"I can't—it doesn't matter."
"It's not Karl, is it?" Charlotte did not answer, and Fleur did not press her. "All this going on… I never guessed."
"What, that I have feelings?" Charlotte said with a touch of bitterness.
"You do keep things to yourself, rather. You always have." Fleur hugged her. "It's awfully bad to bottle things up. If you're staying tonight, though, I think it's only fair to warn you that I'm having a little party tonight. Just a few friends, artists, poets—you know, all the sorts Father can't stand—nothing formal. I know you hate it, Charli, but please don't stay in your room; it might help take your mind off things, to meet a few new people."
For Charlotte, tonight seemed to be on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean. She could see nothing beyond noon. "That's all right," she said.
"I have to tell you a little secret," said Fleur, caressing Charlotte's hair. "I'm just as terrified of social things as you are."
Charlotte was so startled by this revelation that she momentarily forgot her own problems. "I don't believe you!"
"But I am. I've taught myself to hide it, that's all. Much as I would love to hunch up in a corner and speak to no one, I force myself to relax and smile. Looks jolly impressive, doesn't it? All a sham, my dear. Of course, there are things that help… better than booze, some of them, and then one doesn't have to pretend. You shouldn't be afraid to try them. Could make all the difference to you, dear."
Charlotte did not respond. She did not want to spoil the closeness between them by voicing her disapproval. Besides, who am I to disapprove of anything anyone does?
She said, "I'm rather tired, Fleur. Could I lie down for a while?"
"Of course. But just come and look at the paintings I've been working on. I'm awfully proud of them, I've done them all in the last month. I work all night, sometimes."
Charlotte let herself be led into the conservatory, thinking, is it the cocaine, keeping her awake all night? "Doesn't Clive mind? He never seemed to like you painting in the first place."
"Oh, it's only his way to complain about everything. He's a sweetie, really, and he adores the work I'm doing now. There, look."
Breathing in the evocative scent of oil paint and turpentine, Charlotte wandered into the maze of plants and easels. She expected to see the light and colourful themes that Fleur loved to paint; flowers, friends, country scenes. What she saw instead made her stop dead in disbelief.
The canvases were dark and macabre, painted in fierce strokes that vibrated in constant angry motion. Expressionistic yet obscure in style, they portrayed medieval nightmares of plague and death; narrow gabled streets, houses with crosses on the doors, incarnadine piles of corpses on which ugly birds were feeding. The colours were black and purplish browns, relieved only by stark highlights of deathly white and blood red.
Charlotte stared and stared at them, incredulous. Then she turned to look at her sister. Fleur looked breezy, unconcerned, but for the first time Charlotte noticed something strange about her eyes; the pupils were different sizes, giving her an unfocused looked.
"Well, what do you think?" Fleur asked.
Before she could stop herself, Charlotte said, "Why are you painting such awful things?"
"Are they awful?" said Fleur, as if Charlotte were criticising the style rather than the content.
"They're horrific." She swallowed, turned away so the angry strokes did not oscillate across her sight. "I'm sorry, Fleur, I don't mean to be rude, but you don't usually paint such ghastly subjects."
Fleur shrugged. "Ghastly, do you think? I just paint what comes into my head. It's so very cleansing. It's no good to turn away from reality, is it?"
Charlotte hardly knew what to say. Can she really see nothing unpleasant in them? The gentle normality of Fleur's house seemed to be turning sour and she felt a cruel sense of deception, as if she had woken from a nightmare, then realised she was still dreaming. Is this the effect of cocaine, opium or something? she thought. Oh, Fleur, what are you doing to yourself? "You don't think you are taking—taking drugs rather too often?"
Fleur smiled, not looking at all offended. "Oh, Charli. Don't be narrow-minded. Besides, we've found something even better now; you'll see, tonight. But if you think my work's that terrible, you had better not look at it. Here's Jenny with the tea."
And then Charlotte thought, What if it's me who's seeing things? The paintings are perfectly normal and I am losing my mind… How can I tell?
