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My world had crumbled. The only thing I had ever touched without ruin was gone. Why had they taken her? I could not imagine Niccolo hurting Camille, hurting a child, but the image of that tender face sucking the life out of the rabbit was still vivid in my mind. Would they hurt her? It did not make sense. Why would they go to such lengths for such a small and innocent creature? I did not know. That was the agony, the unknowing.
The days that followed the abduction brought a relentless barrage of outsiders into our home and lives. Not a morning passed that Scotland Yard wasn’t knocking at our door. I told them everything it was safe to tell about Niccolo Cavalanti and Lodovico—about the carriage accident and Niccolo’s stay in my home, about my interest in his ‘rare medical condition,’ and how I knew nothing of his immediate past, his family, or where he lived. I judiciously recognized that the authorities were far from being able to consider seriously the supernatural in their investigations. Even the mentioning of Niccolo’s immunity to paraldehyde and the Neapolitan hearse brought raised eyebrows from Scotland Yard. I cautioned myself not to put too much hope in their investigations. Still, it hurt when they uncovered nothing.
Camille’s abduction made front-page headlines in the city’s newspapers, and not a day passed that some reporter wasn’t snooping around our door. In my first encounters with the press I was cordial and issued brief statements about my remorse over what had happened. They also kindly printed a public plea for anyone having any information that might help us, and to my surprise hundreds of letters poured in. At first I greeted these letters with excitement. Some even blamed the vampire. Once again my hopes were crushed. After I examined, them I realized they were only from crackpots. I suppose it was the Neapolitan hearse that inspired the wretches. The theories that blamed the vampire for the kidnapping were as puerile and uninformed as those that blamed Jack the Ripper, the Whigs or the Tories, and even Prince Edward. After their initial sympathy the newspapers soon realized it was the lurid details of the case that sold copy. The Times ran headlines like “Prominent Physician’s Daughter Taken by Body Snatchers,” and The Illustrated London News ran hideous lithographs of every possible atrocity that might be performed upon little Camille. They were stories for the “penny dreadfuls” and they made life nearly unbearable.
As for Cletus, the only bright spot in those dark days was the fact that he was visibly shaken by the event. Although he had come to warn me about Niccolo I don’t think Cletus ever really believed any of his theories or concerns. Now that something had actually happened, he had taken on an entirely different attitude. He was very quiet and ill at ease when I saw him in the corridors of Redgewood.
It was one week after the incident that two inspectors from the Yard, a Captain McClough and an Inspector Inglethorpe, came to tell me of their first break in the case. Both had visited my home several times previously. Captain McClough was the chief officer of our local precinct. He was a large man with caterpillar eyebrows and a full gray mustache. His demeanor was more apologetic than proficient. It was clear from the first he was one of those typical and very traditional English gentlemen known as “a good ol’ boy.” Inspector Inglethorpe was a younger gentleman, of medium height, polite and good-looking, with black hair and a black mustache.
The maid brought, them to my study.
“Dr. Gladstone,” Captain McClough greeted.
“Yes.”
“We wonder if your cook is at home.”
“Yes,” I returned, wondering what possible need they had of her. Three different groups of inspectors had already asked her every imaginable question twenty times. It seemed cruel to go through the list once again.
“Is your schedule very busy today?”
“Is there some news?”
“We think we’ve located this Neapolitan hearse of yours,” Captain McClough said with obvious pride over his revelation.
“In London!”
His face fell. “I’m afraid not, sir. It’s in Dover.”
“And Camille?”
Once again he lowered his eyes disconsolately. “I’m afraid there’s no luck in that either, Dr. Gladstone, sir. The hearse was discovered abandoned. There was no sign of the blokes who took your daughter.”
I sighed and stroked my forehead as both Captain McClough and Inspector Inglethorpe shifted their weight uneasily.
“We were wondering,” the younger man continued, “would today be a convenient day for you and your cook to accompany us to Dover so that a positive identification could be made?”
“Yes, we can go with you,” I said.
