by R. N. Morris
It was a shock when he started speaking: his voice bore not the trace of an accent and was equally without affectation. It was obvious that the Count had been educated in England, and had spent much of his life here. If it wasn’t for his name, he could have passed for an Englishman.
He spoke without notes, and with barely any hesitation. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ Count Erdélyi nodded to the white-bearded gentleman who had now taken his seat. ‘When Professor Lewis introduced me, he very generously used the word distinguished. I do rather blush to hear myself described thus by a man who genuinely warrants the epithet.’ Count Erdélyi nodded in approval at the flurry of applause for the professor. ‘I don’t doubt there are some of you here who would have chosen a different adjective for me! Notorious, perhaps?’ He paused again, this time to allow the embarrassed laughter to gather confidence. He added with perfect timing: ‘I’ve heard worse, let me tell you. Notorious, yes. Usually closely followed by the word charlatan. I confess, why I’m thought to be a charlatan, I don’t quite know. I make no claims. I do not pretend to have mystical powers. I consider myself to be a scientist. An amateur, yes.’ His impeccable pronunciation of the French word revealed his foreign origin. ‘But a scientist, nonetheless. I go to places. I make observations. And I write them up. I have never claimed that vampires, as they are popularly imagined, exist. My book, Killing the Dead, is a book about folk beliefs and rituals in a part of the world that I know quite well. It is not a book about supernatural monsters. I dare say that civilized people like you – like me even! – I hope I can claim to be civilized – can put it all down to ignorance and superstition, if we wish. By our standards, there is a lot of ignorance and superstition among the peasants of Roumania. But I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that that is rather too easy – too lazy – a position to take. Anyone who has a serious interest in the science of ethnology – and that is the only claim I make for myself – has a duty to try to understand these things. The ignorance may turn out to be our own.’
Quinn settled back. There was something disarming about the Count’s style of delivery; he made it all seem perfectly reasonable.
Quinn’s glance took in the side of Sir Michael Esslyn’s face. His expression was serious, but neutral. It was impossible to tell what he made of it all.
‘Have I ever seen a vampire?’ continued Count Erdélyi. ‘That is the question I am most often asked.’
The Count paused for effect. A man from the audience filled the space with a jocular shout: ‘Well, have you?’ Quinn thought he recognized the voice. He turned in his seat and saw Mr Timberley. He was interested to note that the young man seemed to have regained his composure.
Count Erdélyi smiled. ‘I’ll tell you what I have seen. With my own eyes. In the village of Răşinari, which is one of two villages in the Răşinari commune, in the county of Sibiu in Transylvania. In the churchyard there, I saw a body exhumed – a recently buried body – that was found to have fresh blood around its mouth. Blood that was not there when it was interred.’
There was a gasp from the audience.
‘The dead man was a farmer called Petre Petrescu, an inhabitant of Prislop, the other village in Răşinari commune. His body was dug up by his son-in-law, Ion Lupescu and a number of his relatives. I saw one of these men hold a stake against the dead man’s chest while Ion Lupescu drove it through Petre Petrescu’s heart with a mallet. And I heard a sound – I can only describe it as a groan – emerge from the dead man’s mouth. So was it a vampire that I saw? Ion Lupescu certainly believed so, as did all the other villagers who went with him to perform this ritual. And that’s the point. That’s the point of interest to an ethnologist. Not whether I believe it. Or whether you believe it. But the fact that they believed it.’
‘How do you explain it, if it was not a vampire?’ The shout came again from Mr Timberley.
‘I do not. I cannot.’ After a beat, the Count added: ‘I am not required to.’
After the lecture, Count Erdélyi was mobbed by a cluster of admirers. Quinn noticed that Sir Michael Esslyn was among them. He was evidently on friendly terms with the Hungarian, whose hand he shook warmly. Quinn overheard Sir Michael invite Count Erdélyi to join him for dinner at his club. It seemed that a number of other men were to be of the party.
One of them was a slightly corpulent man in a pale lilac suit. His hair was blond and curly. With his bloated face, he had something of the appearance of a baby wearing a monocle. Quinn would have described him as even more overtly ‘flamboyant’ than Count Erdélyi. His voice was piercing, his complexion flushed with colour, as he declared excitedly: ‘Of course, you know what the word vampire really means? It’s the argot term for the species of renter who likes to blackmail any poor fellow who is unwise enough to fall for his wiles. I myself have been the victim of more than one vampire.’
