Verse of the Vampyre

by Diana Killian

  “And why should I? Did I know the man?”

  Grace shrugged. “A lot of people went, I understand.”

  No response. Grace studied the formidable broadside of Mrs. Mac.

  “Have you lived in Innisdale long, Mrs. Mac?” She was suddenly curious.

  “Two years this spring.”

  “I don’t know why I thought you had known Peter longer.” Grace scrambled to shift chairs and rugs out of the path of Mrs. Mac’s mop.

  Mrs. Mac grunted and jabbed the mop into an alcove as though something dangerous lurked there. “That’s right. Knew him before.”

  “Knew him before what?”

  Mrs. Mac’s colorless eyes flicked to Grace’s face. “Before he moved to Cumbria.”

  Here was a wealth of information on Peter, Grace recognized, but it would not be easy to crack the safe of Mrs. Mac’s reticence.

  “Was it hard getting used to the country life?” she asked casually, returning to the counter.

  “Makes a change, it does,” Mrs. Mac said indifferently. “You should know, dearie.”

  “I guess you have to go where there’s work.”

  “That’s right. When I got—er—when I was looking for work, Mr. Fox offered me a job, and I took it. He was always looking out for the re—” She cut herself off.

  Looking out for the re…st? Rest…of us? And what would the rest of them be? What was Peter Fox? An ex–jewel thief. A former criminal. Was this what he held in common with Mrs. Mac? Yes, Grace could believe that Mrs. Mac might have a criminal record. There was an edge to her that was more than hardness. When I got—er—When I got…out?

  Grace made a stab in the dark. “But he never went to prison. He was never caught—in this country.”

  Mrs. Mac shoved the mop so hard it nearly flew out of her grasp. She straightened up. “He told you about that? About the Turkish job? He’s never talked to anyone, not so’s—” She caught herself. Her mouth compressed.

  “I don’t think he told me everything,” Grace admitted, which was the understatement of the year.

  Mrs. Mac’s laugh was as harsh as a crow’s. “No, I imagine not, ducks.”

  She turned away, jabbing at corners with her mop in a way that probably indicated as much irritation with herself as with Grace. Grace considered her plump and unrelenting back.

  What did it mean? Had she really learned anything new? Apparently Peter’s internment in Turkey had been the result of a botched caper. She had pretty well worked that much out for herself, but the caper had been big enough that his former confederates (if they were former!) knew of it—although not the details.

  To Grace, Turkey meant Lord Byron. The notorious rake and poet had died fighting the Turks in the Greek War for Independence, and many of his Eastern-influenced works showed familiarity with and interest in Islam.

  In fact, Byron’s own fragment of a vampire novel had been set in Turkey.

  …the sudden and rapid illness of my companion obliged us to halt at a Turkish cemetery, the turbaned tombstones of which were the sole indication that human life had ever been a sojourner in this wilderness. The only caravansera we had seen was left some hours behind us, not a vestige of a town or even cottage was within sight or hope, and this “city of the dead” appeared to be the sole refuge of my unfortunate friend, who seemed on the verge of becoming the last of its inhabitants.

  But it was unlikely that a notorious jewel thief had been hunting antiquities in that “wild and tenant-less tract.” From the little he let slip, Grace gathered Peter had approached his former profession with a pragmatic and cynical attitude. Jewels had equaled cold cash; he found nothing magical or romantic about them. They were easy to grab and easy to liquidate. Antiquities, on the other hand, were a much riskier proposition.

  Had Mrs. Mac revealed anything else? Was Peter fostering his own thieves’ den in Innisdale? Or perhaps by hiring Mrs. Mac he had simply been giving an old colleague a break. Loyalty wasn’t a bad trait in a man. Nor compassion.

  When Mrs. Mac glanced her way, Grace quickly looked down at her book. After a few moments she began to read in earnest.

  She had recently started Tom Holland’s Lord of the Dead, a diverting blend of fact and fantasy that worked from the premise that Lord Byron, going by the name of Lord Ruthven, was in fact a vampire.

