A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

  “Indeed, when all is accounted for, I deem women to be as qualified—or perhaps more qualified—to be soldiers than men. In but two areas do I see them deficient: those of muscular strength and innate aggression. And to be honest, in this age of bombs and rifles and the Maxim gun, the strength of one’s sword arm becomes increasingly less important, and aggression takes on the appearance of a liability.”

  “Perhaps we women should be the ones doing all the fighting then,” Miss Sharpe said, smirking at him from behind her wine glass, “while you men sit at home knitting by the fire.”

  “Perhaps,” Luka said. “It is rather a tempting thought. I could do with a quiet night in and an improving book.”

  Miss Sharpe scoffed and said, “I very much doubt that, Mister Luka. You seem to me the sort of man who can abide neither peace nor idleness. No quiet nights before the fire for you, I suspect.”

  Luka took another bite of pie and wiped his mouth. In the silence, Miss Sharpe resumed her meal, still smirking a little. It was an enchanting smile, however impish. The sight of it made Luka smile in return.

  “I am a ravening wolf, Miss Sharpe,” Luka said. “I do not sit by the fire at night. I prowl the streets in search of prey.”

  “And what a welcome service, I am told,” Miss Sharpe said. “It is certainly a great deal more peaceful than before you joined us. Why, I would even feel safe walking about at night. Not that I would do such a thing, but if I did, I would feel safe.”

  She fell silent for a little while, sipping her wine and eyeing him with a little smile playing about her lips. Presently, her expression became more serious and she said:

  “Which brings me to another matter, Mister Luka. I understand that the number of unfortunates on the street has increased since your coming here, and the number of beggars also. I wonder why that could be?”

  “It is because those who rely principally on crime for their income have been forced either to depart or to turn to other employment,” Luka replied. “And I fear there is little honest work to be had in this place. It is unfortunate.”

  He frowned slightly. It was indeed unfortunate. He had known that the suppression of crime would lead to some such problem, but it had been a necessary thing to keep the peace. Now, though, that peace was slowly growing, and it might be the proper time to start settling the matter of rehabilitation.

  “A pity,” Miss Sharpe said. “Of course, they are of little threat to my business, but.… As you say, it is unfortunate. I prefer that my customers have as little distraction as possible when they make their way to my door. And while my true gentlemen would never stop for the creatures of the gutter, still there are some who might be waylaid. I have the well-being of my girls to consider.”

  “You are the soul of generosity, Miss Sharpe,” Luka said. “A font of true Christian feeling.”

  “Too kind of you to say,” Miss Sharpe replied. She seemed amused by the sarcasm.

  “It is a problem that I must resolve,” Luka said. “Quickly, if I am able. I cannot remove the shadow of crime by forcing everyone here to die in the street, as expedient as that would be.”

  Miss Sharpe laughed loudly at this.

  “Expedient indeed!” she cried. “Oh, Mister Luka, what a strange man you are. You delight in killing criminals, but you refuse to let them starve. I fear that I shall never understand you.”

  “I am a man of great complexity,” Luka said. “Clearly.”

  “Clearly,” Miss Sharpe said, with another laugh. Smiling, she reached out with her hand and placed it upon Luka’s arm. “But may I offer a suggestion?”

  “Certainly,” Luka answered.

  “If you would see these people lifted from the street, from their poverty,” Miss Sharpe said, “perhaps you should construct a workhouse.”

  “A…work-house?” Luka asked.

  “A place of employment,” Miss Sharpe said. “A place where these wretches can be housed and given honest work. If you are so determined that they should not starve, what other choice do you have?”

  Luka frowned and considered this.

  “What choice, indeed?” he mused.

  * * * *

  Luka thought about the question all the next day. A full-scale workhouse would likely be beyond his capacity to engineer. After all, where in the vicinity of Osborne Court could he find a building sufficient for the purpose? Then there was the matter of locating the landlord, coercing the man into selling, making payment, and finally refurbishing the place. A possibility for the long-term, perhaps, but it did him little good at the moment. And he hoped that Doctor Varanus would have returned from her family excursion by then.