After explaining the situation to Cook we made our way to Victoria Station. The train ride to Dover was uneventful. Once there we were led to a rundown storage lot in the waterfront area, near the piers where the passenger ferries leave to cross the Channel to France. The storage lot was filled with numerous large crates and piles of metal pipes, all covered with huge tarpaulins. As the police wagon approached the lot I noticed a number of policemen standing around one of the rows of crates. It was only after we came to a stop that I noticed the hearse. It was large and elegant, with gilt inlay on the huge spoked wheels. The carriage housing was black and shiny with decorative carved knobs at each of the four upper corners. The plate glass was blackened from the inside and as shiny as a sheet of obsidian.
Cook, prim and dignified in her black woolen shawl and cap with a bit of netting hanging from it, began to shift about excitedly, trying to get a better view.
“Glory,” she said, “but if that isn’t it!”
We stepped down from the police wagon and approached the abandoned hearse.
“Can you be absolutely certain?” Captain McClough asked. Cook began to cluck and shake her head as she touched a small handkerchief to her eye.
“Oh, yes, Constable. I’m quite certain of that, I am. The image of them taking the little mistress away—it ’as been burnt in my mind.” She dejectedly turned toward me. “I’m so sorry, sir. I—”
“It’s all right,” I hushed and put my hand upon her shoulder. The wind from the Channel swept around us. I looked at Captain McClough. “So what has happened to them? Did anyone see them leave the hearse here?” Captain McClough began to bluster something when suddenly Inspector Inglethorpe stepped forward and cleared his throat. “In answer to your questions, I’d say it’s pretty obvious they went to France. They apparently abandoned the hearse so as not to attract attention on the ferry. We’re trying to trace the hearse and the horses, but we don’t think that’s going to result in much. Unfortunately, we have very little to go on. There’s no record of Mr. Cavalanti buying a ticket, but that doesn’t mean anything. They most assuredly traveled under assumed names.
“In answer to your second question, yes, someone did see them. We did a lot of legwork and asked a lot of people up and down the piers if they saw anything. We’ve come up with a dockworker named Herg who remembers two men and a little blind girl answering their description.” He motioned toward a group of policemen standing a little ways away from the hearse and for the first time I noticed a large man, crudely dressed, with his sleeves rolled up over his powerful arms. He was young, with short brown hair, a large red nose, and clear blue eyes. He seemed very humble and willing to please and held his cap in front of him in his hands.
I felt a pang of hope.
“Dr. Gladstone, may I introduce you to Mr. Herg.”
The man nodded and meekly came forward. “Dr Gladstone,” he said, continuing to nod.
“Mr. Herg,” I returned. “They tell me you have seen my daughter?”
“The lil’ blind girl wi’ brown ’air an’ large green eyes?”
“And wearing a plain white smock with black knee stockings?”
“Aye, I belie’ so, Dr. Gladstone, suh. An’ t’other men as well; a red-heidit young boy wi’ curly hair, an’ the aulder man. I saw ’em drive up into the yard, and belie’ me, suh, I began to watch. I wondered who would be comi
n’ in a ’earse. An’ lo’, these two blokes get out wi’ the lil’ girl.”
“Were they mistreating her?”
“Noo, suh. They seemed most kind. An’ the lil’ girl, she was as happy as could be, playin’ wi’... well, yew know...
“Playing with what, Mr. Herg?”
Herg glanced around nervously. “That awful object, suh. The sever’d ’and. The ’and made o’ stone, wi’ the scar across its back.” He gripped his cap diffidently as Inspector Inglethorpe stepped forward.
“Do you know anything about that, Dr. Gladstone?”
“No, nothing,” I said, wondering if they knew anything about Niccolc’s vandalism.
Inspector Inglethorpe continued. “Well, this is a strange case, an abduction in a hearse and giving a little girl a marble severed hand to play with.” He looked uneasily at old Captain McClough, who was busily straightening his tie.
“Oh, yes. Quite, quite,” he said.
