The blade glinted in the candlelight as a harsh groan filled the air.
The young man felt his spine snap as his chin was whipped up and the ceiling above the bed filled his vision. A glitter of stars punctured his sight and pain sliced through his throat. His vocal chords snapped as blood rushed down his windpipe and dripped into his stomach.
The vampire clamped his jaws over the gushing jet, and let the blood wash down into his lungs and stomach, only starting to massage with his jaws when that first euphoric geyser faded to a pulsing ooze.
Hitting the jugular was the secret to a quick death, and created the exhilarating rush of bloodletting at its peak.
The empty body flopped back into the bed and the vampire was satisfied. He had not spilled one drop. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his lips before, lifting his victim’s chin he filled the slack mouth with the linen square, and used the dagger hilt to push it past the torn gullet. Turning his victim’s head to hide the torn throat, an ooze of blood marked the feather down pillow, but was easily covered by the linen sheet and thick tapestry comforter. He slid the blade back under the cushion, crossed to the window and lifted the lower frame up, hearing the sash chords grating, and he vaulted out over the edge.
Enjoying the second of free-falling, his dense body dropped like a stone. The gravel crumbled beneath his boots as he launched himself into a whipping pace which tore at his clothes. The vampire shed the confines of his dark coat, letting the howling wind take it as he embraced the adrenalin-charged rush of being fully fed.
Chapter 12
Connor lay in his cot staring at the intricate pattern of cracks on the ceiling, and wondering at the transformation preternatural sight made to his world. Now he knew what had happened to him, he felt in control. Malachi’s words drifted through his brain like a hypnotist’s mantra. It is a matter of filtering out the background noise. Connor would instinctively tune in to those sights, sounds, and smells his survival depended upon, provided his brain was fully fed of course.
“So, take every opportunity to feed. Learn how to open the sleep compartments in your brain at all costs. Becoming stronger than others, will elevate you up the hierarchy of vampire society,” Malachi had said.
“How will they know?”
His piercing gaze had dragged over Connor’s six-feet three-inch height, and the wall of muscle moving over his torso as Connor stabbed perplexed fingers through his jet-black hair. “Oh, they will know.”
Connor did not know the rules of this game and he didn’t like it.
Lying out on the cot last night, he wasn’t sure when his ‘thoughts’ melted away to a meditative state, but he certainly stopped processing the world around him. The pearl-tinted haze of dawn filled the room now, and he didn’t remember that happening.
Suddenly, the door of his chamber rattled loudly in its frame. “Open up, Mr. Sanderson.” A shouting voice, accompanied the thundering noise.
“Open up, sir. Police!”
Connor looked at the clock and was surprised to see four hours had passed. It must be the brain cells charging, as Malachi said. Once all the gray matter inside his head had been broken down and mutated by the vampire cells, he would never lose complete awareness again. Clearly, I am not yet at that stage.
He sprang to his feet, reached the door, and then remembered to wait the time it should have taken him to walk the distance before opening it.
Three policemen in uniform stared at Connor in expectation. The blue wall parted. A police inspector stepped forward and looked Connor in the eye. The jutting chin on the smug face had not changed much in five years.
“Doctor Connor.” Inspector Cavendish’s lip curled.
So, you remember me, too. Connor checked the embellishments on Cavendish’s uniform and looked insultingly surprised. “Inspector.”
“You will accompany us to the station for questioning.”
Connor deliberately eyed the other officers. “Surely, rounding up suspects is beneath your rank?” Connor smiled.
“Let’s just say I am taking a ‘special interest’ in this enquiry,” Cavendish replied.
A constable skirted round Connor into his room and stood waiting for directions.
“Where are the clothes you wore yesterday, Doctor Connor?”
“Over there.” He indicated the neatly folded pile set upon a chair.
At Cavendish’s nod, the constable went to retrieve them.
“Don’t you need a warrant?” Connor asked, quietly.
“I can get one, certainly. But if you have nothing to hide, then you should have no objection to my constable bagging them up for examination.”