  But perhaps he could find some means of revitalizing the weakened local economy. If more money came into the neighborhood, conditions would improve, there would be more work, and crime—at least crime of necessity—would diminish.

  Yes, he thought, that was the solution. Rebuild the capacity for income and the rest would follow.

  As evening approached, he selected one residence from a list he had compiled. It was one that served the role of a craft workshop as well as a home, a common practice in such poor areas.

  He approached the dilapidated building, climbed an outside staircase to the second floor, and knocked firmly on the door. At first there was no answer, but when Luka knocked again, he heard someone shout loudly:

  “I’ve already paid the week!”

  A few moments later, the door opened slightly, and a woman peeked out at him. She had the exhausted look of the other locals, and she eyed Luka cautiously.

  “Oh,” she said. “Who’re you? What do you want?”

  “Are you Robin Quinn?” Luka asked.

  The woman glared at him, but slowly nodded. “That I am. You the new rent collector? I’ve never seen you ’fore.”

  “No,” Luka said, “I am nothing of the sort. My name is Luka.”

  Robin blinked a few times.

  “I know that name,” she said. “The…the fella up on Parrott Street.”

  “I am he,” Luka said.

  “I’ve heard of you,” Robin said. This realization made her eye him all the more, with no less suspicion than before.

  “Perhaps you’ve also heard that I hold court in the Old Jago Pub,” Luka said. “Or that I have declared a war upon the criminals in these parts.”

  Robin laughed a little, but she sounded uncertain of how to react. Truly, it was an outlandish thing for Luka to say.

  “I’ve heard it,” she replied. “Thought ’twas just talk.”

  “I assure you, it is not,” Luka said.

  “Well…” Robin said. She hesitated. “I’ve done nothin’. Dunno what you’ve heard, but I’ve done nothin’.”

  “I do not question that,” Luka told her. “I am here for another reason.”

  “Oh?”

  “I understand that you make hats,” Luka said.

  “I do,” Robin said. There was a long pause, and she opened the door a little further so she could stick her head out and look at him closely. “Why?” she asked, speaking as one who believed she deserved an answer.

  Luka smiled and replied, “You make hats and you sell them…here?”

  “I make ’em here,” Robin said. “Then sell ’em to a fella who sells ’em to a shop.” Then, a little more forcefully, she repeated, “Why?”

  “I am curious about how the people who reside here make a living,” Luka said.

  Robin scoffed a little. “Livin’. If you can call it that. Scarcely pay worth the trouble. Shouldn’t complain, though. I’m lucky to be makin’ hats. Family downstairs, they paint dolls an’ they’re always sick. I swear, ’tis poison or somethin’; I don’t know what.”

  “That is what interests me,” Luka said, folding his arms. There was a pause and then he asked, “Would you consider taking on some assistants, so that you could produce more hats in less time?”

  “Why should I do that?” Robin demanded. “I can’t pay anyone. Man who buys the hats f
rom me scarcely pays enough. An’ where are they to sleep? Not with me.”

  “What if you sold the hats directly?” Luka asked.

  He doubted very much that the middleman was paying her anything approaching a fair price. Nor, for that matter, was it likely that any of the locals were being properly compensated for what was doubtless exhausting and deteriorating work.

  “You think a shop would buy from me?” Robin asked. “You are a queer sort.”

  “Think on it,” Luka said. “We shall speak again.”

  He touched the brim of his hat and turned to leave, only to see a gruff, scruffy man in a dull green suit climbing the stairs behind him. The man had a knobbed walking stick in his hand, though it was short and crude, rather like a cudgel—as which, Luka surmised from his disposition, it probably saw far more use than it did as an aid for walking.

  As the man with the stick climbed the stairs, Robin stepped out onto the landing and shouted at him, “I’ve already paid the week’s rent! I don’t owe you nothin’ for three more days!”