  The Ruthven name had certainly gotten a work-out in connection with Lord Byron. In her melodramatic novel Glenarvon, Lady Caroline Lamb had named the villain (a thinly disguised caricature of Byron) Lord Ruthven. Then Dr. Polidori had continued the nasty in-joke by naming his vampire villain (also a thinly disguised caricature of Byron) Lord Ruthven. Now Holland had taken it to the next logical step: a vampire named Lord Ruthven was, in fact, Lord Byron.

  It made Grace wonder again about the uncanny coincidence of Innisdale’s own Lord Ruthven. True, Lord Ruthven had appeared before the season’s play had been selected; but, thinking back, Grace couldn’t recall who had actually suggested doing Polidori’s story. Had Ruthven himself suggested it or had someone else, perhaps unconsciously influenced by Ruthven’s name, proposed the idea?

  If Ruthven had manipulated the Innisdale Players to perform The Vampyre, what could be his purpose?

  For that matter, was Ruthven even the producer’s real name?

  Am I becoming completely paranoid? Grace wondered.

  But, since she was indulging her paranoia, why had Grace been brought in? Granted, when she had been invited to take part, the theater committee was still discussing doing a work by Byron; but even so, with Roy Blade and Lady Venetia present, there were more than enough experts on the plays and poetry of the Romantic Age—jokes about being the “tiebreaker” aside.

  It was all very odd. Now they had some nut running around in a Halloween cape and spooky mask. It could be a coincidence. It was the kind of prank an adolescent might think up.

  It could be someone’s idea of a publicity stunt.

  Or someone could be seriously disturbed.

  On Tuesday the Innisdale Players arrived at the theater to find the front of the building spray painted. THE BLOOD IS THE LIFE, proclaimed three-foot red letters.

  A small crowd gathered outside.

  “I know that quote. Why do I know that quote?” Grace caught Blade’s out-loud thought over the others’ exclamations and expressions of dismay.

  “It’s from the Bible ,” she answered.

  His black brows shot up as he recognized the source.

  “It’s also from Dracula,” Grace added.

  “Dracula?” Lady Theresa laughed uneasily. “Tell him to get his own show.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Derek said cheerfully. “Free publicity never hurt anyone.”

  Catriona said to Grace, “You seem awfully well versed on your vampire lore.”

  “I’ve been reading up. That’s my job, right?”

  “Right.” With one skeptical word Catriona managed to suggest that Grace was not above vandalizing public property. Grace told herself it was beneath her to respond to Catriona’s baiting.

  Not for the first time she wondered at Catriona’s antagonism. Surely this undercurrent as much as anything confirmed there was something between Catriona and Peter—something that made the other woman resent Grace. And if Catriona resented Grace, that was a good sign, right? That meant she wasn’t having it all her own way.

  Lord Ruthven turned from the defaced building. Grace didn’t know what to make of his expression. Anger? Fear? Low blood sugar?

  “Perhaps we should get the police,” Catriona said to him. There was a challenge in her tone.

  Ruthven stared at her with his dark hollow eyes and said nothing.

  If the police were called in, Grace saw no sign of them. After a day or two the front of the theater was scrubbed down and repainted.

  Rehearsals continued remorselessly, for all the good they did.

  It wasn’t until Wednesday that Grace noticed she was being followed.

  The woman was stand
ing by the gate when Grace pulled out of the drive of Renfrew Hall. She noticed her in the rearview: a tall thin figure in black standing motionless among the trees.

  It shook Grace, but there were a dozen explanations, and she was happy to seize on the first one, which was that the woman had just been passing by.

  That explanation didn’t work so well when Grace spotted her the next afternoon, across the road from Craddock House.

  Grace had been indulging in some Cinderella-like daydreaming as she dusted cups of a Czech lusterware tea set. Her thoughts were preoccupied with what to wear to the Hunt Ball. Her budget was limited, and she had previously planned to wear her good black dress.

  It was against her principles to “compete” for a man’s attention, but common sense told her Catriona Ruthven would use every weapon in her arsenal if she was after Peter. Grace intended to stick to her principles, but the less-disciplined portion of her brain kept picturing herself sweeping into the Hunt Ball in a drop-dead glamour dress.