“Can you tell me what this is about? Am I under arrest?” Connor moved aside to let the policeman leave with his spoils.
“At this point in time, we merely wish to ask you some questions. If you object, then you will be detained.” Everything in Cavendish’s expression begged Connor to argue. Arresting him would give the inspector a sense of pleasure.
Connor stared the man down. “You’ll give me five minutes to dress for the occasion.” It was not a request, and on a tight smile, he shut the door.
The missing four hours gave him pause as he leaned back against the wood and waited out four of his five minutes. He ran his tongue over his teeth. They feel clean. The face looking back from the mirror when he made his way to the basin and subjected it to a searching inspection, appeared clean too, and sane. Would I remember if I had been hunting? He somehow felt sure he would.
Once he was dressed, had combed back his black hair, and warmed his hands in boiling water, Connor walked out of the door and straight past the policemen on guard.
“Come along gentlemen, I’m sure Inspector Cavendish is a busy man.”
The clink of hand cuffs swinging from the fingers of a stout officer drew laughter from Connor. “I don’t think so. I’ll come quietly, officer, after all, you have me at a disadvantage. I have no clue on what matter you are in need of my help.”
His ride to the station was a more dignified affair than the last time. The stout policeman took one look at Connor’s uncompromising expression and directed him to a police car rather than the wagon.
Half an hour later, Connor was seated in a small interview room, very similar to the one he remembered, face to face with Inspector Cavendish.
“Do you know a Captain Matthew Rice?”
What now? “I met him last night. He was a fellow guest at Cranham Hall when I joined the family for dinner.”
“I understand you did not get along with the captain.”
“He is not a man I would choose as a friend, certainly.”
Cavendish laughed, and then stopped abruptly. “And you left alone?”
“I was feeling a little under the weather. I rode Sabre, Reggie- Reginald Cranham’s horse back to London. The fresh air blew away the cobwebs.”
“And what time would that have been, Doctor?”
“About eleven o’clock.”
“You came straight back to the hospital?”
Connor inclined his head.
“And yet, two hours later, you had not retired for the night.”
Connor raised a brow and waited.
“You attended an emergency on the ward. The nurse said you were dressed and alert.”
Ah. His outing to the mausoleum would be harder to explain. “Has Captain Rice lodged a complaint, Inspector?”
“We will get to that.” Cavendish flipped a page on his note book. “The under-housemaid at Cranham Hall, Ivy Tindel. Do you know her at all?”
“Of course, I know Ivy, she has been at the Hall for years. She was fourteen, I think Reggie said, when the nuns suggested her to Lady Isobel.”
“You seem to have got your feet under the table at Cranham Hall. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“I do mind, Inspector.”
“How well do you know Ivy?”
Careful. Her pregnancy was not something he should know about. “I sh
are a cup of tea with the under-stairs staff on occasion. It is a shortcut through to the house from the stables. Mrs. Burnham, the housekeeper, is always very welcoming.”
“I see. Doctor Connor, we have it on good authority that you had an argument with Captain Rice last evening. Would that be accurate?”
“It is true I found his behavior unbefitting a gentleman. I told him what I thought of him. I would not say we argued. Ask him. I am sure he will agree.” Lavinia would not have backed up Rice, so who?
“Would you say you have a temper?”
“Not particularly, no.”
Cavendish nodded sagely. “And yet, Mr. Rufus Clare is sporting a broken nose. He says you have been behaving oddly of late.”
“Mr. Clare earned his injuries.”
“And Captain Rice?”
“What about Rice. His pride took a dent, but that is all.”
“Captain Rice was found dead an hour ago.”
“Dead! How?” Connor’s four missing hours rattled around inside his chest. “He was alive and well when I left the Hall. How did he die?”
Cavendish sat motionless, although he couldn’t mask the zealous gleam in his eye.
Connor leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. “If you had evidence, then you would have arrested me, already. I take it this is a fishing expedition,” he said, quietly.
