Jane Vows Vengeance jb-3

by Michael Thomas Ford

  Bergen nodded. “A fine idea,” he said. “Just a moment.” He took the phone from his pocket and walked off a few feet, turning his back so that they couldn’t hear his conversation.

  “Did you know they were here?” Walter asked Jane.

  Jane shook her head. “I just happened to run into him,” she said. “Why are you out here, anyway?”

  “After you left I remembered that I needed shampoo,” said Walter. “I went looking for you but couldn’t find you. I was on my way back to the hotel when I saw you standing here.”

  “And I’m so glad you did,” Jane remarked.

  Walter bent down and picked up Lilith. “Hey, little girl,” he said. “Did you have fun with your mother and her new boyfriend?”

  “Seriously?” Lilith said to Jane. “Is he really this stupid?”

  “Look how happy she is to see you!” Jane said brightly.

  Bergen turned back to them and walked forward. “Miriam says we’re to meet her at Boswell’s grave. She said Brian will know where it is.”

  “Brian?” said Walter. “But where is he?”

  “Did someone say my name?”

  Smiling as if he’d just been strolling along and happened to stumble upon his friends, Byron walked up. He nodded at Bergen. “Good to see you again. I trust Ms. Ellenberg is well?”

  “The last I saw her she was,” Bergen replied.

  “Do you know where Boswell’s grave is?” Walter asked. “I have no idea why my mother would want to meet us there, but it seems she does.”

  “Boswell was buried in Scotland, wasn’t he?” Jane said.

  Byron shook his head. “I believe this is a different Boswell.”

  They walked to a busier street, where Byron hailed a black cab and gave the driver instructions to take them to Hyde Park. Once there, he directed him to Victoria Gate, where they all piled out as Byron paid the fare.

  “This way,” he said, walking through the gate and past the lodge. “It’s just round here.”

  They passed through a garden gate that, although it seemingly was locked, Byron opened with ease, and found themselves in a spacious clearing filled with hundreds of tiny tombstones. Jane peered at one of the nearest ones and read aloud the words engraved upon it. “ ‘Dear Pupsey, September twelfth, 1894.’ Pupsey? What an odd name.”

  “Not for a dog,” said Byron.

  “A dog?” Walter said.

  “Mmm,” said Byron, looking around. “This is a pet cemetery. Begun by the lodge keeper, a Mr. Winbridge, back in, oh, the 1880s, I think. One of London’s hidden treasures. Not many know of it.”

  “Why would my mother want to meet us here?” Walter wondered.

  “I’m afraid it’s not your mother,” said Byron.

  “Then who—” Walter began.

  “It would be she,” Byron said, pointing.

  Suzu stood among the graves. She was dressed in black, as if she were preparing to attend a funeral. She walked toward them slowly, wending her way through the tightly packed stones.

  “I’m really confused here,” Walter said.

  “Wait a few moments, my friend,” said Byron, clapping Walter on the shoulder. “You’re going to be even more confused.”

  Walter looked at Jane, bewilderment furrowing his brow. She took his hand and held it tightly, terrified of what was coming. But she trusted that Byron knew what he was doing. At least, she hoped he did, because she certainly didn’t.

  “I knew you would figure it out,” Suzu said to Byron.

  Byron smiled. “How could anyone forget Boswell?”

  “Indeed,” Suzu said. She knelt and ran her finger lightly over a gravestone. “My dear Boswell,” she said with a sigh. “Taken too soon.”

  Byron turned to Jane and Walter. “A cat,” he said. “Gray, as I recall. Excellent mouser.”

  “Boswell is a cat?” Walter said.

  “Not just a cat,” said Suzu. “The most wonderful cat in all the world. I miss him terribly.”

  Walter, looking at the dates on the surrounding stones, said, “When did he die?”

  “You don’t really want to know that,” Byron warned him.

  Suzu turned her gaze to Walter and smiled tightly. “Eighteen ninety-two,” she said. “August the second. He fell from a tree while trying to catch a robin.”