***
Charlotte went to lie down in Fleur's guest room, but she had her eye on the clock so often that the hands seemed to have frozen. Then sleep crept over her and she did not even realise, until she woke violently as if her heart had tried to leap out of her chest. It was ten past twelve.
"Oh my God!" In panic she leapt off the bed, ran downstairs and pulled a coat off the hall stand, not pausing to tell Fleur she was going out. Across the road she ran, through the gate in the iron railings, into the gardens. The lawn was deserted, the benches empty, no figures moving between the autumnal trees.
Sobbing for breath, she made her way to a bench and sat down, pulling the beige coat—one of Fleur's—around her. Karl came and I wasn't here and he's gone… Then, No, he would have waited longer than this… Unless he never meant to come anyway.
The grass was very green, the trees black webs draped with mist and bronze leaves. Footsteps—she started, but it was only an expensively dressed woman, walking a Pekinese, on the other side of the railings. Nodüng looked as it should. Charlotte sensed poverty seething beneath the thin varnish of wealth… ghostly queues of the unemployed, the destitute, jostling around her… What a sheltered existence I've had. How could I have dared to envy Maddy and Fleur when I was so privileged? And it was all about to cave in, like a thin layer of rock shattering above a black void. The building were crumbling around her, the monuments to wealth reduced to rubble, the whole of civilisation vanishing like a stage set in flames. The woman walking away with clicking heels was dressed in rags, draped with cobwebs and dust, the little lap-dog a skeleton trotting on the end of its lead.
Charlotte closed her eyes. I won't go mad. I have always lived on this line between life and death; it can't hurt me. I belong here. When she opened her eyes, the world had turned to normal, and she saw Karl.
He was outside the garden, a hundred yards from her on the far side of the square. But he was talking to someone—a small, slender woman, wrapped in a fur-trimmed red coat, her hair hidden under a bright red hat with a deep crown and a narrow brim.
They knew each other. Charlotte realised it with a sinking feeling. Several times Karl touched the woman on the elbow or shoulder, a familiar, affectionate gesture he had often shown to her but never to a stranger. She could just see his face over the woman's hat, but she was too far away to read his expression. He was shaking his head a little. Were they arguing? The woman in red stepped away from him. He went after her—asking her not to go?
It seemed Karl glanced towards Charlotte, though he gave no sign of acknowledgement. Then he took the strange woman's elbow and began to walk away with her.
Charlotte stared at his retreating back, destroyed. The ache inside her became an actual pain, as if he were holding the strings of her heart and stretching them thinner and thinner as he went away.
He lied to me. There is someone else…
No, it's not true. Be rational… But if he could keep his true nature hidden from me, he could keep anything secret.
He's not coming back.
And that last thought, she knew, was the truth. He was not going to come back. But she sat in the square for an hour before the cruel truth sank its barbed hooks into her.
Finally she went back into the house, not knowing where to go or what to do with herself. She ran back up to the guest room, went to the window and stared through the curtains of net and lace at the square.
Nothing is going to help me. Not panicking, not weeping, not telling Fleur nor telephoning Anne. Nothing. I a
m completely on my own and only I can decide what to do.
A strange kind of calmness came over her then. She seemed to feel her mother's presence; soft hands stroking her forehead, an aureate glow of comfort and strength. She heard her father's voice too; "Don't react; think."
Karl was coming to see me; that woman stopped him. (Who was she?) But he'll come again, surely. He knows where I am. I just have to watch and wait for him… and I can't telephone David yet. God, I hope they'll forgive me for this.
She took a bath and changed, borrowing a dress of soft red marocain from Fleur, which was too long and came right down to her ankles. Then they had lunch together, just the two of them, and the feeling of calmness stayed with Charlotte; all emotion suspended, while her mind healed itself. Waiting.
