Blood Will Out

by Jill Downie

  “You Hugo Shawcross and me Tanya.” She giggled and pointed across the room to a man who was coming back from some other area of the house, carrying what looked like a double Scotch. “And that,” she said, “is Tarzan. Well, he’s my husband.” Which settled the wedding-ring question.

  Tarzan was large, heavy-jowled, his elephantine build accentuated by the baggy pachyderm-coloured corduroys he was wearing. He looked considerably older than his Marilyn Monroe look-alike wife. He glanced across at her and shambled over to sit by Jim Landers, displacing Ginnie Purvis, who scowled and moved down next to Marie Maxwell.

  Recovering from the disappointment of not himself being Tarzan, Hugo asked, “What is Tarzan’s name?”

  Tanya appeared to find this exquisitely funny. She leaned across the circle of chairs and called out, “Hey, Rory, there’s someone here who doesn’t know who you are! Imagine that!”

  She turned to Hugo and pursed up her scarlet lips in mock-disapproval, then, with a sweeping gesture in the direction of her husband she said, “Let me introduce you to island royalty, Hugo. Marie, Ginnie and Rory. The oh-so-elite, blue-ribbon members of the Gastineau clan. Taa-daa!”

  The reactions of the assembled Island Players varied from amusement on Elodie’s part, to annoyance from Marie and Ginnie. Marla gave a nervous giggle, and the Lorrimers looked bored.

  “Shut up, Tanya,” Lana said.

  There was very little reaction from either Raymond Morris, Aaron Gaskell or Jim Landers, and Hugo got the feeling this was predictable behaviour from Tanya.

  “Gastineau?”

  His own reaction was one of surprise. He could see now a family resemblance between Rory and Ginnie, but a very different mix of Gastineau genes had swum in Marie’s direction.

  “I know about Marie, but I didn’t realize …”

  “Then you’re one of the very few. Rory’s the oldest, and Marie’s the youngest. Ginnie is in between, in more ways than one.”

  “But her name is Purvis.”

  “Married and divorced. Years ago. He came out of the closet once it was no longer terribly terrible to be gay.”

  “Poor woman.”

  “Poor ex-Mr. Purvis in my opinion.” Tanya snorted, giving an oblique character assessment of Ginnie Purvis. “Ginnie’s ex was a sweetie, they tell me. But she chucked him out.”

  Hugo looked around the room. Things were turning out better than he could have dared hope. The group was beginning to look quite promising, and the island was the perfect place to work on his script while he lay low for a bit, until his mainland problems died down. Besides, he needed time to pursue his other reason for being here, and he had made a promising start with that, quite inadvertently, as it turned out.

  Marie Maxwell was tapping her pencil against her script, and making clucking noises, but there was one more question Hugo wanted to ask.

  “So, if your husband’s the oldest, why don’t you live here?”

  Tanya giggled and patted Hugo’s hand. “Heavens, Rory live in a ground-floor flat? Over his dead body, darling. We live in the family pile out in Forest. That’s where the Island Players perform.”

  So there was another Gastineau mansion. Probably where the family portraits hung. But Marie was catching his eye and calling the group to order.

  “Attention, everyone. Let’s go around the circle introducing ourselves for our newest member, Hugo, and then we’ll take turns reading his marvellous play. But first, Hugo, would you say a few words to the uninitiated among us about —” Marie gave a theatrical shudder, “vampires.”

  There was an uneasy ripple of laughter around the circle and Hugo got to his feet.

  “Count Dracula,” he said, surveying the group, “said it best. The blood is the life. He was quoting the Bible, actually. Deuteronomy. The vampire is a once-human creature who chooses his victims carefully for great beauty or intelligence, a thirst for power, an appetite for cruelty, the ability to influence others. They are the chosen ones, the embodiment of one of the most powerful forces in life.” Hugo paused. “Sex,” he said and surveyed the room, realizing with a thrill they were hanging on his every word. “And of all our worst fears.” He paused again.

  “Death.”

  Some, including Marie, began to look uneasy, and Hugo was torn between annoyance and relief when Tanya gave a wriggle and squealed, “Ooh, scary!”