  The man reached the top of the stairs, breathing heavily from the effort, and pushed Luka out of the way with scarcely a glance at him. Curious and slightly amused, Luka stepped to the side and folded his arms.

  “You owe what I say you owe when I say you owe it!” snapped the rent collector, banging on the wall of the building with his stick. “An’ I say you owe now, so best you pay up! Or it’s into the street with you an’ your brat!”

  Robin shook and winced at the sound of the stick striking wood, but she set her face and held her ground.

  “Three days!” she replied. “I’ve three more days!”

  “Pay now,” the rent collector said, “or out you go.”

  Luka cleared his throat. “Pardon my interruption.…”

  The rent collector turned on him and shouted, “Clear off!” For emphasis, the man struck the wall of the house again.

  “Miss Quinn,” Luka said, turning to her, “Why don’t you go back to your work? I will handle this.”

  Robin looked at Luka suspiciously for a moment before withdrawing back inside the house. As she did, she snarled at the rent collector and repeated:

  “Three more days.”

  When she had closed the door, Luka turned back to the rent collector. The man looked at him, face beet red, and shook his stick.

  “What in fuckin’ Hell you fuckin’ think you’re doin’?” he demanded. “Get outta my sight!”

  Luka gently brushed his moustache with a fingertip and said coldly, “If the woman’s rent is not due for three days, it is not due for three days. And as the landlord is, no doubt, making quite the profit on this place, I cannot imagine that he would care enough to send you early.”

  “Wha’ are you—”

  “So I think you are looking to extort some extra money on the side,” Luka said, straightening his back so that he loomed over the man ever so slightly. “A practice of which I do not approve.”

  “Tha’s it,” the rent collector snapped, raising his stick. “I warned ya.”

  Luka, annoyed at being interrupted, stepped forward and struck the man in the stomach with his fist. The rent collector doubled over and gurgled in pain. Luka took him by the collar and forced him to stand up straight.

  “There is something else that I think,” Luka said, placing his face close to the other man’s. “I think that you are scum. A poor man robbing other poor men at the behest of rich men. And if that is so, the landlord you serve will think little about your disappearance. When you’ve gone, he’ll simply hire someone else for the job.”

  Luka lifted the man until he stood barely on tiptoes and shoved him against the wooden railing.

  “Now wait…!” the man cried.

  “My apologies,” Luka said. “Did you expect me to wait three days? It seems we are both impatient.”

  “Wait—”

  Luka thrust the rent collector over the railing and let him fall. The man tumbled down into a pile of discarded rubbish, landing headfirst. Luka brushed off his hands and walked down the stairs. He always felt pleased with a job well done, even something so simple as throwing a man off a building.

  He knelt by the body and checked for signs of life. The rent collector was still alive, but he would not be for long. His breathing was shallow, and he was unconscious, likely to remain so until death took him. Luka stripped the man of his few valuables. If the police bothered to investigate the body, it would be easy for them to dismiss it as a robbery.

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of horses approaching up the street. He stood and pressed himself against the alley wall, peeking out cautiously.

  He saw an old delivery wagon painted a drab black trundling in his direction. There were two men seated atop it, both bearded and with their hats pulled half down over their faces as if against rain. They moved slowly, as if at leisure. Perhaps they had no concern for time, or perhaps they were looking for something.

  Luka carefully withdrew into the shadows and waited for the wagon to pass. But it did not pass. Instead, as it came alongside the body of the rent collector, it slowed to a stop, and one of the men leaned out for a better look.

  “Aye, ’tis a body,” he told his companion, the driver.

  “Then get down an’ check,” the driver told him.

  The passenger alighted and knelt by the body. The driver took a drink from a flask and rubbed his hands against the chill of the evening air.

  “Well?” he asked. “Live or dead?”

  “Live for a while longer,” said the passenger.

  “That’ll do, then,” the driver said.

  The driver climbed down and unlatched the back door of the wagon. Together, he and his passenger hauled the body of the rent collector into the back of their conveyance and locked the door again.

