Verse of the Vampyre

by Diana Killian

  Grace watched Lord Ruthven watching his wife, and wondered again if Lady Ruthven had been the woman Peter had gone to meet. It did give Lord Ruthven a reason for being in the cemetery that time of night. Perhaps he had been spying on the missus?

  But if Catriona had been the woman who called Peter, why had she not shown herself?

  “I remember sitting in this theater during an air raid,” Lady Vee said suddenly, her voice echoing against the cement walls. “We had decoy sites just outside of Penrith, you know. To lure the Germans away from the ironworks in Cleator Moor and elsewhere. We were watching a production of Night Must Fall when the siren went. It’s the last time I recall sitting in this theater.”

  “T-That’s World War II,” Theresa accused, teeth chattering. Her tone implied the topic was past its expiration date. “How long must we all stay down here? It’s like a morgue!”

  “What do you see?” Lord Ruthven called up to his wife.

  She dropped lightly down to the tabletop. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.” She smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. “Perhaps the latch did simply give.”

  “What else?” Theresa asked blankly. She stared at the others. No one had an answer.

  “It’s not a very sure way of—of—” Grace stopped, uncomfortable with where her thoughts were leading her.

  “Of killing someone?” Catriona finished for her. “It’s not, is it?”

  “All right, ladies. Gentlemen,”—Lord Ruthven was brisk, shepherding the others out of the basement before they had time to react to Catriona’s extraordinary comment—“I think we’ve all had enough for one night. We’ll meet back here tomorrow evening.”

  They began to file back up the stairs.

  “We haven’t resolved which play,” Lady Vee began, stopping in her tracks.

  With less than his usual patience Lord Ruthven said, “Lady Venetia, your concerns are commendable; that’s one reason I wanted your input on this production, but the group has selected the material, and it is a strong piece, ideally suited to the season. If you can’t reconcile yourself to it, we shall have to arrange financial backing elsewhere, I suppose.”

  There was a long silence, filled in by the drum of distant rain somewhere far above them.

  “We shall see what we shall see,” Lady Vee said ominously.

  There was a dwarf in Grace’s garden the next morning. He wore green leggings and a red cap and had a long gray beard. A ballerina in a pink tutu accompanied him.

  “Wow!” Grace said, opening the door.

  She was renting a small cottage on the grounds of Renfrew Hall. The Gardener’s Cottage was a cozy bed-sitter painted a fanciful pink. The door was bright red, as was the trim on the windows. An iron stove kept the cottage toasty in the winter, and in the summer Grace woke to the sound of doves cooing beneath the eaves and the scent of apple blossoms. A far cry from the convenient but characterless apartment she rented in Los Angeles.

  “You two look terrific. Is this a dress rehearsal for the Halloween fete?” She glanced up at the somber blue sky. It was going to be a gorgeous day. The cottage’s silvery shingles steamed in the sunlight. Raindrops glittered on the grass and flowers.

  The dwarf advanced, hopping a large puddle. The ballerina skirted the sides.

  “I’m a princess,” the ballerina informed Grace. She was a bit stubby for the ballet, and her love of peppermint bull’s-eyes was bound to prove detrimental. Her name was Patricia Smithwick, and she was the four-year-old granddaughter of Grace’s landlady.

  “She’s a ballerina,” the dwarf corrected in an unexpectedly deep voice. His beard was coming unstuck. He licked at the gray fringe, attempting to retrieve it with his tongue. Jeremiah Smithwick was the ballerina’s brother. He was six and had inherited the same tilted hazel eyes, freckles and sandy curls. They stood together in the shade of a velvety green Chinese astilboides, obscurely reminding Grace of “The Elf and the Dormouse,” a poem she had been required to memorize in grade school.

  “A princess ballerina!” she admired.

  “Just a princess,” the ballerina assured her. She studied Grace’s cinnamon-colored turtleneck dress and matching cardigan, her snub nose wrinkled in thought. “Are you going foxhunting?”

  “Not this morning. I’m going to work.” She held up her purse in illustration.

  “Granny used to go foxhunting.”