  He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Tanya. The vampire can only cross the threshold if he is invited into your home and your life. It is only when you allow evil in that it can enter.”

  To the manifest irritation of the assembled Island Players, Tanya had more to say.

  “That’s a tricky one, isn’t it? I mean, how do you know? Some of the ones in the shows look quite — normal.”

  Hugo decided to be facetious. “When in doubt you must avoid the gaze of the vampire. Do not look into his violet eyes.”

  With a dramatic timing so perfect it could have been staged, the door flew open and a young man stood there. He was tall, slender, fair-haired and pale-skinned, his bloodless colouring accentuated by his dark clothing. He rested his hand on the door frame as his beautiful eyes swept the room. Whether they were violet or not, Hugo couldn’t make out from where he stood, transfixed.

  “Sorry to be late,” he said. “May I come in?”

  His voice was musical, the inflexion studied, slightly affected, an expensive private school education resonating through the vowels. Beside him, Hugo felt some sort of physical reaction from Tanya Gastineau. It seemed like a recoil, rather than a wriggle, but that was unlikely. Bedazzled, both of them, he was sure.

  The young man’s arrival was greeted by an outburst of nervous laughter from most of the group. Marla Maxwell was the first to speak.

  “Oh, Charlie,” she said, breaking into giggles, “You’re such an idiot. You’re always late.”

  Marie Maxwell looked from the young man to her daughter.

  “Who is this?”

  Marla smiled with an unfeigned innocence that was totally suspect and completely unconvincing.

  “He’s a friend I invited to come along to the reading, Mother. Charles Priestley.”

  Raymond Morris interrupted what looked to be turning into a mother-daughter fight to the death.

  “Sit down, young man. We need some more young males, so you may come in useful. Let’s get on with the reading.”

  Charlie Priestley ran weightlessly across the room and squeezed himself in on the sofa between mother and daughter. The assembled thespians held their breath and waited for one of Marie’s explosions. Most of them had witnessed the outburst with Hugo, and were still mildly surprised they were planning to perform what had been described as a depravity. But only mildly. Most of them also knew the reason for her volte-face.

  Visibly simmering, but valiantly keeping her emotions under control, Marie gave Raymond one of her hostess-with-the-mostest smiles.

  “Raymond already has a good idea of what he is looking for, haven’t you, Raymond?”

  Raymond smiled inscrutably, and they began.

  It went surprisingly well. As he listened to them read, Hugo wished he could have a say in the casting, but felt reasonably sure that the black-clad Raymond would have the last word, heavily influenced by Marie Maxwell. He had already had his mind changed for him about his Lilith, and prayed that Morris had the intelligence and the backbone to cast the right person as the vampire. When it came to the men, he wasn’t sure the power necessarily lay with Rory Gastineau.

  No, now there was the beautiful Charles Priestley. A gift from the gods, a fallen angel if ever he saw one. He could almost hear the beating of his wings. Back to the drawing-board, thought Hugo. Can’t pass up a chance like this.

  “Fade to black. Curtain!”

  Raymond Morris closed his script with a flourish and surveyed the group. Rory Gastineau turned to Hugo.

  “One thing missing,” he said. There was a slight slur as he spoke. “There is no title p
age. What’s it called?”

  Hugo smiled. “I wasn’t sure until now,” he said, “but I have settled on the obvious.”

  “Which is …?”

  “Blood Play. That’s actually a technical term, as we vampirologists know, but I’ll explain later.”

  Ginnie Purvis was looking worried. “I’d like to ask Hugo —” she gave an unsure glance at Raymond Morris, who had been on the verge of standing up. He remained standing, and waved an impatient hand at Ginnie to continue. “What are we going to do about this chorus of maidens? Are we going to have them? I mean, there’s no one here who …” Her voice trailed off.

  It was Raymond who answered. “Of course we’re going to have them, Ginnie. Absolutely vital in a play about vampires. And, with Hugo’s permission, of course, I see you, Tanya, as their leader!”

  Hugo was sure the “permission” was hollow, but he certainly had no problem with inserting Rory’s luscious wife into the script.