  “You mean nineteen ninety-two,” Walter said.

  “No, she doesn’t,” said Byron.

  “But that’s impossible,” Walter argued. “That would mean she was over a hundred years old.”

  “I told you that you were going to be even more confused,” said Byron. To Suzu he said, “Where’s Miriam?”

  “All in good time,” Suzu answered. “Where is the Needle?”

  Jane held up the bundle she’d been carrying. “Right here.”

  “Take it,” Suzu ordered Bergen. “Bring it to me.”

  Jane looked at Byron.

  “Give it to him,” he said.

  Walter watched as Bergen took the parcel from Jane.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “I’ll explain later,” Jane said. “If I can.”

  Bergen carried the Needle to Suzu and presented it as if it were an offering. She took it and unrolled the canvas. Holding up the Needle, she ran her fingers lightly along its length.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you know who Boswell was?” Jane asked Byron as they waited for Suzu to say something.

  “Sorry,” Byron said. “I forgot to mention that. See, she isn’t Suzu. I mean, she is the person you’ve known as Suzu. But she’s not who she says she is.”

  “Then who is she?” Jane asked.

  “Charlotte?” Byron called.

  Suzu looked up. “What?”

  “There you go,” Byron said to Jane.

  Jane looked at Suzu. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Suzu smiled tightly. “How did you know, dear heart?” she asked Byron.

  “Well, I confess that it wasn’t I who figured it out. It was William.” He looked around. “William? Are you here?”

  William materialized behind them.

  “Where did he come from?” Walter said. “And how did he do that?”

  “It wasn’t that difficult, really,” William said. “First I checked with the university. No one there had ever heard of someone called Suzu. Then I asked around among our people and no one had ever heard of you.”

  “His people?” said Walter. “What people? Is he with the Secret Service or something?”

  “Shh,” Jane said. “I want to hear this.”

  “Of course, that still didn’t tell me who you were,” William continued. “But then a friend I asked about you—a fellow who works in the Asian antiquities department of the British Museum—remarked upon your name. Suzu, as you undoubtedly know, means ‘little bell’ in Japanese. What better alias for the author once known to the world as Currer Bell?”

  “Currer Bell?” Walter said. “Isn’t that the name Charlotte Bro—”

  “Try not to say her name,” Jane interrupted. “It’s bad luck.”

  Suzu clapped her hands together. “I’m impressed,” she said. “You figured out in a handful of hours what some people”—she glanced triumphantly at Jane—“didn’t even suspect.”

  “But the hair,” Jane said. “And the … eyes,” she finished, wondering if drawing attention to them was racially insensitive.

  “Makeup and a wig, you idiot,” Suzu said. “And before you ask, yes, I was the one who threw Ryan McGuinness from the tower.”

  “See?” Jane said to Walter. “I was right all along.”

  Walter was staring at Suzu. “She’s Charlotte Bro—”

  “Our Gloomy Friend!” Jane said.

  “And that thing she’s holding?” he asked.

  “It’s called Crispin’s Needle,” Jane answered. “It’s a kind of relic.”

  “If you don’t mind telling us, why do you want the Needle?” Byron asked Charlotte.

 
“For the simplest reason of all,” Charlotte told him. “So that no one else can have it.” She sneered at Jane. “Especially you.”

  “Now it makes sense,” said Byron. “You think that by denying Jane her mortality that you’ll ruin her life because then she either won’t marry Walter or will have to turn him.”

  “Something like that,” Charlotte said.

  “Turn me into what?” asked Walter.

  “Well, now you have the Needle,” Byron said. “Give us Miriam.”

  “I really should kill her,” said Charlotte. “Do you know what she is?”

  Byron nodded. “I do,” he said.

  “She’s my mother!” Walter cried.

  “Oh, she’s far more than that,” said Charlotte. “You have no idea the treachery the women around you have wrought.”

  “Just hand her over,” Byron said firmly.

  Charlotte huffed. “Fine,” she said. “She’s tied up behind that tree over there.”

