Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  “Very good, sir. Any other messages?”

  “If I think of any I’ll deliver ’em myself, though he and Elizabeth are not to wait up for me as I’m not likely to be by unless something extraordinary happens. Otherwise I’ll just leave a note on his writing desk and you can give it to them tomorrow. Are you finished with me? I’m ready to set sail from port? Excellent. Time you got away yourself. Have you the means?”

  “Jamie and I were going to walk to Fonteyn House.”

  “Walk? I won’t hear of it. Take this and hire yourselves a cart or some sedan chairs.”

  “I don’t think that would be proper, sir. Jamie might think himself above his station if he—”

  “Oh, hang, that. These are exceptional times. If he shows signs of snobbery you deal with it as you please, but I won’t have you walking all the way out there on your own after dark. Mohocks aside, it’s just too dangerous. Be sure to take one of my sticks, and see to it Jamie has his cudgel.”

  * * *

  I saw the both of them off out the scullery door. From there they were to make their way past the stables, down a back lane and then emerge onto a street some distance from the house. It was the same route the other servants had taken; I hoped that it was still safe. Just to be sure of things, I followed them the whole time, albeit from a height. Neither they nor—presumably—anyone else was aware of my presence, as it’s most unheard of for a gentleman to take the evening air by taking to the air. Once they were aboard a hired cart and lurching in the right direction for Fonteyn House, I left them behind and returned, making a high circle of the neighborhood.

  No loitering dandies, no unfamiliar carriages, chairs or coaches lurked in the area. I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or annoyed when I slipped back inside the house.

  My plan called for me to wait about the place a bit, making sure lights showed in the windows and moving them from room to room to give the impression all was normal. Then would I make another near-invisible circuit of the street, looking for spies. After a reasonable period—or until my impatience got the better of me—I would venture forth as though to take a walk and see if that drew anyone’s notice. Going to see Litton might do it for me, but if need be I’d try attracting attention by walking the whole way to Arthur Tyne’s home, ostensibly to offer condolences, but primarily to interview him. Should he prove ignorant of these doings, I would at the least get from him and Litton the names of others who might be more helpful.

  After a quarter hour of pacing and peeking past curtains every few minutes, I decided the house was entirely too quiet for me. Lighting more candles did not help, though they gave the place an occupied look to any watchers—much good it would do me if there was no one out there watching. Perhaps I’d counted too much on the villain’s abilities. That or I was too eager for trouble to start.

  Not wise, Johnny-boy. Not wise at all.

  Another few minutes crawled by while I examined the new spinet. Elizabeth had done herself proud, for it looked to be a superior instrument. I was sorry to have to deny her the pleasure of playing it now that it was here. My own clumsy fingers picked out a simple tune remembered from long-abandoned childhood lessons. The sound was beautiful enough to my untrained ears; how might it be once she sat down and called forth its full potential?

  My speculations were cut short by a fearful pounding on the front door that made me near jump from my skin. Were the Mohocks going to try for a bold attack after all? I peered through a window to see who it might be and rocked back on my heels in surprise. What on earth was he doing here?

  I hurried to the entry and opened the door to the full force of Edmond Fonteyn’s baleful glare.

  “Thought you had a butler,” he growled, not deigning to cross the threshold. “Nevermind that. Throw on something and come with me. I want to talk with you, but not here.”

  Too bewildered to question him before he turned and walked off, I had the choice of doing what he said or calling after him and insisting he return. Well, he looked to be in a foul mood already, so there was little point in adding to it. If nothing else this might draw the eye of any watchers. I caught up my heavy cloak from where Jericho had laid it out, jammed on a hat, and grabbed my sword cane. Slipping into the cloak was made more difficult when I realized something heavy was in its inner pocket. The thing banged against my side and caused me some puzzlement until a quick look confirmed the weight to be my Dublin revolver, its six chambers loaded. Jericho had, indeed, thought of everything.

  Edmond had traveled in his coach, but he’d left it standing before the house and was stumping off down the street even as I twisted my key in the lock. I came even with him and asked him a reasonable question concerning his business with me.

  “Someplace less public than this first,” he said, and kept walking. We went by Mr. Dunnett’s little watch house. I passed a quick greeting with him, noting with pleasure the man had treated himself not only to a new cloak, but a thick muffler and gloves. He bade me a cheerful good evening in return, but was allowed no more than that because of the quick pace Edmond set. Apparently he was fully recovered from his misadventures at the funeral.

  I thought he was heading for the Red Swan—yet another surprise—but instead he proceeded on to Hadringham’s Coffee House. Happily, the smells associated with this place of refreshment were less objectionable to my sensitive nose than most, and I followed Edmond inside with hardly a qualm. Within all was warm and smoky, the very timbers permeated through with the exhalation of countless pipes of tobacco over the years. Quite a few patrons lingered at the many tables even this late, for the establishment was a favorite meeting place for the local illuminati. It provided a place to enjoy the exchange of good conversation with one’s fellows, the same as a tavern, but without the resulting drunkenness and debauchery. There were other places to pursue those pleasures when the mood struck.