Footsteps in the corridor outside grew louder and someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Cavendish said in a clipped tone, still staring at Connor.
An officer entered the room with pants and a shirt folded over his arm, a pair of shoes clamped in the other.
“You have friends in high places, Doctor Connor. I hope they don’t come to regret leaping to your defence.” Cavendish confirmed Connor’s suspicions. “The clothes you are wearing will also be examined for blood, if you’ll kindly change into these. I apologize they are not of the quality you are accustomed to.” However, Cavendish didn’t appear ‘sorry’ at all. His chair scraped across the floor as he got to his feet. “Shoes, too, if you don’t mind’
It was on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘and if I do?’, but he knew this was more about power and making Connor jump through hoops.
“The constable will wait outside the door until you are done. That will be all for now. Have a pleasant evening.”
Seconds later, Connor was left alone, with the clothes sitting on the desk in front of him. He knew Rice’s blood would not be found, or did he? Those missing hours gnawed away at him. Surely, I’d know if I murdered someone?
Stripping off and folding his clothes neatly, he found himself scouring the fabric for stains. He smiled grimly. I don’t suppose even vampire sight is as thorough as the Kastle-Meyer Test. In the seven years since its invention, it had gained popularity in murder enquiries. Let’s hope Rice and I don’t share the same blood group. I’d hate to go down because I cut myself shaving.
The pants he put on were three inches too short and too loose in the waistband, and the shirt, too tight and a loud yellow and red woven check. The creased, well worn, tan leather shoes were uncomfortable. Connor felt certain it was a deliberate act to humiliate him further.
He opened the interview room door and greeted the policeman outside.
With a smile, Connor said, “Thank you, constable. Inform Inspector Cavendish, I’ll return these clothes to Mr. Barnum next time the circus visits London.”
The constable chuckled as he went in to collect the ‘suspect’s’ belongings.
Connor wondered if he would bump into Cavendish on the way out, but the inspector appeared to have resisted the urge to gloat. Outside the police station, he hailed a Hansom Cab and settled back in the cool gloomy interior. The coach rocked as the driver turned the horse around and headed back towards the hospital. Connor closed his eyes and tried to make sense of what he knew. Rice was a cockroach, but who would want him dead? How did they get into Cranham Hall? And how did he die? He guessed Cavendish must have an ace up his sleeve. How far will he go to see me hang for murder? It seems extreme, but who knows? Would Cavendish fabricate evidence? Connor didn’t think he would go that far.
He sighed deeply and realized he’d stopped breathing for a while. Something else to watch out for, he thought. The minefield he walked through seemed to be getting bigger. Reggie had stayed the night at the Hall. He must know something.
Back at the hospital, Connor stopped at the front reception desk and wrote a brief note. Carrying on to the porters’ staff room, he gave the envelope to a porter he knew well, asking that he deliver it to Master Cranham as soon as he saw him.
“Very well, Doctor Connor.” The porter’s gaze flicked down over Connor’s garb, but to his credit, he kept a straight face.
“I know,” Connor said, “the new tailor is not working out.”
His next task was to go to his room and change, and then drop the clothes over at the homeless shelter. That’s if they don’t throw them back at me.
Chapter 13
Reggie and Connor sat side by side on a bench on the embankment, looking over the gunmetal gray waters of the River Thames. The dullness of the afternoon eased one concern for Connor, who had chosen a time late in the day to meet him at their old stamping ground.
“Where the hell have you been all day?” Reggie’s annoyance was tinged with concern. “I was so relieved to get your note. I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m sorry, Reggie. I decided a meeting at the hospital was unwise. And, I didn’t want you running out on Sir John’s lecture, either. It would arouse suspicion.” He carefully patted Reginald on the shoulder. “I knew you’d get word in time.”
Reggie looked up and down the deserted pathway. “We’re not med students hiding from lecturers any longer.”
Connor grinned. “I wish my life was still that simple.”