  Walter handed Lilith to Jane and ran in the direction of Charlotte’s pointing finger. A minute later he returned leading a very annoyed Miriam. She was cursing and gesturing with her hands.

  “I should never have taken my eyes off that little bastard!” she shouted, pointing at Bergen.

  She rushed at him, her hands clawing the air, and knocked him down. Immediately Byron and Walter leapt forward and tried to pull her off.

  “I’m going to stake him!” Miriam shouted. “I don’t care if he isn’t a bloodsucker. He deserves it!”

  “She’s much stronger than she looks,” Byron remarked as Miriam and Bergen rolled around on the ground, wrestling madly. Finally they managed to pull Miriam off the architect, who lay on the ground, whimpering softly.

  “Where’s the other one?” Miriam asked. “That one I will stake.”

  Jane looked around for Charlotte, but she was nowhere to be found. In all of the commotion, she had disappeared.

  Miriam, searching the cemetery, stopped short when she saw William. Jane was surprised to see her start to tremble. She shook her head back and forth.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Hello, Miriam,” William said. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

  Walter looked at his mother. “You know him?”

  Miriam nodded but said nothing.

  “Mom?” Walter said. “Are you all right?”

  Miriam took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “I’m not all right.”

  Walter pointed at William. “Is it him? Is he what’s upsetting you?”

  When Miriam didn’t reply, Walter turned to William. “What’s going on here?” he said, his voice heavy with confusion and anger. “How do you know my mother?”

  William looked at Miriam, who nodded. “Tell him,” she said. “It’s time he knew.”

  Chapter 26

  Saturday: London

  Jane drained the rest of the pint of cider and set it down. Byron, seated across from her at a table in the Tipsy Shrew, bit a pickled egg in half and offered Jane the smaller of the two pieces. She took it and popped it into her mouth.

  “I haven’t had a pickled egg in ages,” she said. “I’d forgotten how dreadful they are.”

  “Every twenty years or so I have one to remind myself,” said Byron.

  Jane took a sip of his ale to wash away the bitter taste of the egg. “How do you suppose he’s handling it?”

  Byron shrugged. “How would any man handle being told his father isn’t really his father and that, by the way, his real dad is a vampire?”

  “And that’s just the beginning,” said Jane. “Then I have to tell him about myself. His entire world is being turned upside down.”

  “Yes, well, perhaps if he’d been told sooner …” Byron said.

  Jane wagged a finger at him. “Don’t you even start with that,” she said. “I still can’t believe that it never occurred to you that William might be Walter’s father.”

  “Why would it?” Byron asked. “Fletcher is a very common name.”

  “Still, it never crossed your mind? Not even in a ‘wouldn’t it be funny if’ kind of way?”

  “No,” Byron said. “It really didn’t.”

  “I’ll never understand men,” Jane said. “William Fletcher was your almost constant companion from the time you were sixteen. And apparently you’ve kept in touch ever since. Are you saying that not once did he mention to you that he seduced a vampire hunter who shared his last name?”

  Byron looked uncomfortable. “He might have mentioned the seducing a vampire hunter part,” he admitted. “But that must have been at least forty years ago. I can hardly be expected to have remembered it.”

  “I’m assuming you turned him,” Jane said.

  “Surprisingly, no,” said Byron. “That was just a happy accident.”

  “How did Miriam find him anyway?” Jane asked, signaling the waitress that she would like another pint.

  Byron leaned forward. “Apparently after she married George Fletcher she became interested in researching the family tree. Our William was George’s sixteenth uncle thrice removed or some such thing. When Miriam couldn’t find a death certificate for him, or really any information on him at all, she became suspicious and did some more digging. This brought her to London, where she managed to track William down. Her plan was to stake him, but as you know he’s a man of considerable charms.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Jane said.

  “William managed to seduce her,” Byron continued. “And apparently it took, if you catch my meaning.”

