation to put his arm around her shoulders and give her a tender hug. He tried to find another way to express to her how grateful he was to have her here. None came to mind – none that she would accept anyway.

  “Where do we start?” Miranda said rubbing her arms and moving towards the fire.

  “Right here. It’s why I built the fire. The collection pieces you’re looking for are downstairs, although I pray you’ve changed your mind about sending them off to Fairlawn or Fairway. Where is it again? Do you even know?”

  Miranda turned to him ready for a fight.

  “It’s Fairfield …”

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to spell it,” Reginald snapped sarcastically – interrupting and baiting her in one fell swoop.

  “No, I’m not going to spell it because spelling does no good with someone that doesn’t want to learn. And Fairfield is in Ohio.”

  “Oh, Ohio! A cultural hotspot if there ever was one! No wonder you’re transporting your father’s priceless treasures to a cornfield where they’ll be viewed by what? Two farmers and a bunch of crows?”

  “You are really just soooo funny. Ha, ha, ha, ha!” Miranda retorted sharply. She used an exaggerated English laugh to irritate her barrister friend a little more. “Was that British enough for you or did my lower jaw actually move?” She paused a moment looking Reginald in the eye. She noticed that he ducked his face down using his finger to rub that upper lip of his. She knew it meant he was hiding a smile.

  “Do you have the list?” she said taking off the cap of her magic marker.

  “Right here,”

  “Then let’s dig in!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Reginald and Miranda worked diligently throughout the morning – cataloguing and recording every object. Each item was checked against her father’s ledger. The old handwritten ledger was what Miranda’s father had used to keep track of his finds. For years Miranda had urged him to put it in a computerized format, but he refused. He adhered to doing things the old-fashioned way. This was Miranda’s first chance to test her father’s outmoded system. Her process included writing down the name and description of the object on a tag. Reginald tallied the items and then called out a number which Miranda would add to the label. She’d then affix the completed tag to the object and move onto the next. In this way, they would make sure all the objects were present and accounted for. If not, they would have to look for it in other collections to make sure it wasn’t lost. Conversely, if an object were found that was not listed, it would be now. When the work was finished, all the results – descriptions, tag numbers, and histories – would be inputted onto a computer. If a customer wanted a certain object, rather than relying on memory, a simple computer search could be performed to see if Perry Antiques had a match for what they sought. And if an object – or group of objects – were sent to someone, they could be easily traced. Packaging and routing numbers would allow them to be tracked. While Miranda knew that her father’s memory was extraordinary, she wasn’t going to take the chance of relying on hers to chronicle his finds.

  When they’d finished tagging everything in the first room, Reginald checked his silver pocket watch. It was a little past noon.

  “Miranda, are you up for lunch and a spot of tea?”

  Miranda looked down at her Cartier.

  “Oh, my goodness! I had no idea it was that late. Yes, I definitely could do with a little refreshment.”

  “I’ll retrieve it from the refrigerator. I had Willie tuck something away for us.”

  “Willie?”

  “Willie Figgs. He’s the caretaker – has been for years. Good man, Willie. Does a fine job.”

  “Oh, right! Yes, he does,” Miranda said looking around at the polished floors and gleaming woodwork. “I was wondering why this place wasn’t buried under dust. It must keep him busy indeed. I hope father was paying him enough.”

  “Yes, and then some,” Reginald answered patting the pocket holding Figgs’ new salary upgrade plus bonus. “I’ll just be a minute,” Reginald said pushing back his rolled sleeves. He had taken his summer weight jacket off after he’d lit the fire. It was more out of habit and the expectation that the fire would help get rid of the bitter cold. It hadn’t. At the prospect of being left alone, Reginald saw the fear come back into Miranda’s expressive eyes. He chastised himself once again for starting that foolishness about ghosts roaming about the manor. He stood looking directly into her eyes.

  “I’ll only be a moment.”

  Miranda understood what he was trying to convey and was ashamed for acting like such a coward. It wasn’t in her nature to be afraid and it was humiliating to have Reginald see her acting so skittishly. She shook her body until it was loose and approximated relaxation. She laughed brittley and very unconvincingly. It was a start.

  “Of course! Take as much time as you need. I’ll be fine! I mean, what could happen? There are no such things as ghosts are there?”

  Reginald was never more serious as he was at that moment. He stared into her eyes holding her attention as he solemnly swore his reply.

  “No, Miranda. There are no such things as ghosts.”

  She nodded and turned her head away. He knew she had gotten the message he was trying to deliver. Now if only she would believe what he said was true.

  Miranda heard Reginald’s heels clip a retreat across the hardwood floors and then disappear into the folds of the house. She stood uneasily in the silence feeling a knot in her stomach tightening. She closed her eyes and bit into her lower lip. She needed to stop it. It was the cold that was doing it. The awful cold. She hugged her arms around her and moved to the fire that was fully ablaze. Reginald had been feeding it all morning long. He had even started one in adjoining room to help. Neither had made a dent.

  She stood before the parlour fire and held out her hands. They were quickly warmed by the dancing flames. The waves of warmth rushed up to meet her. Her face flushed from being so near. It was so odd that while the fire was doing its job warming the front of her, the back of her remained icy cold. It was as if she had a foot in both worlds – that of the living and the dead. A chill ran up her spine as she felt a pressure on her shoulder. A gentle tap. Someone or something was touching her.

&
nbsp; Miranda screamed and jumped backward. She knocked into the screen, toppling it over. It crashed noisily to the ground. She did the same – awkwardly landing on top of it. She instinctively scrambled to the wall, pressing her back against it. She covered her face with her hand, squinting between half-open eyes at the elderly man standing above her. He had patches of long, white hair and a straggly beard valiantly attempting to cover his receding chin line. He had a kindly, gentle face, and black eyes filled with good-humor. He leaned forward offering her his hand.

  “Sorry, miss. Didn’t mean to scare you. I’m William Figgs.

  Miranda sprawled out on the floor, relaxing against the wall. Usually she would feel beyond mortified, but right now she only felt relieved. She raised her arm and took his hand. He pulled her to her feet. The vivid color in her cheeks gave away her embarrassment. She brushed the loose, floral skirting down and laughed, trying to unknot the tension she’d created.