Blood Night

by Heather Graham

  “Let’s start right in, shall we?” Andre said. “What do the police think they have on you, Eric?”

  Eric lifted his hands. “My relationship with Sheila, and the fact she was found on my steps,” he said.

  Cheyenne realized she loved to listen to him talk. He had a beautiful accent, clear and concise and yet…so wonderfully British.

  “Did they accuse you outright?” Andre asked.

  Eric shook his head. “No, they just brought us both in. Emily and me. And we went through my relationship with Sheila.” His face clouded. “I lost a friend. We were still friends. We were just friends going in different directions. And she knew Emily. I believe she was even happy for me.” He hesitated, glancing at Emily. “She felt I had found someone…as boringly rustic as myself.”

  “Charmed,” Emily murmured and then shook her head. “I just can’t believe this happened. I’m so, so sorry. Yes, we’d met, of course. Sheila lived closer to the center of London, but we met with a group of friends for dinner a couple of times, and she knew me. And I knew her. We laughed about our relationship being awkward and all, but…we were fine with one another.”

  “And you told all that to the police?” Cheyenne asked.

  They both nodded.

  “Okay, did you know either of the other young women who were killed?” Andre asked.

  Both shook their heads, almost as one.

  Andre looked at his notes. “The first woman was killed the first day of October, and the second on the thirteenth. History shows that Halloween is when all the sightings and whatnot begin. But, seriously, Halloween in England isn’t like the crazy American event, right? Not until recently.”

  “From ancient times, it’s been the night of the dead,” Eric said. “Samhain, to the old Gaelic, celebrating the end of the light season of the year, and the beginning of the darkness. Also, the night when the veil between the living and the dead is weakest. I mean, seriously, yes, it became a big commercial holiday for you Yankees way before we had that kind of craziness here. But that doesn’t mean people didn’t celebrate the dead or the end of light and the beginning of darkness. They call it All Hallows’ Eve because the following day is All Saints’ Day.” He paused, offering them a weak smile. “You Americans forget that so much in your culture came from us. I mean, where else would one find Puritans who ran for religious reasons and then hanged others for differing religions? We gave you crazy, my good bloke!”

  “Well, having seen some episodes of Benny Hill,” Andre told him, “I have no doubt you’re not nearly as stoic, prim, or sane as we tend to think. But has Halloween become a bigger deal over here through the years?”

  Emily and Eric looked at one another and then nodded.

  “You saw decorations on the way in, I’m sure,” Eric said.

  “All right. What about suspects?” Andre asked.

  “Well, they interviewed another whack job, like the chaps all those years ago who fueled the whole paranormal and vampire thing about the cemetery,” Eric said.

  “Fellow calls himself ‘Father Faith,’” Emily told them. “He does readings, holds seances, that kind of thing. He got himself interviewed for the papers and claims that, yes, there is something in Highgate, it’s never been stopped, and it’s readying itself for something big on Halloween.”

  Andre’s phone buzzed softly, and he rose and excused himself to answer it.

  “Do you know where we can find Father Faith?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Sure,” Emily said. “He has an occult shop just down in the center of town.”

  “He’ll have to wait,” Andre said, coming to the table and pulling back Cheyenne’s chair. “We have a meeting with Inspector Adair of Scotland Yard. Now.”

  She looked up at him questioningly at first, but then she knew.

  Adam Harrison had somehow worked his magic from across the pond. They couldn’t officially be on any kind of an investigation, but Adam had managed to get them the unofficial help that might change the playing field.

  “But…you just got here,” Emily said. “After a trans-Atlantic flight. Don’t you need to rest, to eat, to…feel your feet on the ground?”

  “No, we’re fine. And the quicker we move…well, we’re only five days from Halloween, aren’t we? Got to move faster than a speeding bullet here.”

  “Superman,” Eric said. “I do love American comics.”

  “Well, not Superman. Just human trying to do our best,” Andre said. “And we need to get into Highgate.”

  “None of the bodies were found in the cemetery,” Eric said.