  They climbed back up in front, and the driver took another drink. He offered the flask to his companion, but the passenger scoffed and said:

  “Not on your soul. Drink’s the Devil’s work and no mistake.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the driver, taking another drink.

  In the shadows, Luka watched as the wagon rolled on down the street and finally receded into the growing darkness.

  So, he thought, there was something to Cat’s mad fantasies about a wagon of the dead. How many more bodies had they taken from the streets? And worse…if “alive or dead” was a matter of little consequence to them, had the living been taken as well? Or exclusively? It was not difficult for a person in such a place to go missing without notice.

  And where was the body to be taken?

  Luka broke from the shadows and hurried after the wagon. So long as the men aboard kept their faces forward, there was no risk of being spotted. Even a sideways glance would not reveal him.

  The wagon moved slowly through the rookery streets—for how could it do otherwise when they were so narrow and confined?—and so it was no difficulty for Luka to follow at his leisure once he had closed the distance between them. But as the wagon approached Bethnal Green Road, its pace increased, and Luka was obliged to run again to keep up. Reaching the wagon, he grabbed ahold of it and pulled himself aboard, clinging to the back with a firm grasp.

  The wagon continued along, bumping and jostling through the streets. On it went, with nothing about it to suggest that there was anything untoward—save for Luka, clinging to the back. Presently it came to Whitechapel, crossing the main road and passing into the back streets.

  By now Luka was cold from the evening air, and his hands were sore from gripping the sides of the wagon. At each jolt and jostle, he grunted in discomfort—more from irritation than acknowledgement of the pain. But he could not fail to notice as the wagon began to slow.

  Looking up, he saw that they had reached a building, an old factory or a warehouse of some sort, surrounded by a high brick wall. A glance ahead told him that the gates to the yard were open. He had enough of his answer. There was no need to risk discovery by remaining longer. As the w
agon slowed to turn, he dropped to the street and began walking briskly in the other direction, just a simple passerby.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw the wagon pull into the factory yard. The gates were closed behind it, and in a few moments the street was silent once more.

  Luka paused at the corner and lit his pipe, making note of the building and its location. He could not investigate further now, but he would do so soon, once he had time to plan.

  * * * *

  Luka elected not to return to Osborne Court immediately. Let Bates and his men have a chance to be tested on their own for a night, working without supervision. He would return in a few hours and take note of their performance in his absence. In the meanwhile, he had a much greater interest in the mysterious carriage and the building that was its home.

  He waited by the corner smoking for almost an hour, keeping to the shadows. He hoped to see more signs of activity, possibly some people coming or going, but the place was quiet. No one entered and no one left. Perhaps that was not so surprising, but still it was noteworthy. He would have to return sometime during daylight and see what sort of activity was to be seen then.

  After he had finished smoking, Luka walked back in the direction of Whitechapel Road. For the first time since arriving in the district, he was able to give it a proper survey. What he saw was of little appeal. It was a slum and no mistake, almost—but not quite—as bad as Osborne Court. He walked in silence around the alleyways and passages crisscrossing the main road, studying the conditions.

  Yes, he concluded, there was much here that was familiar: the poverty, the vagrancy, the prostitution, the gangs. In some ways, it was almost a pity he had not yet brought Osborne Court to heel. This place could do with his touch as well, though it was far larger and would require more time. The one was more than enough to occupy him, let alone both. But if the Doctor insisted upon remaining into the next year, perhaps he would migrate his efforts south a little, though there was Bethnal Green to consider as well.…

  How much easier it would be to keep the peace as a despot with an army at his command. Making due with a hodgepodge of gang men was such a nuisance.

  As he went, Luka took a few moments here or there to pursue inquiries about the warehouse. He was careful whom he asked, selecting mostly beggars and vagrants and the occasional prostitute working south of Whitechapel Road. He also took a care to visit the local taverns and pubs, making conversation with the barmen and a few of the customers over some ale. No one was overly friendly to a stranger like him, but alcohol proved remarkable at loosening the tongue.