  The gentlemen scattered about the main room looked up to see who had come in; one or two were familiar faces since I occasionally came here to pass the time when it pressed heavily upon me. I acknowledged each with a polite bow while Edmond dealt with a waiter. He ordered and got a small private room and two dishes of coffee, then told the waiter not to disturb us further. The man had barely set down his tray before money was thrown at him and he was practically booted out.

  “This sounds serious,” I ventured as Edmond closed the door rather hard.

  “It damned well is serious,” he snapped back. “I want to know what the devil is going on.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  From his coat pocket he drew out a folded newspaper and slapped it on the table before me. Though different from the one I’d seen earlier, it was open to a story about Ridley’s murder.

  I did my best to emulate the proper reaction of one who, though the news be bad, has already heard and discussed it at length with others. Not a difficult ruse to maintain, since it was true. “This is a terrible thing, but I know no more about it than anyone else.”

  “That account mentions the duel you had with him, ‘Mr. Barrett of Fonteyn House.’ ”

  I looked at the print and saw that was precisely how I’d been identified. Oh, dear. More notoriety. Father would not be pleased when he heard, Mother might leap into one of her fits, and Edmond was positively furious. “The duel is a matter of fact. I can’t help if some fool put it in print. All I can say is that I’m as shocked as anyone about the murder.”

  “Are you now?” He loomed over me. “And who do you think is responsible?”

  “ ‘Fore God, man, are you implying—”

  “You told me this business with Ridley had been taken care of and a few days later he turns up with his throat cut.”

  “So you assume I had something to do with it?” I felt my face go hot and red as the anger flared inside.

  “I haven’t assumed anything yet. That’s why I’m here—to find out what you kno
w. I don’t care if the bastard’s dead or who killed him, but when the family name is dragged about in public in connection to such a scandal—”

  “Oh, yes, certainly, the last thing this family needs is another scandal.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my tone.

  Edmond pushed his face closer to mine, freezing his gaze to mine with the same intensity I used to force my will upon another. “Stop to think a minute and you’ll see the sense of it.” His tone was low but not benign. He looked as though he wanted to break me in two. “If the law connects Ridley’s death to the goings-on after the funeral, then checks into my household and finds out about Clarinda, she’d cheerfully talk her head off to get back at us even if she goes to the gallows for it.”

  Now did I grasp why he was so angry. It was his reaction to a real fear. “There’s that,” I said, easing into a calmer voice and posture. “But you know very well Clarinda is too fond of her own skin to put it at risk.”

  He grumbled something that might have been an unwilling concurrence for my logic and finally backed away. Despite my lack of need to breathe, I wanted to indulge in a sigh of relief as he put more distance between us by pacing the room. Resisting the impulse, I glanced at the forgotten coffees, which were cooling. Soon they’d be too cold to drink. Just as well, given my limits.

  “Have you questioned her?” I asked.

  “Of course I have. She claims to be ignorant of the incident and put on a pretty show of tears at the news.”

  “You think she lied, then?”

  “The woman doesn’t know how to do anything else, except lift her skirts to anyone in breeches.”

  I gave him a sour face, but might as well have frowned at a wall for all the effect it had. “Perhaps I can talk to her and learn a bit more than you did.”

  “What makes you think she’ll tell you aught?”

  I wasn’t ready to confide about my talent for influence just yet, if ever, and so came up with what I thought to be a plausible excuse. “If I let her think I’m worried, afraid of this business, she might be tempted to gloat a little.”

  He snorted with scorn. “Yes, I’m sure she’ll jump at the chance to do that and thus tell all.”

  “It’s worth a try. Look, I’ve some errands to do tonight, but I could come by tomorrow evening. Perhaps the magistrates will have Ridley’s killer in custody by then and all this will be unnecessary.”

  He grumbled and growled, but finally gave his assent that I could see her. “But you’ve still not answered me. What do you know about this?” He tapped the paper with his fingers.

  “Enough to think the law should seek out his friends for his killer, not his enemies.”

  “Who? Arthur Tyne?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then I hope to God you’re wrong. He’d be worse than Clarinda if he ever started talking.”

  “If he’s guilty of this murder, he’s not likely to bring it up in conversation.”

  “He is if he’s a fool, and he did not impress me much with his wit at the funeral. Just to be sure, I believe I should go see him.”

  “That would be a very bad idea.” He favored me with another scowl, but I was growing used to them. “You want to avoid a scandal, so the best course is to stay as far away from Mr. Tyne and his ilk as you can for as long as you can. He’s not in your usual circle of friends, is he?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Nor mine. We’ll go on as though nothing’s amiss and this business will simply pass us—and the family—by. But if you go barging in and stirring things up, that could change faster than the weather.”

  Edmond had no liking for the suggestion, if only because it came from me, but in this case he reluctantly saw the sense of it. The magical word family had worked to persuade him to caution. I’d have to remember to invoke it more often.

  “I shall take myself along now,” I said, rising. “The evening is wearing. “

  “What sort of business can you have at this hour?”