  The waitress arrived with Jane’s drink and took away the empty glass. Jane held the glass in her hand, feeling the coolness of the sides and thinking.

  “I assume George never knew,” she said.

  “I would think not,” said Byron. “That would certainly be awkward. Can you see Miriam sitting him down and saying, ‘Dear, the bad news is that I’ve had an affair. The good news is that he’s an ancestor. Oh, and by the way, the bairn has a good chance of being a vampire.’ ”

  Jane almost choked on her cider.

  “What?” Byron asked.

  “The bairn,” Jane said. “I mean Walter. He’s not a vampire.”

  “More’s the pity,” said Byron.

  “You’re missing the point,” Jane said. “This proves that vampires and humans can … well, you know.”

  “Make bairns?” Byron suggested.

  “Precisely,” Jane said. “What’s more, it apparently doesn’t mean the child will turn out like us. And Miriam knew all along and didn’t say a word. That horrible old woman!”

  “Now, now,” said Byron. “Can you blame her for being suspicious of our kind after what William did?”

  Jane started to reply, but stopped. “I suppose not,” she said after a few moments. “Poor Walter,” she added. “What must he think?”

  “You’ve told people about yourself before,” Byron said.

  “Just Lucy,” Jane said. “And she’ll believe anything. I mean, she’s willing to believe anything. Walter’s different.”

  “Is he?” asked Byron. “Maybe you just need to give him a chance.”

  Jane shook her head. “It may be too late,” she said. “I’ve been lying to the poor man for years. His mother has been lying to him for years. He’ll probably never trust a woman for as long as he lives.”

  “That will take him far,” Byron remarked. “And speaking of the devils, here are William and Miriam now.”

  Walter’s parents came to the table and sat down, Miriam next to Jane and William next to Byron. Both of them looked exhausted.

  “Well?” Byron said.

  Miriam looked up. “It went fairly well until we got to the vampire part,” she said.

  “We considered not telling him about that, but it would have been rather difficult to explain why his father is the same age he is,” William added. “Also, he was a wee bit curious about the fact that his mum was kidnapped by Charlotte Brontë.”


  “He must think we’re all mad,” Jane said.

  “I don’t think he knows what to think,” said Miriam. “He’s probably hoping it’s all a dream.”

  “Where is the boy now?” Byron asked.

  “Taking a walk,” said Miriam. “With Lilith. She seems to soothe him for some reason.”

  “That’s because he can’t hear her talk,” Jane said. She hesitated before asking, “Does he know about me?”

  William shook his head. “We thought it best to leave that to you,” he said.

  “He thought it best,” Miriam said, cocking her head at William. “I was all for getting everything out in the open.”

  “I guess I should go find him,” Jane said. “Do you have any idea where he went?”

  “Kensington Gardens,” William answered. “He said he wanted to see the statue of Peter Pan.”

  “It was his favorite book when he was a boy,” said Miriam.

  Jane stood up. “Wish me luck,” she said.

  It wasn’t difficult to find Walter. For one thing, he was letting Lilith walk on her own three legs, which meant they couldn’t walk terribly quickly. For another, he was exactly where William had said he would be, near the statue of Peter Pan. As Lilith sniffed around Walter stood looking at the figure of the little boy who never grew up.

  “If you’re looking for Neverland, I believe it’s second star to the right and straight on to morning,” Jane said.

  Walter turned around. “You know they added the word ‘star’ for the Disney film,” he said. “It’s not in the book.”

  “I know,” Jane said. “I tried to get him to put it in, but he wouldn’t have it.”

  Walter, apparently either not hearing her or not registering the meaning of her words, went back to looking at the statue.

  “I used to pretend I was Peter,” he said. “My mother bought me a cap like his and I found a cardinal feather in the yard and stuck it in the band. I even had a little bell I carried around and rang whenever Tinker Bell was part of the game I was playing.”

  “You had quite an imagination even then,” Jane remarked.

  Walter looked over at her. “My mother told me a pretty unbelievable story today,” he said.

  “Did she?” Jane said.