‘Really, Pinky, you are too much!’ cried Count Erdélyi indulgently.
Sir Michael Esslyn’s tone was more forbidding, almost chillingly so. ‘Yes, Pinky. This is not the time or place for such indiscretions.’ Quinn sensed the man’s demeanour relax a degree. He could not see his face, but he would have said that he was smiling now, though he imagined it to be a curiously cold-blooded smile. ‘You must at least wait until we get back to the club. You may be permitted to speak with more licence there, provided you don’t do anything to let the side down on the way.’
‘Pinky will always let the side down.’ The comment was made wearily by a man about forty years of age. Quinn had the vague, unnerving sense that he had seen the man before, though he could not say where. Something about the man reminded Quinn of his father, though it was certainly not any physical resemblance. No, for some reason, his mind was insisting on a hidden association that he could not fathom.
The man was still handsome; possibly he had once been thought strikingly so. Now, however, there was something undeniably flawed about his face.
He possessed a full head of dark brown hair. He kept the fringe long and appeared to be in constant battle with it, flicking the troublesome lock out of his eyes repeatedly. Aside from this slight preoccupation with his hair, the man appeared the most robustly masculine of the group.
Even Sir Michael had a certain epicene quality about him, although the effect in him was of a being devoid of sex, or of any sexual interest at all. The mandarin seemed to have placed himself outside and above all such sordid considerations.
‘Mr Quinn!’
Quinn turned sharply at his name. ‘Ah, Mr Timberley. I thought I spotted you earlier. Indeed, I could hardly have missed you. You seemed to take a lively interest in the subject.’
‘Oh, I only came out of boredom. I thought it might be amusing. What about you? Why are you here? I would not have taken you for someone who’s interested in this sort of thing.’
The question caught Quinn off his guard. ‘Oh, I . . . don’t know. I saw a notice about it, and came on a whim.’
‘Running away from Miss Dillard?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘She’s rather set her cap at you, I’m afraid, Mr Quinn. That’s what everyone’s saying, anyhow.’
‘Everyone is saying that?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I see. And is Mr Appleby not with you?’
‘Why should he be?’
‘I meant only that you are friends.’
‘We’re not inseparable, you know. We simply work together and share a room, on grounds of domestic economy. Which, before you say it, is a tautology, I know. I’m well aware that the word economy is derived from the Greek oikos. Which means the same as the Latin word domus. That is to say, house. At any rate, I am not Mr Appleby’s keeper.’
The raw pink that Quinn had noticed in Timberley’s eyes earlier had faded a little. He had recovered his customary liveliness, though there was a spike to it that was noticeably more brittle than usual. ‘I trust there has not been any irreparable rift between you two gentlemen?�
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‘Why do you say that?’
‘Only that you seemed upset when I saw you earlier.’
‘How very observant of you, Mr Quinn. Yes, I was upset. I’d had some bad news. But it was nothing to do with Appleby.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about your bad news.’
‘Thank you. I mustn’t feel sorry for myself, whatever happens. So I would appreciate it if you would say nothing of this to anyone. Least of all to Appleby.’
Quinn nodded with appropriate solemnity.
‘I can’t tell you what it’s about. That wouldn’t be fair on you.’
‘Of course.’
‘It is something I must bear alone.’
‘I understand.’ Quinn looked away in embarrassment. He saw that Count Erdélyi’s group was getting ready to leave.
Timberley followed Quinn’s gaze. ‘Do you think there’s anything in it? Beings who live on after death by drinking the blood of others? Is that possible, do you think?’
‘You’re the scientist, Mr Timberley.’
‘I suppose so. In which case, I would have to say that it is all poppycock.’
‘But?’
‘But I am not just a scientist, am I? Any more than you are just a policeman.’
Quinn was too amazed to deny it. ‘How did you know I’m a policeman?’
‘Oh, everyone knows you’re a policeman, Mr Quinn. It is rather obvious, you know.’
‘I had no idea. No one had ever asked me.’
‘Because there isn’t really a need to. Shall we go back to the house now? It should be safe, I think. Miss Dillard will be back in her room, drowning her sorrows in private.’
‘I do wish you hadn’t said that. It doesn’t make me feel any better.’