  “I didn’t know that.” It was difficult to picture her landlady sailing over hedges and fences, but of course Sally Smithwick had not always been a comfortably sized grandmother.

  “Granddad was afraid of horses. He’s in heaven now. I’m going to have a pony for my birthday. I know his name.”

  “No you don’t!” the dwarf objected.

  Patricia stuck her tongue out at him, which was not something princesses or even ballerinas did much in England.

  “I was only a year or two older than you when I learned to ride,” Grace said, hoping to defuse the looming hostilities.

  “I’m going to hunt foxes,” Patricia confided.

  “No, you’re not!” the dwarf informed her. “A fox would eat you up!” To Grace, he said politely, “Granny wants to see you.”

  Oh dear, thought Grace. Late for work two days in a row; she had always prided herself on her punctuality. “I’ll stop by on my way out,” she promised the pint-sized posse.

  Accompanied by Jeremiah and Patricia, Grace got her battered Aston Martin DB4 out of the carriage house that served as garage. The car’s engine disturbed the swallows nesting in the rafters, and to the children’s delight they circled in Disney-like formation before swooping out of the double doors.

  The car had belonged to Sally’s late husband, and she had sold it to Grace for a pittance despite the fact that it would have fetched a terrific price from a collector. Grace loved the baby blue sports car, for all its dents and dings. Every time she turned the key in the ignition she felt like Mrs. Peel in The Avengers.

  She drove around to the front of the redbrick house and parked. A former vicarage on the edge of the village, Renfrew Hall was run as a bed-and-breakfast during tourist season.

  Sally met Grace at the door, her freckled face troubled, although she went through the motions of offering tea and polite conversation.

  The interior of Renfrew Hall was a homely hodgepodge of styles and personalities. Flea market finds and gorgeous antique pieces roosted side by side. Slipcovers in checks and flowers competed gaily for attention. It was a home designed to accommodate children, dogs and cats. The clock tick-tocked comfortably on the fireplace mantel. Scents of vanilla and cinnamon hung in the air.

  Grace declined tea. Sally sent the children to change out of their Halloween costumes, then at last came to the point. “Grace, I caught Miss Coke snooping around your cottage last night.”

  “Who?”

  “Miss Coke.” Sally looked over her shoulder in the direction the children had gone, and said under-voiced, “The local witch.”

  “Are you serious?” Grace was smiling.

  Sally was about sixty, friendly and sensible. During the past year Grace had come to consider Sally a friend. She reminded Grace of many of the women she had taught with at St. Anne’s, the kind of woman Grace understood. Or usually understood. This was something new.

  Sally shook her head at Grace’s tone. “I know what you’re thinking, Grace, but she’s the real thing.”

  Coke is the real thing? Grace had to bite back a laugh. She said curiously, “Do you mean she puts spells on people?”

  “Sometimes. She’s a queer old duck. Anyway, I found her trying to hang this on your front door.” Sally reached into her cardigan pocket and handed Grace what at first glance appeared to be a wooden toy.

  Grace stared down at the shriveled figure. It was amorphously female. Brown threads were glued to the walnut-sized head. A snip of flowered material that appeared to be from a skirt Grace had thrown out a few months earlier was stuck to the body. A hatpin was jabbed through the doll’s throat. Fash
ion statement? Unlikely.

  “I guess this is the season for it. But, Sally, surely you don’t believe in—well, whatever this is supposed to be. What is it supposed to be, by the way?” Grace asked, studying the doll again.

  “It’s a…a poppet.” Sally’s hazel eyes were grave. “I think it’s a warning. Miss Coke is mad on the subject of animals. She probably has fifty cats in that ramshackle place of hers, and of course she’s working night and day to save Squirrel Nutkin.”

  “Of course,” Grace said blankly. Squirrel Nutkin? She had heard something about a campaign to preserve the area’s native red squirrel from the encroaching grays. Perhaps that’s what Sally meant?

  “Naturally she’s staunchly antihunting, and every year she gets worse. Well, they all do. The sabs, that is.”

  “The sabs?”

  “Saboteurs. Of the hunt.”