Diffuse sunlight slanted through the room, falling on the creamy walls, elegant modern furniture, the flowers gleaming fresh and bright in Chinese vases; and it rimmed the grotesque paintings in the conservatory. Charlotte had not imagined them. But now she thought, Perhaps Fleur is exploring death in her own way because she has to. Who am I to condemn it, to think it's weird? She may be more like me than I ever realised—and it's my fault I didn't know.
"I wish you would try to eat more," said Fleur. "There'll be supper at the party but it's a long time until then. You are getting as thin as me. You've gone quiet again, do you know?"
Charlotte reached across the table and took Fleur's hand. "I want to tell you about what happened. I can't yet—but I will one day. I'll tell you everything."
Fleur smiled, her brown eyes affectionate. "You seem different, Charli, not all closed away any more. I think something very shocking must have happened to you. I'm sorry you're unhappy, but I'm glad you're here. I wish I could cancel the wretched party, so we could talk instead. But tomorrow, we'll sort all this out." She sighed. "Aren't we silly, not to have been real friends before?"
For the first time that day, Charlotte smiled. Perhaps one, just one good thing had come out of this. The wounds don't have to stay open forever; the past can be healed.
***
Charlotte had expected the day to drag unbearably, but when she went up to her room, fatigue overcame her and she slept dreamlessly all afternoon. When she awoke it was dark, but she was aware of car headlights outside, voices lifting and fading, music drifting from downstairs.
Eight o'clock, she realised with dismay. The party had begun… but what about Karl? Surely he could not have come and gone away without making sure he saw her—yet if he had not, where was he? A single wave of despair kicked through her heart, but she forced it down.
She smoothed her dress, tidied her hair. She could go out into the square and look for him. Perhaps he would come, now it was dark…
The hallway was lit up, Jenny waiting to answer the door, light and music spilling from the drawing room. Fortunately there was no one arriving at this moment; it would be easy to slip out, no questions asked. But as Charlotte descended the stairs, to her dismay, Clive came out into the hallway and stood looking insolently up at her.
"Ah, there you are," he said, blowing out wreaths of cigar smoke. "Joining us at last?"
He demanded her attention, blocked her path. He was slightly drunk, his handsome moustached face flushed, his manner oppressively over-friendly. She tried to smile and slip past, murmuring, "Excuse me, I just have to—"
He caught hold of her arm. "Don't run away, Charli. Not much of a chummer, are you? We'll have to see about this. Come along with me and we'll have a drink and a little talk."
She was taken off-guard and did not know how to refuse without being downright rude. He's nothing compared to Karl, nothing. How can I still feel awed by him? What can he possibly do to harm me?
So she let him lead her, not to the drawing room but towards the dining room. At least it was a chance to find out what he felt about Fleur's macabre work. "I was looking at Fleur's paintings earlier," she said. "What do you think of them?"
She expected him to make some disparaging comment. Instead he replied, "I think they're very truthful, don't you?" He opened the dining-room door, propelled her in, shut it behind them. "Anyway, I don't want to talk about Fleur. I want to talk about you."
Charlotte heard the key turn in the lock.
The dining room was almost in darkness, except for reflections of city lights scattering through the glass roof of the conservatory, fanning dimly into the room.
She felt nervous, threatened. "I don't understand," she said, voice hardening. "You never took such a great interest in me before."
"That was before," Clive drawled, his gaze moving over her. "I thought it was about time I got to know you better. Fleur tells me you're in a spot of trouble. I assumed you must lead such a dull life, but you can't be so dull underneath, surely?"
"What do you mean?"
"Come on, a pretty girl like you? Can't tell me a fellow's never taken an interest in you. I don't believe this mouse act. I want to know what you're really like."
Charlotte felt trapped and so bitterly indignant that she could barely contain it. Clive's attitude was designed to intimidate her.
He was only a man, not a vampire; how could he, how dare he wield this power? Yet she knew that if she tried to leave, he could and would stop her physically. She wanted him to leave her alone. She wanted to say, "You don't know the first thing about me! As if I don't have enough problems, without this!"—but the knowledge that she could not escape filled her with frustration.
