Verse of the Vampyre

by Diana Killian

  He’s not involved in murder.

  “Brilliant deduction, Holmes,” she muttered.

  And she had reached this conclusion how?

  Just the facts, ma’am…

  Well, there was only about an hour during which she could not account for Peter’s whereabouts at the Hunt Ball. An hour was not a lot of time to commit robbery and murder—and still return to the ballroom without a hair out of place. But he had been up to something with Catriona. Grace did not believe they had simply been catching up on old times.

  Catriona was Peter’s alibi and Peter was Catriona’s, which in Grace’s opinion meant neither of them actually had an alibi.

  Although she was willing to believe Catriona capable of everything from leopard underwear to homicide, she couldn’t see Peter standing by while poor flighty Theresa was slaughtered.

  He might be lying to her about being with Catriona, but somehow she didn’t think so. They had been together and, during that time, Theresa had been killed and the Peeler had been stolen. The two things might not be related, but that was an awful lot of bad luck for Sir Gerald in one night if they weren’t.

  11

  Grace had received all the therapeutic benefit possible from catching up on her laundry when Chief Constable Heron dropped by.

  “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea,” he replied to Grace’s invitation. He looked as though he hadn’t slept. Lowering himself into the room’s single easy chair, he took out his pipe. “May I?”

  Grace nodded. It might not be healthy, but she did love the smell of a pipe. She served tea and the last of the chocolate praline biscuits in the sitting room, taking the sofa across from the chief constable. There were a million questions she wanted to ask, but she knew he would not answer them. It was quite maddening because in mystery novels when the amateur sleuth made friends with a cop, the cop was always obliging about handing over all kinds of privileged information about the case.

  “How is it going?” she asked. “Or can you say?”

  “Too early to tell,” the chief constable replied, adding heavily, “It’s a bad business.” His currant black eyes rested on Grace. “Did you have some information, Miss—Grace?”

  “I don’t know. There’s one possibility you might not have considered.”

  Tamping down his pipe, Heron said indulgently, “What would that be?”

  “Miss Coke.”

  Heron’s brows drew together. “Elizabeth Coke? What could she have to do with this matter?”

  “Were you aware that Miss Coke is strongly antihunting, and that she expresses her disapproval through a form of silent intimidation?”

  “What’s that you say?” Heron looked baffled.

  Grace rose and rummaged through the heavy old secretary against the wall. When she found what she was looking for she brought it to Heron. “Do you know what this is?”

  Heron picked the handmade doll up gingerly. It was not a particularly attractive item.

  “It’s a poppet,” Grace said. “I’ve read up since she left this on my front door. It functions like a voodoo doll.”

  “Good Lord. Voodoo?”

  “Theresa received one. Miss Coke was stalking her—well, following her at least—just as she’s been following me. She was following me this very morning.” That didn’t sound as menacing as it had felt. “She accosted me at the fete.”

  “Accosted?”

  “She grabbed my arm.”

  “Why didn’t you report any of this, Miss Hollister?”

  “Because I thought she was a harmless old crank. That’s what Allegra Clairmont-Brougham told me—although she also said something about someone Miss Coke had ill-wished breaking his neck foxhunting.”

  “Sam Jeffries,” Heron said absently.

  “Maybe she’s not so harmless. She’s a fanatic, and fanatics can be violent in certain circumstances.”

  “And you think that Miss Coke might have crept onto the grounds of the Ives estate and coshed Lady Ives over the head when she went for a stroll in the moonlight?”

  “Is that what happened? She was hit over the head? I thought…”

  “You thought a vampire bit her?”

  “Well, no. But I saw the marks. We all did.”

  “It appears those wounds were inflicted after death. They were not made by human teeth.” He added dryly, “Or even inhuman teeth.”

  “What were they made by?”

  “That we don’t know. Yet.”

  “Why would someone want to make it look like a vampire attacked her? Obviously you would discover the truth as soon as her body was examined.”