“No, I guess it’s not. I thought Inspector Cavendish had taken you into custody.” He darted a glance at Connor’s profile. “You know who he is, of course?”
“I recognized him,” said Connor, “he has risen rapidly through the ranks. Does that make him a good detective?” Connor hoped not. “Or a lucky one?”
“He’s a bulldog that much I know. If he has you in the frame, he will make your life a misery until someone calls him off.”
“He gave nothing away. What happened at the Hall, Reggie?” Connor felt bad asking because Reggie would be breaking the law talking to the chief suspect.
“I don’t know what you said to Captain Rice, but he came back into the library and made it clear he did not enjoy meeting you.” Reggie’s voice dropped to a whisper but Connor’s preternatural hearing caught every word like a stone thudding against a wall.
“He told father you were not the gentlemen he thought you were. He said he had seen you talking to Ivy, and you were clearly taking advantage of the poor girl.”
“But that is garbage, surely your father knows that?”
The wind whipped along the embankment tossing Connor’s hair into his face and for a moment, without wanting to see, he waited for Reggie’s words to release him. Sir Roger can’t have believed Rice?
Reginald’s heart rate shuddered through his ribcage and the pumping blood flooding into his face could be either anger or embarrassment. Finally, he said, “Mrs. Burnham says Ivy is pregnant, but the girl won’t say who the father is.”
“Surely, you don’t think-?” Connor’s ice-white complexion, for once, reflected how he felt.
Reggie shook his head. “Of course, I don’t. But, Inspector Cavendish has asked Mrs. Burnham to bring Ivy down to the station tomorrow. I think it would suit him if you were implicated.”
Ivy’s words to Captain Rice rang inside Connor’s head. “E’s a gent.” Will Cavendish twist Ivy’s defense of him into something else? A girl covering for a man she has feelings for. Shit, this does not look good.
He wondered if Malachi had any suggestions. He could just leave London. But he would be a wanted man, and the Cranham
family would be left looking like fools, or worse, conspirators. No, I have to clear my name.
Reggie shuffled uncomfortably.
“What?” asked Connor, quietly.
Gazing out over the gray expanse of choppy water, tracking the ribbons of froth the gusting wind drove over its surface, Reggie swallowed loudly. “I’m not supposed to say, but they found your handkerchief.”
Connor frowned. “Where?”
Reggie closed his eyes. “Inside Rice.”
“Inside!”
“Shoved down his throat, almost into his stomach. They’ve taken the poker from the grate. And Rice’s dagger. They think they will find the weapon.”
“Shit,” breathed Connor.
“You must not let it slip that I told you. I overheard Papa and Cavendish in the library. No one is supposed to know.”
“Thank you, Reggie. Why didn’t Cavendish arrest me? He must think he has grounds.”
“My father,” said Reggie. “He pointed out a monogrammed kerchief is hardly conclusive. It doesn’t place you at the scene of the crime. You could have lost it, or had it taken. And, it was covered in coal dust. Cavendish isn’t happy, but he accepts he needs more. Rice’s blood was on it too, so he hopes to find blood on your clothes.”
Connor remembered tossing the warm coal he had wrapped in his handkerchief along the under-stairs corridor last night, interrupting the ugly scene with Rice and Ivy. He got slowly to his feet. Suddenly, it was not so hard to move at human speed.
“I don’t think we should see each other alone again. Not until this is over. I don’t want you getting into trouble over this, over me.”
“Rubbish, man,” said Reggie briskly.
“For me. I don’t want you drawn into this.”
Reggie stared hard at Connor’s closed expression. “Very well, if that’s what you want.”
“For now, yes. But, thank you, Reggie.”
Connor left his friend contemplating the roiling waters of the river, and he felt just as much turmoil inside.
Could I have done this, murdered Rice in my ‘sleep’? I don’t want Reggie anywhere near. Pulling his watch from his pocket, Connor found he had an hour before his meeting with Malachi.
Death of Connor Sanderson: Prequel to Fire & Ice Series (Fire & Ice - Prequel) Page 10