  “Wonderful!” he said, and beside him Tanya wriggled like a happy puppy.

  “Oooh — I am going to be the boss maiden!” she squealed.

  Across the table, Ginnie Purvis gave a massive snort. “Talk about casting against type,” she said to no one in particular. She stood up and added, wearily, “If anyone would like to give me a hand with the refreshments, it would be appreciated.”

  She left the table, followed by Marla, and Charles Priestley. Beside him, Hugo again felt that movement of recoil Tanya had made earlier, and remembered her comments about this particular Gastineau.

  Marie Maxwell looked about to say something, her expression heralding another oncoming storm, but was interrupted by Raymond Morris, script in hand and a placatory smile on his face. A few minutes later, Marie’s expression reverted to annoyance as her daughter and Charles Priestley reappeared with the refreshments.

  Raymond turned from Marie and addressed Marla. “This is where you will come in useful, Marla. You can recruit some of your friends for us! To play the part of maidens in the play, that is.”

  “Good idea!” Hugo decided to avoid witticisms about vampires and virgins, for fear of re-offending Marie. Besides, looking at Marla, sitting there shimmering sexuality next to Charlie, the fallen angel, if her friends resembled her, finding actual virgins might limit the field. “So, Marla, can we rely on you to find us some fresh blood?”

  He laughed, Marla laughed, and as everyone else smiled, the lights went out, fading the room into black.

  Then Marla started to scream.

  Moretti held up the fragile scrap of paper against the light on his desk. It was nearly dark outside, and he could hear the sound of the foghorn in the Little Russel. Attempts to get rid of foghorns, suggesting they were no longer needed, had been strenuously resisted by the harbourmaster, and certainly Moretti would have missed their doleful call through the season of mists and the fogs of winter. He must get back to his Centaur, soon. Some time, he supposed, he must give his boat a name.

  “There’s a piece of a watermark on it, and I think I can guess what it is. Basildon Bond,” he said. “Long time since they made writing paper quite like this. Not sure if it has any significance, but what book did you find it in?”

  Liz Falla smiled. “I wondered about that. It was in a collection of plays by Oscar Wilde — The Importance of Being Ernest. I saw it once, and as far as I remember, it was sort of fluffy. Not a great love story or anything.”

  Liz groaned, rubbed her eyes, and stretched her legs out in front of her. It had been a long day, with a lot of kneeling and crouching. She had left Al Brown to see to the storage of the books in the station, and come up to report to Moretti. They had divided the hermit’s collection into two groups of boxes: books opened and checked, and books yet to be examined. There were many more of the latter.

  “We’ll have to look into every book, and I’m going to get Al to do that,” said Moretti. “I want you to be free to talk to anyone who comes forward about Gus Dorey. Local people are more likely to open up to you. The paper will carry the story of his death tomorrow, and I want you here at the station to field any calls. Someone is going to come forward, if only to have a chat and a gossip. We need all the information we can get, and gossip may be where the truth lies, in this case.”

  “Words, words, words, I’m so sick of words,” said Liz. “Isn’t there a song about that?”

  Moretti laid the tiny scrap of paper down. “You should know, Falla. Aren’t show tunes up your alley?”

  She was giving him that look again, and this time he realized what it was about. Of course, he had passed up a chance to hear her sing. Best that way, staying out of each other’s private lives.

  “Tin Pan Alley’s not the alley I’m up, Guv. Closer to your turf, I’d say.” She hesitated, as if about to say something else, then, to Moretti’s relief, there was a knock on the door and Al Brown appeared.

  “All safely stowed,” he said. “What next, sir?”

  Moretti told him and the brainiac appeared delighted.

  “A pleasure.”

  “A solitary pleasure, Al. You sat in on the interview with Gord Martel, so you heard what he said about a mailbox. We can get it opened, but it would be interesting to see if the key is missing. Tomorrow, Falla is going to be taking any phone calls here in my office. I’m going to take a look at births, marriages and deaths at the Priaulx Library, and PC Mauger will look through the newspaper archives. Gus Dorey wasn’t always a hermit. At some point he had a life.”