  “Oh.”

  “I suppose Miss Coke learned that you’re going to be taking part in the hunt this season.”

  “ ‘Taking part’ is probably an exaggeration. I just want to see what it’s like, really.”

  Sally didn’t say anything.

  If the grandchildren were correct, and Sally had formerly hunted, Grace supposed that she must not be antifoxhunting, but it was a heated debate in Britain. The use of hounds for hunting had even been banned in Scotland.

  Grace had yet to make her own mind up on the subject. She liked animals, but she was not above eating meat or wearing leather. She had heard both sides of the foxhunting argument, and agreed that both sides made good points. She knew that opponents of the sport were highly organized and as fanatical as proponents. She said slowly, “Did you—?”

  “We had words,” Sally said tersely.

  “Oh dear. Sally, I’m sorry. Do you think it would help if I spoke to her?”

  “I do not. I’d stay clear of her, Grace. She’s more than a tad odd. I only…wanted to show you this and tell you to be careful. You won’t be the only one she’s harassing. She had poor Theresa Ives in tears last week.”

  “Harassing?”

  “Stalking.”

  “Stalking? Can’t the police do something?”

  Sally shook her head, a gesture that seemed to indicate that Grace just didn’t get it.

  And, in fact, Grace didn’t get it, unless Sally was sorry for the old woman, or there was some village social hierarchy at work.

  “All right,” she said. “Thank you for telling me, and I promise to be careful.” She was still smiling although Sally’s manner was troubling. Sally seemed too grounded to be taking this kind of thing so much to heart. And of course it was unpleasant to think that a stranger actively wished one harm.

  Sally said again, “Please do be careful, Grace. Bad things have happened to people Miss Coke has ill-wished. Very bad things.”

  Though the circumstances had not been conducive to falling in love, Grace had been in love with Craddock House from the moment she laid eyes on it, a winding, climbing affair of white stone and silver slate framed in tumultuous rose and wisteria. Despite the exhaustion, fear and confusion of that long-ago day, she still had a vivid memory of her first impression of the old house: the stately chimneys, diamond-paned windows, and graceful crooks and angles of seventeenth-century architecture. That day she would have welcomed the sight of a police car parked out front, but today Chief Constable Heron’s black Bentley filled her with unease.

  Not that Grace didn’t like the chief constable; she did. He was a shrewd but kind man, and had been most sympathetic to her during her first visit to Innisdale. The problem was, his main ambition in life seemed to be to see Peter behind bars. It put a crimp in an otherwise beautiful friendship.

  Heron, accompanied by one of his rosy-cheeked constables, was crossing the trim lawn as Grace started up the cobblestone walk. She sped up and reached the front door to Rogue’s Gallery as the representatives of the law did.

  “Morning, Miss Hollister,” Heron said in his gruff way, as she opened the door for them. She sensed he was not thrilled to see her, and her anxiety grew. Something was up.

  Behind the counter, Peter was reading the London Times. He glanced up casually. Though the lower level of Craddock House was half-concealed from the road by trim hedges and banks of flowers, she could tell by his cool expression that he had already observed their approach and was braced for whatever was coming.

  “Ah, Chief Constable,” he greeted in that insufferable tone he got when he was talking to the police, like the Scarlet Pimpernel facing down Chauvelin. He folded the paper in crisp quarters. “Always a delight. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for this time? Some bauble for Mrs. Chief Constable, perhaps?”

  “May we speak privately, Mr. Fox?”

  “Certainly.” Peter’s eyes found Grace’s. “Mind the store, love?”

  Grace assented and watched Peter lead the constabulary to his back office. As soon as the door closed behind them she darted around to an alcove and lifted down a heavy gilt-framed painting of a foxhunt. Soundlessly, she inched open the panel concealed beneath.

  She had learned the hard way last year that Craddock House was riddled with secret passages and “hidey-holes.” Peter had once said he wasn’t sure that even he knew all the old house’s secrets, but this was one secret he had shared. Though she couldn’t see into the back office, Grace could now hear the men’s conversation, and it was not encouraging. Heron was not wasting any time on pleasantries.