  She was smiling at this vision when she noticed movement in the trees across the way. She went to the window.

  Yes, the woman in black was standing outside the shop. Just standing there, staring.

  Grace headed for the door, hesitated, then went outside, crossing the lawn.

  “Can I help you?” she called.

  The woman stared. She was wearing a black dress, black walking boots and a black scarf. Nothing too sinister about her, unless you were the fashion police, but creepy all the same.

  “What do you want?” Grace called.

  The woman continued to gaze unspeaking.

  It was too bizarre. Grace went back inside and considered calling the police, but again she didn’t want to bring attention to Peter or his shop.

  Was she the local witch, Miss Coke? Or merely some deranged homeless person? Was she practicing witchcraft or intimidation?

  Grace watched the woman for a few minutes more and decided that her uneasy attention was what Miss Coke (if it was Miss Coke) wanted.

  However, after this unpleasant experience Grace concluded that she did deserve a treat of some kind. Since she couldn’t afford a ball gown, she resorted to the time-honored tradition of having her hair done. She’d been wearing her long chestnut locks in the same simple style since she’d started teaching, and she felt it was time to make a change; maybe go for something more contemporary—even a bit sexier.

  Halfway through the perm process she realized it might look like she was copying Catriona’s signature style. She stared at her wired-for-sound reflection, thinking that if this kept up she would end up like the narrator of Rebecca, trying to compete with a ghost.

  But in the end, she needn’t have worried. Her soft curls looked nothing like Catriona’s coppery mane, and the new sophisticated cut flattered her fine features. Grace felt so thrilled with the result she splurged and bought her favorite brand of lipstick and eye shadow in the new “Fall Palette.”

  Her efforts must have been successful, because Derek Derrick flirted with her quite outrageously at rehearsal that night—much to the chagrin of Theresa Ives.

  They formed a truce later when she caught Theresa on her way out after rehearsal. Derrick waited, holding Theresa’s white raincoat, as Grace said, “This may sound strange, but I wanted to ask you…do you know anything about a woman named Miss Coke?”

  “That woman!”

  “What does she look like? Tall, thin, dressed in black?”

  “That’s her.” Theresa’s face changed. “Don’t tell me she’s after you!”

  “I’m not sure what she’s after, but she’s been following me around. Has she ever said anything to you? Threatened you?”

  “She doesn’t say anything,” Theresa told her. “That’s why the police won’t do anything. She simply stares in that ghastly way like—like Isis.”

  “Isis?”

  “Or whatever her name was. The goddess of revenge.”

  “Nemesis, you mean?” The Honorable Allegra Clairmont-Brougham, a model-thin rather handsome woman in her forties, tied the belt on her camel hair coat. Grace realized that their conversation was more public than she had planned. “I suppose you’re speaking of Miss Coke. Just ignore her,” Allegra instructed Grace.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Theresa said, pouting. Derek put a hand on her shoulder in a gesture both comforting and proprietary. Grace’s gaze caught that of the Hon. Al. It wasn’t often they saw eye to eye, but apparently on this point, they were agreed.

  “It’s easy enough to do,” Allegra retorted.

  Grace said, “But if she’s harassing people—”

  Allegra tossed her black hair. “Oh, harassing! She’s a harmless old crackpot.”

  “But I heard that”—it sounded silly but Grace pressed on—“bad things have happened to people who…got on Miss Coke’s bad side.”

  Allegra made another impatient sound. If she wasn’t careful, in a few years she would be saying “bah!” or “pshaw!” like Lady Vee. “Anyone can break his neck foxhunting,” she said, and swept out through the theater doors.

  6

  The dawn cast an eerie bloodred tint over the dale.

  A covey of quail started from the underbrush as Grace swung up into the saddle. The mare sidled, hooves powdering the frost on the ground. Grace quickly righted herself, putting a hand to her black velvet cap. Safely mounted, she looked around, past the horse trailers and Land Rovers and milling people in the “north forty” of Ives Manor, to the vista beyond.