  “You love history as much as languages. Can you pull up some original maps, noting anything remarkable or with changes and get them to my email?” Andre asked.

  “Sure. Be prepared for a hunk of email. But as I said, no one was killed in the cemetery. There are visiting hours now, and a lot more security on the place. Though there is still a lot of that old, charming decay thing going on, despite the historical value. One side—the east side—allows visitors to roam freely. That’s where Karl Marx is buried with a giant head memorial. Once you’re in the area, you can’t miss it. The other side is by guided tour only.”

  “Great,” Andre said. “We’ll take a tour this afternoon. Then we’ll see Father Faith. If you think of anything else, give us a call.”

  Andre quickly led Cheyenne out of the house and to the car.

  “What?” she demanded, sliding into the passenger’s seat. “Something else happened. You dragged me out of there so fast!”

  “Another young woman has been reported missing,” Andre said. He looked her way. “She was last seen walking down Swain’s Lane in the vicinity of your cousin’s home,” he added softly. “We are going to have to find out what the hell is going on here and quickly. Because it’s beginning to look as if someone wants your cousin or Eric either looking guilty as hell…or dead.”

  Chapter 3

  Their meeting with Inspector Adair was at a coffee shop in the center of the main area of town.

  Andre recognized him immediately, though he wasn’t sure why. He was in plain clothes, a casual tweed suit with light brown trim, a matching vest, and a casual cap—much like a deerstalker.

  He rose when he saw them. Evidently, they were just as obvious in their appearance as either an American couple on holiday or law enforcement agents with no authority in the U.K.

  “Special Agents Donegal and Rousseau?” Inspector Adair asked, offering his hand. He was perhaps forty-five with light brown eyes and matching hair. His cheekbones were wide, and his smile was generous, giving him a pleasant look. But Cheyenne also noted that he seemed to have a jaw of steel.

  “Yes, yes. And thank you so much for seeing us. We realize it’s quite a favor,” Cheyenne said, and Andre nodded in agreement.

  “Please, sit down. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering coffee. I love the stuff. You know, we English and our tea-time… Give me coffee every day. Did you know we’ve had coffee longer than tea? They both arrived in the 1600s, but java came first—by about a decade. Now, you folks probably opted to go for coffee first because you were breaking away, but now we’re all happy allies, so we can enjoy both!”

  “Yes, we can,” Andre said as they settled themselves at the table. “You’re working this case as the main investigator by yourself?”

  “Oh, no. But my partner, Inspector Claude Birmingham, suddenly found he had something else to do.” Adair lowered his voice. “He’s read up on the Krewe in America. Says we don’t need any more hocus-pocus here.” Frowning, he leaned back and regarded them. “I have also read up on the Krewe. And I don’t give a bloody damn what you do if you can help. Occultists…paranormal experts…they’re jumping out of the woodwork here. Ghosts are killing, vampires are murdering…and seances must be performed in the cemetery. It’s crazy!”

  “Someone human, of flesh and blood, is doing the killing,” Andre said flatly. “I just spoke to my field director back home. He said he’d gotten word that anoth
er young woman has gone missing.”

  Adair’s eyebrows rose briefly at the fact that they knew this information, but he quickly schooled his features and controlled his surprise.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “But we’ve just taken the initial report. Normally, we wouldn’t be concerned. You know how missing persons reports go. The young woman’s name is Edith Greenbriar. She was partying with friends and was last seen walking down Swain’s Lane toward the home of the relatives she was staying with. Near your cousin’s house, Miss—sorry, Special Agent Donegal.”

  “I’m not really a special anything here, am I?” Cheyenne replied easily with a wave of her hand. “We appreciate you talking to us at all.”

  Adair nodded solemnly, glancing between them with curiosity. “You’re a couple? I mean, not just partners, but—partners?”

  “Yes,” Andre confirmed.

  “Interesting.”

  Andre returned his gaze. “We were both with the bureau before we met,” he said briefly. “Different units then.”

  Adair shrugged. “Who am I to judge?”