  “Perhaps to confuse the issue,” Heron said. “Perhaps the wounds were made by someone with little practical knowledge of how the police work. Perhaps someone was inspired by the rumors that a vampire attacked Bill Jones.”

  “Someone like Miss Coke?” she suggested.

  “Miss Coke certainly seems to have got on your bad side,” Heron said mildly.

  Grace could feel her cheeks turning red. She said tartly, “It may be that I’m as stuck in the rut of my suspicions as you are in yours.”

  “The rut of my suspicions, eh?” Heron studied her, unsmiling. Finally, he said grudgingly, “We’ll check into Miss Coke’s whereabouts Saturday night, make no mistake.”

  “Thank you.” She picked up her teacup, but her hand shook, and the words burst out of her. “It’s no harder to believe that someone like Miss Coke might have done this terrible thing than it is to believe that Peter could!”

  There was an embarrassing silence; then Heron said almost formally, “Thank you for coming forward with this information, Miss Hollister. If Miss Coke approaches you again, let us know right away.”

  She was shocked to recognize the expression in his dark eyes as pity.

  The children were playing hide-and-seek in the garden that evening when Grace left to meet Chaz at the Hungry Tiger for dinner. Grace waved to them, declined an invitation to join in the game, and on impulse went round to the front of the old house and knocked on Sally’s door.

  Sally welcomed her and expressed sympathy for Grace’s dreadful experience the previous evening.

  As she sank into one of the marshmallow chintz chairs her suspicions seemed ridiculous, but Grace made herself ask. “Sally, what do you know about Sam Jeffries?”

  To her surprise, Sally flushed. “What is there to know?”

  “Who was he?”

  “A local farmer. He owned Mallow Farm. It’s gone to a Japanese gentleman now.” Sally’s voice expressed disapproval. “He has an overseer to run things.”

  “What was Sam like?”

  Was it Grace’s fancy, or did Sally hesitate. “He was a good-hearted chap. Always a joke and a word of greeting. Loved his pint and his pipe.”

  “And he loved hunting?”

  Sally’s eyes met Grace’s. “Yes. He was always out with the pack, rain or shine. Why?”

  “Something you said about Miss Coke. Was Sam Jeffries whom you meant when you said bad things happened to people Miss Coke ill-wished?”

  Sally’s lips pressed tight, then relaxed. “I suppose so. There was trouble with Miss Coke living so close to Mallow. Sam would set traps, you see, to protect his livestock. One of Miss Coke’s cats was killed. She began following him around like she does.”

  “And he was killed in a hunting accident?”

  “Broke his neck not long after.” Sally shook her head. “Sam was always at the front of the field.”

  “There wasn’t anything suspicious about his death?”

  “Oh no!” Sally looked shocked. “His horse didn’t clear the wall, and Sam broke his neck. It was a terrible thing, but hunting is a dangerous sport.”

  It sounded perfectly straightforward. Grace couldn’t see anything that particularly incriminated Miss Coke.

  “There was an inquest, I imagine?”

  “Of course.”

  The thought slowly took shape. “Did Sam have any other enemies?”
/>   “Enemies!” Sally’s eyes filled with consternation. “Certainly not. He was very well liked. Very popular.”

  “Was he married? Did he leave a family?”

  “No.” Sally was curt, and Grace thought she had better let the matter rest.

  She met Chaz outside the Hungry Tiger. He was frowning at his watch although Grace was not late; however, his expression brightened as he spotted her walking toward him.

  They went inside and were greeted warmly by Ahmed, the proprietor, who wore a lime green turban and a superbly tailored suit. His delight changed to something like dismay as he absorbed the fact that Grace was dining out with an eligible man who was not Peter.

  With an air of one performing a sorrowful duty he led them back to a table in the main dining room and took their drink order.

  Still looking reproachful, Ahmed returned with their beers. Chaz took a swig, frowning at the unfamiliar flavor.

  They ordered, Chaz going for the Shahi Subze, a spicy stir-fry, and Grace settling on chicken and mushrooms in a cream-and-herb sauce.