  “May I ask where you were the night of the fifteenth, Mr. Fox?”

  “Thursday night?” Peter sounded indifferent. “What time?”

  “Between the hours of midnight and two.”

  “Here. At home.”

  “Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts?”

  Peter was silent for a moment; then he said, “No.”

  “Did you receive any phone calls or visitors during that time?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Why meet in the cramped office? Grace wondered. It was more of a stockroom than an office, really. Why not his flat upstairs? Her mind worried at it for a few moments; then she knew. The entrance to at least one of the old house’s numerous secret passages was in that office. He must be considering making a run for it.

  But that didn’t make sense. Surely the situation was not that desperate? Unless…unless Peter was involved.

  She listened tensely. There was silence in the office. Then Heron said bluntly, “You don’t ask us what this is about, Mr. Fox.”

  Peter’s voice was suddenly edged. “We both know what this is about, Chief Constable. You’re hoping to nick me for the Thwaite job.”

  “Not just the Thwaite job,” Heron said, sounding almost jovial. “The jobs you pulled at the Potter-Grahaems’ and the Crosbys’ as well.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I might have an alibi for one of those evenings.”

  “We’re all ears, sir.”

  “Then again, I might not,” Peter admitted.

  “You enjoy games, Mr. Fox.”

  “Backgammon is a game, Chief Constable. I find the idea of prison less amusing.”

  “You’ll find it less amusing still with a charge of homicide against you.”

  “Homicide?” Peter sounded stiff. After a moment he said, “I wasn’t aware anyone had been killed.”

  “You need to keep up on these things, Mr. Fox. The security guard at the Crosbys’? The man injured in the robbery? He died this morning.”

  Peter seemed to have nothing to say to that.

  Grace was having a bit of trouble herself. Someone had died as a result of the local robberies. She was ashamed to realize that until this moment she had not taken the crimes seriously. They had seemed the stuff of drawing room comedies: daring cat burglars scaling the roofs of wealthy nobs, scooping up jewels from well-insured people who could easily afford to buy more, and vanishing into the night. But a man who had simply been doing his job had been killed. Someone’s husband or father or son—it was
too terrible to think about.

  “Constable,” Heron barked, startling Grace out of her reflections.

  They were going to arrest Peter? Just like that?

  She didn’t wait to hear more. Abandoning her listening post, she flew up the aisle and around the corner as the door of the office opened. She narrowly missed crashing into Heron’s solid bulk. “Wait!” she got out.

  Peter stood behind him. His blue eyes met hers, any emotion veiled.

  He didn’t run, Grace thought in amazed relief. She had been so afraid he would that she had to rethink what she planned to say.

  “Wait!” she repeated more calmly.

  As though he had expected this, Heron shook his head regretfully. “I do wish you wouldn’t, Miss Hollister.”

  “But I—I must.” The constable smiled sympathetically. He had a nice face. Encouraged, Grace went on. “You’re making a mistake!”

  Avoiding Peter’s gaze, she forged ahead. “I have an idea what this is about, but Mr. Fox was with me on the night in question.”

  “The night in question?” Like she had stumbled out of the pages of an Agatha Christie novel. “Thursday night, I mean,” she clarified. “We were together. Me and Peter. Peter and I, I mean.”

  “I think they’ve got that part,” Peter told her.

  If he had an alibi for Thursday night, then he was probably in the clear for the night the Crosby house was burgled. She knew it, and so did Heron. He sighed a long and weary sigh, then nodded to his constable, who stepped past Peter. Apparently they had not actually slapped the handcuffs on him. Perhaps Grace had been premature.

  “If you had an alibi, you should have spoken up, Mr. Fox,” the chief constable said sternly.

  Peter studied the older man sardonically. “Life is simple for you, Chief Constable.”

  “It is for most honest folk.”

  “Honest folk or folk lacking in imagination?”

  Heron disregarded this, turning his attention back on Grace. It was not easy to hold his shrewd gaze. “You’d be willing to testify to Mr. Fox’s whereabouts between the hours of twelve and two on Thursday evening, Miss Hollister?”