  “Can you tell us about this young woman, Edith Greenbriar?” Cheyenne asked, leaning forward.

  He nodded. “Pretty girl, twenty-three, bright-eyed, attractive blonde. She came down from York, lived near Westminster, but took the train up here often because of friends and distant relatives. She was with some of them, supposedly returning home to her family’s place after a night out, and never showed up for work this morning. She’s a sales assistant for a high-end clothing line. Sometimes, as we all know, young women take off. So do young men, of course. But with what’s been going on here, we’ve decided to investigate immediately.”

  “Any leads?”

  “Only, as I mentioned, that they saw her walk down Swain’s Lane.”

  “And you talked to the residents at the new, high-priced apartments?” Andre asked.

  “We did.”

  “One would think she might have been followed from there,” Cheyenne observed.

  “We’re not discounting that. But—”

  Andre raised his eyebrows. “But?”

  “No bodies were found there,” Adair said quietly. “Please, we are not making easy assumptions here. We have, as one says, persons of interest.”

  “And who are those people?” Cheyenne pressed.

  Adair looked straight at her. “Your cousin and her boyfriend are among them.”

  Cheyenne knew not to get angry. Being angry just meant they would quit communicating. She focused on keeping her expression neutral. “Why?” she asked seriously. “Why focus on them and not your other suspects?”

  “A bloodless body on their doorstep. Especially when that doorstep used to belong to the bloodless body,” Adair clarified.

  “You interviewed Emily and Eric,” Andre pointed out. “And you searched the residence. Did you find anything that suggested they might be guilty of abducting and then draining the blood from three women?”

  Adair ran a hand over his face. “No,” he admitted. “And that’s why they’re not under arrest. We have nothing.”

  “But you have other persons of interest,” Andre said.

  Adair hesitated just a minute. “We do.”

  Cheyenne caught his gaze and held it. “But you’re not willing to share that information?”

  Again, Adair hesitated. “All right. You didn’t get this from me,” he said finally, in a lower voice. “We have a few. There’s Clark Brighton, who lives in the new apartments near your cousin. He’s a so-called spiritualist. Spiritualist, not psychic. Not sure about the difference.” Adair shrugged, then rolled his eyes.

  “He’s in his mid-fifties, a loner, but has a cult-like following. He writes essays on the cures to be found in the air and through positive thought. He says there is a Satanic cult at work again. But he’s all New Age love and hugs, or so it appears. He’s an interesting character.” Adair stopped to take a breath.

  “The last young lady, your Sheila, was seeing a few men casually. She dated Mark Bower, a banker who lives just outside the village area. And Benjamin Turner, a local writer and media sensation. Does up bits of history from all over London. He has sponsors on his site and makes a decent living at it. But remember, please—”

  “What about the friends Edith Greenbriar was visiting, or the family she was staying with?” Cheyenne interrupted.

  “Patricia Franks and Victoria Mason. Distant relatives. Both are in their seventies and arthritic. And the other friends Edith had been out with that night don’t know anything either,” Adair said. “But yes, before you ask, she could have been followed from the building. Again, please, please, remember—"

  “That we’re not here to investigate officially, and that you didn’t say a word to us,” Cheyenne supplied with a grin.

  Adair nodded. Their coffee arrived, and they enjoyed it while Adair shared a short history of the town and the surrounding area. He also told them he’d set them up with a private tour of the Highgate Cemetery for the afternoon.

  “Mainly to the West Cemetery. That’s guided tour only. Monte will meet you at the main gate in…” Inspector Adair paused to look at his watch. “In fifty-five minutes. And I, I will be at the autopsy. If you learn anything, I expect you’ll inform me immediately, no matter who it involves.”

  “Of course,” Cheyenne assured him.

  They rose, thanked him for the coffee, and then Andre asked, “What about a man called Father Faith?”