  Grace tasted her tomato-and-dill soup. It was good, but she was wishing she had not brought Chaz to a place she and Peter frequented.

  She realized her thoughts had wandered, as they had a tendency to do in Chaz’s company. He was waxing earnest again.

  “I know you, Grace. Better than you know yourself. This…this…” He gestured to the window and Innisdale with all it represented. “This isn’t you. You’re smart, you’re focused, and you’re ambitious. You’re not going to throw away everything you’ve worked for, for…Brigadoon.”

  “Brigadoon was Scottish.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  She did at that.

  Chaz put his beer mug down with a bang as though coming to a decision. “Andrea Weicenski has used this past year to ingratiate herself with Ms. Winters.”

  “Andrea from the Science Department?”

  “She’s taken on a lot of extracurricular projects, a lot of the things you used to do, Grace.”

  “Well, someone’s got to do them.”

  “This year the students elected her Most Popular Instructor. Believe me, people are noticing. She’s taken every opportunity to solidify her position as Ms. Winters’s successor.” Chaz made it sound like there was trouble at the Machiavellis’.

  “That’s natural enough,” Grace said. She wasn’t sure if she was really as cool about it as she sounded, but common sense told her it was natural.

  “And I can see that Ms. Winters is losing patience. If she knew a man was involved.”

  “This isn’t just about a man,” Grace said, finding Chaz’s gaze and holding it. “This is about me deciding what I want for my life.” Of course it was partly about a man and the role he would play in that life, but why confuse the issue?

  They finished their soup and started their entrees. Grace glanced up to find Chaz studying her curiously.

  “You always used to be on a diet.”

  She considered the truth of his words. Back home nearly every woman she knew was on a diet. She said, “I don’t think about food the same way.” Or dieting or exercise or anything else. She appreciated food more and thought about it less. Maybe it had paid off; she had given up weighing herself, so it was hard to know.

  “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” Chaz said. “You look terrific.” His gaze was admiring.

  “Thanks.” She reached for her mug.

  “And you never used to drink beer,” Chaz added.

  Grace wondered if she was going to have to hear a never-ending litany of the ways she had changed. Her eye caught a small commotion by the door.

  Lord and Lady Ruthven had entered the restaurant dining room. Catriona was wearing a leather mini-skirt, and Ruthven wore his usual cape. It was a toss-up as to who was garnering more attention.

  Once again Grace reflected on the fact that she had never seen Lord Ruthven in the daylight. Was it something he did purposely? Perhaps he had some kind of skin or eyesight disorder that made it necessary for him to stay out of the sun. She wondered if there was a way to politely ask about that.

  Ahmed attempted to seat the Ruthvens but was stymied by Catriona who, catching sight of Grace, indicated they would join her table.

  “This is cozy, isn’t it?” she murmured, sitting next to Chaz. Chaz made a brave effort to avoid eyeing Catriona’s rising skirt hem.

  Grace made some polite noise and introduced Chaz.

  Lord Ruthven countered by introducing himself as Bob, which so amazed Grace she couldn’t think of anything to say for a few minutes. That wasn’t a problem; the conversation flowed on without her.

  “Ruthven,” Chaz said slowly. “So you were at that ball last night.”

  “The social event of the year,” Catriona quipped. She turned to give Ahmed their drink order, adding another round for Chaz and Grace to the chit.

  “It must have been horrific.”

  “It was rather. Where did they find that orchestra, I wonder?” Catriona queried of her husband.

  Even if he had an answer, the waiter’s arrival to remove the soup plates sidetracked him.

  “What about this vampire story?” Chaz asked, when the waiter had moved off.

  There was a funny pause, then Catriona said, “I’ll tell you what I think. Someone is trying to sabotage our play.”

  “You can’t think someone would go to the lengths of killing Theresa to postpone the play?” Grace objected.

  “Have you invested a lot in the production?” Chaz asked.

  “Enough,” Bob said curtly.

  “You think these attacks are directed at you?” Grace said to Catriona, who shrugged an elegant shoulder.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I mean all that malarkey about the Crosbys’ security guard. Did you hear the stories? A vampire bit him!” She chuckled. “And who, I wonder, is the most likely suspect?”