  In the distance she could see mountains, towering and dark, and she reflected on the irony that it was really those mountains that made Lakeland unforgettable.

  O! for the crags that are wild and majestic, the steep, frowning glories of dark Lochnagar, Lord Byron had written of Scotland, but his words held true for Helvellyn or Scafell Pike, England’s highest mountain. The crags and fells of the Lake District gave the country its distinctive character, a character reflected in the “kept-stone” spirit of its natives.

  Grace had yet to hike any mountains, and she resolved that before she left this island—assuming she did not break her neck that morning—she was going to treat herself to scaling one of those slate-and-granite ridges right up to the point where earth met sky.

  That said, she was just as glad that today’s meet was on relatively flat land, although she knew that beyond the immediate fields and woods were heather-topped hills studded with stony outcrops, and it was as easy to take a header down a little hill as a big one.

  The mare snorted and tossed her head. She was on loan from the Ives stable, and Grace was not too sure of her. She was not too sure of any of this, but she loved the smell of horse and leather and crisp morning air…she wasn’t quite as crazy about the whiff from the flask Sir Gerald Ives waved under her nose.

  “Have a nip,” he invited.

  Sir Gerald was about fifty, big and rawboned with a face like a slab of good English beef.

  “Good morning!” Grace said.

  “She suits you.” He again proffered Grace a swig from the silver flask, which she declined. “Takes the chill off.”

  “Oh gosh, no thanks. I don’t eat breakfast.”

  She was joking but the baronet replied seriously, “You should have had your breakfast. Takes a hell of a lot out of you, hunting.” His breath smoked in the chill air. It was about five-thirty in the morning, cold but reasonably dry—though in the Lake District a cloudless sky could be a temporary phenomenon.

  Shrugging, Sir Gerald recapped the flask, his attention wandering. He rode a big, bad-tempered black, who chewed his bit with neurotic fervor. Grace resolved to stay well out of their way.

  Already the red sky was paling to pink, and as the sun rose the fields shimmered gold; the surrounding trees seemed to blaze into life, foliage brilliant in scarlet, orange and yellows. The clearing was crowded with cars and horse trailers, but nobody seemed to be interested in the splendid scenery.

  As Grace watched, horses were s
addled and mounted swiftly. Riders greeted each other jovially. Thermos cups of coffee or something stronger were handed round. A young woman was slathering her face with sunscreen.

  Do ye ken John Peel at the break of day, do ye ken John Peel in his coat so gay…

  Several of the men, including Sir Gerald, wore scarlet coats. Everyone else was dressed in black hunt coat, white shirt, white stock tie, and black riding boots.

  She smiled a little at the memory of a quote, though she couldn’t remember where she had heard it: “It isn’t mere convention. Everyone can see that the people who hunt are the right people, and the people who don’t are the wrong ones.” She knew what Peter would make of such nonsense, but probably many of the people here believed it.

  She wondered if she really looked the part in her secondhand black jacket and brand-new breeches, or if something about her gave her away as an American. She put a hand up to check her cap again, but the eighty-seven bobby pins she had used seemed to be holding her hair in place.

  She thought it interesting that although every child present wore a sturdy helmet, not one adult had deigned to safeguard his head—herself included.

  A pack of lightly built fell hounds snuffled the covert, tails wagging, noses sniffing the air, sneezing violently as they worked the area for the scent of the fox. The Huntsman, a weathered-looking man by the name of Milliken, was in conversation with Theresa Ives, looking very smart indeed in her riding kit.

  As Grace watched, Derek Derrick brought his horse beside Theresa’s, and the woman turned, smiling. Derek made a fine figure in his black coat. He could have ridden straight off the set of The List of Adrian Messenger.

  “Your first ever hunt, is it?” Sir Gerald asked, clearly doing his duty as MFH and local gentry. “You should have joined us for cubbing season.”

  Grace might be yet undecided about foxhunting in principle, but she was squarely against the idea of hunting baby foxes. However, she was the guest. She murmured something about scheduling conflicts, and Sir Gerald said, “The hunt requires discipline and commitment. It builds character. That’s why we encourage the children to participate.”