  “Is there any chance of my getting the loan of one of the police Hondas?” Al suggested. “I have a licence, and it would save the use of a car.”

  “Good idea. I’ll arrange it before I leave tonight.”

  Solitary pleasures, thought Moretti. Dwight and Lonnie won’t be there, but I’ll go to the club and play a little.

  Liz stood up and stretched, yawning. “I’m off to the gym. How about you, Al? Do you want to come?”

  Whether out of cussedness or kindness, Moretti heard himself saying, “I’m going to get something to eat at Emidio’s and then I’m going to the Grand Saracen. That’s the club where I play, Al. If you’re interested.”

  About twenty minutes later, they were picking up Al Brown’s Portuguese guitar and heading for Emidio’s, and Moretti was kicking himself for the suggestion.

  Chapter Eight

  “Hey, Ed, good to see you. Who’s your friend?”

  Deb Duchemin, co-manager of Emidio’s, the restaurant opened by Moretti’s father, surveyed Aloisio Brown with interest. She was a striking woman, close to six feet tall, her appearance flamboyant, her hair colour chosen to attract attention. At the moment, it was red, with a broad streak of white near her face. Although she had the demeanour and discretion needed for her position at Emidio’s, with her height and large frame, Deb also had strength enough to handle the drunks, drug-dealers and other unattractive types she sometimes had to deal with running the Grand Saracen, which occupied the massive, vaulted cellar of the large eighteenth-century house on St. Peter Port’s waterfront, that had belonged to the kind of smuggler and buccaneer for which the club was named.

  The Grand Saracen had started life as a bar beneath the restaurant, with a small stage that was rented out to the occasional singer or group, and Moretti still retained a part interest in the business. When he returned to the island, he decided to use the space, and put together his own jazz ensemble. Deb had introduced him to his bass player, Lonnie Duggan, whom she had known in what she called “the bad old days,” without specifying what exactly she meant. Lonnie drove one of the town buses — “occasionally” — was talented, lazy, but energetic enough to play from time to time with the Fénions. Then one day Dwight Ellis had walked in for a drink, and become their drummer. Thus the band came into being.

  “Colleague, Deb.” Moretti did the introductions. “What’s on the menu tonight?”

  Deb indicated the board on the wall. “Involtini alla Cacciatore. And, as per usual, osso buco. You play gui
tar? Man, does Ed need you, Al, since his sax player was arrested!”

  She roared with laughter at Moretti’s expression, her heavy earrings swinging, and pointed to Al Brown’s guitar. “Here, let me take care of that, and you can pick it up on your way downstairs. I’ll bring you some wine and leave you to decide. The house red okay?”

  Both men agreed and, when Deb left the table carrying the guitar in its case, Al Brown said, “Two questions, sir ...”

  “I’ll guess the first,” Moretti interrupted. “My sax player was a local financier who got himself in out of his depth with career criminals. He was good with the sax and hopeless at international conspiracies.”

  “Pity. Good sax players are hard to come by.”

  The wine arrived, brought to the table by Deb’s partner in the business and in life, who introduced herself in her husky, damaged voice as she poured the wine.

  “I am Ronnie, short for Veronica, Bedini, and I’m glad Ed’s got himself someone else for the club. Business is down in the bar since Garth was arrested, so you’d better be good.”

  Deb had had a string of relationships since Ed had known her, but Ronnie Bedini appeared to have staying power. Ronnie was not an island girl, but was also not one of the current wave of Latvians, sometimes Hungarians, who waited tables or worked at the hotels. When Moretti was growing up, the wave that washed ashore was Italian, like his father, then came the Austrians and, later, the Portuguese. Many of the girls, chosen for their looks to wait tables, serve drinks and bring in the customers, were also selected as brides by Guernseymen for much the same reason, and stayed on the island.

  Ronnie was one of Deb’s strays, and she was looking considerably less waiflike since she had kicked her drug habit. She was a tiny brunette, with various body-piercings and highly decorated arms, and she was responsible for some of the abstracts and collages on the walls of the restaurant. They were outside Moretti’s field of expertise, so the only opinion he had offered when asked about them by Deb was that they certainly added colour and interest to the room.