Inglethorpe turned once again to the dockworker. “Was there anything else of note that you should mention to Dr. Gladstone?”
“Jes’ that I am sorry. I ’ave a daughter o’ my own, an’ I know ’ow it must be.” He glanced at me sympathetically.
I nodded.
“Jes’ the ’earse, the three o’ them, an’ the sever’d ’and. An’ tha’s all.”
Herg went back with the other group of policemen.
“So, Inspector Inglethorpe. What will you do next?”
“Continue our investigations here, of course, but I think we’ll have more luck across the Channel. I’ve already contacted the French authorities and we’re proceeding with every possible effort. Still, Dr. Gladstone, there’s one thing that bothers me a great deal. It’s been quite a while and they still haven’t sent you any hint of a ransom note. What would such criminals want with the daughter of a wealthy physician if they weren’t after ransom?”
I felt helpless. “I wish I knew, Inspector Inglethorpe. I wish I knew.”
When I arrived at home I went to the study. The hand was, indeed, gone. Camille must have wandered in and retrieved it. Such a strange fascination she had with that curious objet d’art. I wondered what Lodovico thought of seeing the little girl playing with the facsimile of his hand, his scar, and what had caused the scar?
I was still deep in thought when Ursula broke into the room.
She wore a bright scarlet shawl and her flesh was waxen against its brilliance. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“It’s all right,” I returned.
A tension prickled between us. Ursula strolled casually to the fireplace and admired the African grasshoppers. We pretended not to be overly aware of each other; but we were. I expected Ursula to apologize. As I have said, it was rare for us to fight. I could tell she was deeply disturbed over the rift that had developed between us. She seemed anxious and involved in her thoughts. Finally she turned toward me. Her eyes were searching.
“Father?”
“Yes?”
“You blame me, don’t you?”
“You disobeyed me. If you hadn’t disobeyed me this might never have happened.”
She regarded me sadly. “Did you never disobey your own father?”
Had I? Had I ever really disobeyed him? Only in my thoughts. “No,” I replied solemnly.
Again her eyes searched mine. There was a strange mixture in her gaze. There was remorse, but there was something else. Was it anger? Anger at what? Not at me. A question lingered on her lips. I knew she wanted to dispel the uneasiness that existed between us. Only her intense pride held her back. Was it the soft word I waited for?
Her lips began to move. “Why do you think they took Camille?”
The question surprised me. I frowned at her, distraught by my own bewilderment. “I don’t know.”
She stepped forward and allowed a single white hand to grip the back of the padded and buttoned black leather armchair. The pressure of her grip and the knitting of her brow indicated it was a question of unexpected importance to her. It was strange. It was not an easy thing for me to say. Ursula had always been very compassionate about Camille. Ursula had comforted her and rocked her to sleep, perhaps even more than I had, but there remained a certain streak of coldness in Ursula. Naturally, she was concerned about Camille’s welfare, but I could not help feeling her curiosity was of a deeper vein than mere sibling affection.
She looked directly in my eyes. “Do you think they will hurt her?”
I shrugged. I remembered Niccolo’s indignation at being accused of “biting children,” but I also considered how deliberately he had lied to me and created the subterfuge to kidnap Camille.
“I don’t know,” I gasped impotently. “Do you think he will hurt her?” In the ensuing seconds I realized Ursula’s answer was much more important to me than I might have expected. I found myself watching her anxiously, waiting for her answer as if I secretly felt it was somehow more valid than my own perceptions and feelings.
“I’d like to think he won’t,” she replied. “I’d even like to hope he won’t,” she stressed, “but when I search the farthest corner of my feelings I find that I simply don’t know.”
There came a tap at the door and we both turned to see Cook standing there. “There’s a woman waiting in the drawing room who wishes to have a word with you,” she informed.
“You let her in before consulting me?” I asked, a little piqued.
“She insisted,” Cook blustered. She wafted a lock of white hair out of her eyes. “She told me her name was Lady Dunaway, and as I turned around to fetch you, she pushed right in and made her way into the drawing room.”