  He’d probably think it anyway, no matter what I told him. “Just a bit of wenching, dear Cousin, nothing more. There’s a fine lady not far from here. I’m sure she can get you an equally fine companion should you wish to come. Or we can share, if you like.”

  By means of a most contemptuous and forbidding sneer Edmond made it clear that going with me to such an assignation was the last thing he desired to do.

  “Another time, then,” I said with a bright, guileless smile, picking up my cane. At the door, though, I felt a twinge of guilt for my impudence and turned. “Edmond, I know you’re upset over this, but there’s nothing to worry about. There’s even a chance the murder has nothing to do with Clarinda.”

  “I don’t believe that,” he said flatly.

  “Then hope for it, but keep yourself prepared for the worst.”

  “And just how do I do that?”

  I pulled out enough of the Dublin revolver for him to see what it was. “Get yourself one of these if you haven’t already, and watch your back. If Clarinda’s involved in some way, remember she holds no love for either of us. Make sure your servants are trusty and fully understand the virtue of bolting the doors and windows, and though I hope to God it’s unnecessary, give them instructions to notify me or Oliver immediately should anything inimical happen to you. Left without, she might persuade one of them that she’s mistress of her own house again and thus gain her freedom.”

  He pursed his lips and frowned, but he was listening.

  “Otherwise, put an ordinary face to the world and carry on as usual.”

  * * *

  Brave words, I thought during a quick walk back with him to his coach.

  To ensure our mutual safety, we agreed to go together. On the way I gave the street a thorough inspection, finding nothing of note, and made a casual inquiry with Mr. Dunnett when we passed him. He said all was quiet, and considering the vale I’d given him, I knew his report was to be trusted. Edmond grunted approval at this evidence of my own caution.

  I saw him into his conveyance and felt significant relief after the driver had clucked to the horses and driven them away out of sight. My worry had been Edmond would find a reason to go banging on Oliver’s door and discover the house empty. Then I’d either have to explain it or influence him into not caring, and both would delay me for longer than I’d planned.

  Rushing into the house, I went from room to room, putting out the candles I’d left alight. Normally I’d not be so foolish, but Edmond’s arrival had surprised me, and I was too used to there being servants around—neither being much of an excuse to give to Oliver for burning down his home. There was no harm done, thank God, and the place had looked occupied, but the time for shamming was past.

  Locking the door again, I found my conscience yet smarted over Edmond. I should have told him at least some of what had happened so he might be more prepared for trouble. But before I did that, I hoped to make it altogether unnecessary. Far better it would be if I could clear everything up tonight, and I would, God willing. If the Mohocks or the killer or both would not come to me, then I was surely going to come to them.

  It was getting near to the dark of the moon, but the sky had cleared, and what few stars were visible between the city smokes served well to light my way. I felt rather exposed walking along like a normal man, and would have much preferred to rise and take to the sky. I’d become quite spoiled. Though not so vulnerable to the world’s hurts, I was yet as subject to a certain amount of anxiety as anyone. With all that had happened, my nerves were unsettled to the point that I wanted to start at every unexpected sound, and in this precarious state of mind, all sounds seemed unexpected.

  I told myself not to be a blockhead and forged onward, determined to cleave to the plan I’d placed before Oliver and Elizabeth. I had only to visit Arthur Tyne and hear his story, then, depending on what I heard, call on Mr. Litton or one of
the Mohocks and finally sort things out.

  But it had made so much more sense when argued before a cozy fire in a well-lighted room.

  Close upon my approach to the crescent-shaped row of houses where Arthur resided, I half expected to garner some sort of notice. By this time my unease had become so much of a familiarity that it surprisingly transformed to aggravation. If a round dozen Mohocks leaped out to confront me, I’d have yelled my head off, but would have also perversely welcomed the attack as a sign of progress. However, I proceeded unscathed and somewhat disappointed straight to Arthur’s door.

  I delivered a brisk knock and waited. Though the hour was late for a call, I knew the rigid rules for genteel society were likely to be somewhat bent where someone like Arthur was concerned. I knocked again, but no butler answered.

  Damnation, if I’d come all this way for nothing. . . I stepped well back from the door to see the upper windows. One of the curtains twitched. Quick as lightning, it passed through my mind that Arthur, far from being the perpetrator of Ridley’s murder, might likewise be a target for harm himself. If so, then he’d have good cause to skulk in his own house, and have especially good cause to avoid me should the rumor have reached him that I had done the deed. I could knock all night and get no reply.

  The lamp by the door was unlighted. A favorable thing. I glanced once up and down the street. Not completely empty, but no one seemed to be paying much mind to me, and it was dark. To the devil with it. I vanished and ghosted through.

  The entry was dim even for my eyes. All the curtains were drawn, and little outside light seeped inside. I sniffed the air. No bloodsmell, thank God. I listened, hearing nothing on this floor. Some stairs leading up were on my right. Rather than announce my presence by the scrape of a shoe or a squeaky tread, I made myself transparent and floated to the next landing, solidified and listened again.