  “Catriona,” her husband warned.

  Catriona’s feline gaze met her husband’s black one. Amazingly, she changed the subject.

  “Will you be riding tomorrow?” she asked Grace.

  “Riding? You mean there’s a meet?”

  “Of course. The show must go on.” She glanced at Lord Ruthven and mimicked his dour expression. “That show anyway.”

  “Is Sir Gerald hunting?”

  “I assume so.” Catriona reached for her cocktail as Ahmed arrived with the drinks tray. “It’s what Theresa would have wanted, poor girl. She lived for sport.”

  “You’re going riding tomorrow?” Chaz looked from one to the other.

  “Foxhunting,” Lord Ruthven (Grace just could not think of him as “Bob”) clarified.

  Grace didn’t have to look at Chaz to know he was ready to start gobbling.

  “You all foxhunt?”

  “I sense a bourgeois disapproval,” Catriona remarked.

  “Not all of us,” Lord Ruthven said. “Some of us recognize it for the barbaric custom it is.” He quoted Oscar Wilde. “ ‘The unspeakable in pursuit of the inedible.’ ”

  Catriona laughed. “Rabbie is afraid of horses. Or perhaps the horses are afraid of Rabbie.” When she said “Rabbie,” the Scots pet name for “Robert,” one could hear the thistle lying beneath her carefully cultivated tones.

  Grace tried the kaju katli. Cashew fudge made with white chocolate and ground cashew nuts. It didn’t quite go with the beer. She decided she needed the beer more than the chocolate if she was going to spend an evening with Catriona.

  The conversation turned to plays and theater. Chaz asked Lord Ruthven what he had done that Chaz might have seen. Lord Ruthven named a couple of productions that Chaz had to admit he’d never heard of. Catriona interjected a few comments. Grace wondered at the Ruthvens’ relationship. Beneath what was apparently a successful working partnership ran an undercurrent of antagonism.

  Did Ruthven suspect his wife of having an affair? Catriona seemed to enjoy baiting her spouse. Was there some past betrayal between them? />
  Her thoughts returned to the murder.

  Why kill Theresa? What possible motive could there be?

  But of course there were motives. The most obvious motive was that Sir Gerald had slain her in a jealous rage. Grace had read enough mysteries to know spouses were always the prime suspects in murder investigations. But why choose the night of the Hunt Ball? And why mar her body with pseudovampire marks? He could hardly hope to convince anyone a vampire had attacked his wife. Besides, it was too fanciful a touch for Sir Gerald.

  The next most likely reason was that Theresa had somehow stumbled onto the robbery and been killed by the perpetrators. But that was so different from the death of the security guard. Even the police believed that death had been accidental. Why had it been necessary to kill her? Couldn’t they just have thrown her in a shed or knocked her out? Maybe after the death of the guard they believed they had nothing to lose, but they must have worn masks. Was the thief someone Theresa would have known with or without a mask? If they hadn’t worn masks, and she had seen their faces, would it have been necessary to kill her? How much was at stake?

  For that matter, why had Theresa been wandering around alone outside?

  Peter seemed to believe that her death was unrelated to the robbery, and, unfortunately, it appeared that he was in a position to know.

  Grace’s personal favorite suspect remained Miss Coke. True, she had learned nothing this evening that confirmed her suspicions about the woman in black, but she had certainly threatened Theresa; there were witnesses to that. And Miss Coke seemed more than a little unbalanced. Nobody outside of wronged women in Victorian novels and (in the words of one of Grace’s former students) “freaking lunatics” carried on like Miss Coke. She was given to skulking; so it was not impossible that she might choose to skulk the night of the Hunt Ball, when all her enemies were gathered in one place.

  Plus Miss Coke was said to be a witch, and vampires were all part of the same club, weren’t they?

  Could Theresa have some unknown enemy? Surely if anyone had threatened her, she would have gone to the police. Her husband would know. Someone would know.