“Well, I’m going out,” Ursula said as she quickly left without even saying good-bye. I cast her a quizzical glance as I shook my head and proceeded to the front of the house. As I entered the drawing room I realized for the first time that it was a particularly sunny June day. Golden light flooded through the French windows and the gilt on the pianoforte glistened brilliantly. Indeed, everything shimmered, the deep red brocade wallpaper, the brass standard lamps, the bright chintz sofas and chairs, and even the mellow green and gray Constables on either wall glowed as if filled with a new atmosphere. In front of one of the Constables stood Lady Dunaway.
She turned the moment I entered the room.
Lady Dunaway was a sight to behold. She was very tall, fully as tall as myself, and she wore a plaid ulster and cape, with a two-peaked Sherlock Holmes cap. At first when I examined her face I thought her features were unusual. Her cheekbones were a little too high, the angle of her chin a little too sharp. A pair of small and froggish gold-rimmed eyeglasses rested precariously on her long and very straight nose, and the lenses magnified her deep brown eyes ludicrously. As I continued to look at her, the eyeglasses were so incongruous with the broad white face that my mind’s eye blotted them out. It was only then that all the awkward jigsaw pieces of her features melded into a strange harmony, and I saw how striking a woman she actually was. She was beautiful, but in an aquiline, even alien way. Her raven-black hair was drawn tightly into a knot behind her head, and it made her face look very smooth and chalky, like a piece of statuary. Her presence was exceedingly dignified, and I guessed her to be in her early thirties. Her hands were large, and she wore prim suede gloves.
“Dr. Gladstone?” she inquired and the smoky contralto of her voice startled me. It was deep for a woman’s. It did not go with the delicate little eyeglasses, but it formed the perfect counterpoint with the powerful bone structure of her face. In the distance I heard the front door close as Ursula left for her undisclosed appointment.
I smiled. “Lady Dunaway?”
She nodded, but did not smile. “Lady Hespeth Dunaway,” she said as I motioned for her to have a seat. Even though she was large for a woman, I could tell she was svelte and graceful beneath the folds of her ulster and cape. She sat down on the bright chintz sofa.
I sat down in one of the nearby chairs.
“You have a lovely home,” she said, toying with the locket around her neck.
“Thank you.”
“Is this the pianoforte?” She gestured at the window. “The pianoforte?”
“The one the little girl played.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
She did not answer.
“So tragic. Please let me offer my sincere condolences.” She gazed at me intently. Even through the large spectacles I discerned a warm and deeply felt sadness. “Thank you,” I muttered.
“May I ask you something? Did you like the young man, that Niccolo Cavalanti?”
“My dear Lady Dunaway, why are you asking me these questions?”
She gazed at me blankly. “Well, did you like him?”
“With all due respect, I’m afraid I cannot answer unless you explain to me why you are here and why you want to know all of these things.”
“I’m interested,” she said simply and tilted her head back, gazing at me with indignation.
I started to think she was one of the sympathetic and doting women who had written me. That was it, I thought, just another one of these silly women. But all of a sudden her peculiarity, the pallor of her complexion, and the power and authority with which she spoke struck a chill into me. Had Lodovico sent another emissary to my home? Was this creature a vampire?
With a sweeping gesture she threw her plaid cape behind her shoulders, stood, and walked toward the pianoforte. I was ready to jump up when I noticed something. There was a gleam about her hair. It was in the middle of the afternoon. She was standing in the full flood of the sunlight pouring through the windows.
At just that moment Cook clattered in with a tray of tea and scones and placed it on the mahogany table amid the chintz furniture. She glanced at me with nervous curiosity. As always, her eyes revealed she was dying to know what was going on. I did not know what was going on. I shrugged and she clucked her tongue in exasperation as she left the room.
Once again Lady Dunaway turned around.
“You must have liked him to have trusted him in your home. I’ll wager you were even fond of him.”
The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life Page 13