Cold and delicate as frost, she replied, "What I am like is none of your damned business."
Clive looked startled, then he smiled. "Aha. Never expected to hear such bad language from your prim little mouth. That's promising."
She took a step towards the door. He blocked her way. "Where's Fleur?"
"Entertaining her guests, as I am trying to entertain you. Oh, come along, Charli. There's no need to be afraid of me." He touched her shoulder and she wrenched away.
"I'm not afraid of you," she said contemptuously. "I don't want to talk to you, that's all."
"Why don't you just relax and trust me? I'm trying to do you a favour, old thing." She saw his teeth glinting in the semi-dark. "Do you know, there's something better than alcohol for releasing the inhibitions?"
"Oh, I see," she said coldly. "You're trying to make me take cocaine. Why make such a great mystery out of it? I've no interest in it, it's sordid. Now would you kindly unlock the door—"
But Clive was laughing, shaking his head. "No, no, you've got it all wrong. This is something far better than any drug."
He came towards her; as she tried to dodge round him he caught her arm and turned her to face the outer doors. They stood open and there was something moving in the conservatory; she saw leaves swaying, shadows stirring between the canvasses. A sense of anticipation rose uncontrollably, squeezing her breath into an unborn scream. It seemed incredible that anything still had the power to alarm her; yet always there was something that could draw fresh fear from the well. It was all she could do to keep the scream in as two figures stepped forward into the doorway.
There was a faint click behind her; Clive had switched on a lamp. A pool of rusty light pushed feebly through the darkness, but the two figures seemed to gather up every photon and radiate it back with splintering brilliance.
"Stefan, Niklas," said Clive. "I would like you to meet my sister-in-law, Charlotte."
The two young men were vampires. They were like delicate, identical porcelain figures, white and gold, their nature unmistakable in their eyes. Two blond vampires, regarding Charlotte with a look of knowing serenity, and blinking in unison.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
Someone to Blame Me
Now that a second night had fallen over Parkland Hall, David looked back on a day of unrelieved misery. They had made no progress in finding Charlotte. When he had returned to the Hall that morning, his father had been waiting, grey-faced, with information from the hospital: Edward's life
was out of danger, but it seemed he had started raving, apparently believing he was back in the trenches. The doctors had had to sedate him.
A couple of hours after David had received that disheartening news, Inspector Ash had come up to the Hall and informed them that a police officer had been found dead under a hedge on the boundary of the estate.
"I'd sent him to report back to the station and go off-duty," Ash said. "Cause of death isn't clear; the only marks on him were some odd-looking scars on his neck. I know what you said about the way von Wultendorf attacked Mr Lees with his teeth, but I can't believe a human bite would be fatal unless there was severe crushing of the windpipe. Anyway, the post-mortem will tell us." He showed no emotion, but the lines on his stern face had sunk deeper. He added, half to himself, "His wife's expecting their second any day."
That was the only clue they had that Karl had escaped the manor. Of the police car, no sightings had been reported, no trace found. But Anne said, "Karl must have taken Charlotte with him. She must still be alive."
"It's a whole day and a night since she was taken," said David in a low voice, "And now we're even further from rescuing her than before."
"We're making every effort to trace the car, sir," said Ash.
"I know, Inspector. And I'm deeply sorry about your constable. If there's anything I can do to help his widow… " David smoothed his dishevelled hair. "If von Wultendorf wasn't a murderer before, he is now for certain."
David's aunt and father tried to insist that he get some sleep, but as long as Charlotte was in danger, he could not. He had spent the day going back and forth with the police, but inside he knew he was doing nothing to help and the knowledge drove him mad with frustration. Now darkness had fallen and another long night stretched ahead…
He stood in the upper hall, rubbing his aching neck, needing a breather from the anxiety that permeated the house. Anne came out to him and they hugged each other. She said, "They're right, you really should get some sleep. I didn't want to but I went out like a light this afternoon and I feel much better for it. You would, too."
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