  “An idiot,” Adair exclaimed, waving an arm impatiently in the air. “His shop is just a few stores down. He’s a psychic, though how the hell people fall for all that shite, I do not know! Sorry. He sells incense, herbs, does palm readings, and all that rot. He’s tall and dark and, I dare say, tries to look like a vampire himself. And, yes, we found him to be a person of interest immediately. Real name is William Smith. We couldn’t find anything on him, though, other than him warning followers on his social media channels that they needed his special herbs and kits to protect against vampires.” He gave a mirthless laugh.

  “Had him staked out until our men tired of watching him buy milk and head home to bed. He’s as big a creep as those magicians who caused the frenzy on October 13th in 1970. Hundreds jumping the fences with their stakes and all, doing irreparable damage. Coffins dumped and corpses staked… God save us from such lunatics.” He paused. “Whoops, sorry. Even over here, there are rumors about your Krewe. You’re not…um, weird like that, right?”

  “No, we’re not weird like that,” Andre assured him with a chuckle.

  Cheyenne couldn’t help but respond. “Oh, no. We’re weird in an entirely different way.”

  For a moment, Inspector Adair looked worried, but then he laughed. “Oh, aye, there you go, Americans kidding around. Great. Well, keep me informed of anything you find.”

  “We promise,” Cheyenne said sweetly.

  “And meet your guide—his name is Monte Bolton—at the main gate in”—he looked at his watch again—“fifty minutes now.”

  “Will do, and thank you,” Andre said.

  Adair waved and hurried out, pulling his hat back on.

  “He’s really all right, you know,” Andre told Cheyenne as they watched the inspector leave.

  She smiled. “Yes, he was a decent sort. But we are weird—in our way. So, on to the psychic?”

  “On to the psychic,” Andre agreed. “We now have forty-eight minutes.”

  * * * *

  Given the time he’d spent in Salem, Massachusetts, and his time in New Orleans, Louisiana, Andre had met many a so-called psychic. Some seemed sincere, though he believed they simply had a talent for reading people and telling them things they might already know.

  Most were shams.

  Father Faith—or William Smith—fell into the latter grouping, Andre decided, though that quick assessment might not be fair. He knew witches in Salem who were really Wiccans, respecting their faith as a religion. He knew some who were all show for the tourists who
came into their shops, fascinated and ready to drop their dollars.

  It was the same in New Orleans. There were very good voodoo practitioners and priests and priestesses. But he knew those who were total con artists, too.

  In both alternative religions, no harm was to be done to others. Harm done came back on the one who attempted it. Both Hollywood—and Doc Duvalier in Haiti—had given voodoo a very bad name.

  The shop they approached was called Father Faith’s.

  “How original,” Cheyenne deadpanned, and he shot her a smile as he opened the door.

  Andre hadn’t needed to get inside to perform his initial assessment of the man. His first impression had come from the front window, which displayed modern vampire kits, bottles of potions made from garlic, “guaranteed to drive away vampires and other forces of evil,” plus all manner of sterling jewelry, from crosses to earrings and more.

  Father Faith seemed to be a focal point of the store himself. He stood talking to a customer and gesturing to the shelves that offered all sorts of arcane items: stakes, vials of garlic, oils, candles, herbs, talismans, tarot cards, books, and crosses in wood or silver of varying sizes and all price points.

  As Inspector Adair had told them, William Smith was a tall man, dark-haired, and could easily have been cast as a vampire in any movie. His shoulders were broad, and his age was difficult to determine. But however old he might be—somewhere between forty-five to maybe even sixty—he was extremely fit, moved fluidly, and carried himself with an air of drama and confidence. His eyes were dark, his face was pale, and he wore a collar that seemed not quite priestly, but very close to it.

  Cheyenne and Andre pretended interest in a rack of jewelry, a lot of it beautifully crafted. Father Faith might be a psychic, but he was also good at acquisitions.

  There was a curtain at the back wall of the shop by the cash register, with a sign that alerted the customers that there was a place for private sessions. Presumably those palm readings the inspector had mentioned.

  The man with whom William Smith had been talking made his purchase and left the store—thanking Smith profusely.