On the way out, Quinn stopped at the table of books. Timberley assumed a sardonic expression, as if he would think Quinn a fool if he bought a copy. Nevertheless, Quinn handed in his admission ticket and the price of the book minus threepence. ‘I find him an interesting individual,’ he explained, as his book was wrapped.
Developments
‘An excellent job,’ said Quinn, angling the pen and ink sketch so that it caught the light from the dormer window. ‘I congratulate you, Mr Petter. You have not only captured his likeness, you have brought him to life.’
Petter gave a half-smirk and avoided Quinn’s eye. He was an unlikely-looking artist. His clothes were a little shabby, but otherwise respectable; sober, even. He looked more like a clerk in a booking office than any kind of Bohemian type. It was perhaps just as well given the environment in which he worked. It seemed he kept the artistic side of his nature locked away and under close guard.
If Petter had any awareness of his own talent, he never betrayed it. He held himself slightly bent over, with his face perpetually averted, and often spoke in a mumble that Quinn had to strain to catch. In his response to Quinn’s compliment, it was possible that the word ‘pleasure’ featured.
If only he had more confidence, Quinn thought, he might have been an artist of some note.
‘A very handsome subject.’
Quinn looked up in surprise. It was rare that Petter was able to express himself so distinctly. He even flashed a tentative glance towards Quinn, before sweeping it away almost immediately.
‘I am very glad, Mr Petter, that I chose you to do the portrait.’ Quinn gave an encouraging smile. ‘You’ve done him justice.’
A further surprise: ‘Who was he?’
‘We don’t know. That’s why we need your help. It is my hope that this portrait will help us discover his identity.’
‘It makes a change from my usual work.’ Petter’s hand moved in an involuntary mime of drawing. Quinn’s meagre encouragements were producing remarkable results. ‘Sketching suspects based on witness statements. Makes a change to have some proper reference in front of me. The photographs, I mean.’
‘Yes.’
‘Even if he is dead in them. Not quite the same. But . . . I left out the wound. As you requested.’
‘Yes, that would have rather spoilt the effect, I think.’
The artist reverted to barely audible mumbling for his next comment.
‘What was that?’ Quinn thought he had heard something that had set his heart thumping.
‘I said I think I recognize him.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve seen him around. I don’t know him. But I’ve seen him somewhere. A physiog like that. You remember it. Very pretty face, for a man. Even in the pictures of him dead, you can tell that. It’s the bone structure. You have to look past the flesh to see the bone structure beneath.’
‘Where?’
Petter touched his own face at the cheekbones.
‘No. Where have you seen him?’
‘Oh.’ Petter’s answer was incomprehensible.
‘Again, please. More slowly. Louder, if you don’t mind. My hearing is not what it should be.’
‘I said I think it was at the British Museum. Sometimes I go to the British Museum. The Greek and Roman galleries. To sketch the statues. You get a lot of young men in there, Inspector.’ Petter turned his face more sharply than ever from Quinn, but at the same time endeavoured to keep his eyes on him. ‘But I remember this one. He used to go there quite a lot, you see. If I’m not mistaken.’
‘Did you ever see him there in anyone’s company?’
‘Oh, yes! He was always with some friend or other. That is to say, he always left with someone.’
Quinn had a sudden insight into what Petter really kept locked away inside him. And what it was that made it hard for him to look policemen in the eye. ‘And you never . . . you never left with him yourself?’
Petter’s reply was a smothered blather of mumbles.
‘Mr Petter. I’m not quite clear. Did you ever leave with him?’
‘No!’ The force of Petter’s denial seemed to startle even him. He took a moment to regain his composure, before bowing himself into an ever sharper stoop. In which posture, with his face resolutely turned away from Quinn, he left.
‘Well, well,’ said Inchball from his desk.
‘What do you make of that?’ asked Quinn.
‘An interesting development.’
‘A breakthrough?’
‘Not quite, with respect and all that, sir. Hardly a breakthrough. It merely confirms what we already thought. That Sonny Jim was a renter. We can now include the British Museum among the places where he used to tout for business.’
‘Yes, it seems that way.’
‘Does this information alter your plan in any way, sir?’ wondered Macadam. ‘This is a definite sighting, after all.’
Quinn’s answer was a polite command. ‘Sergeant Macadam, would you be so kind as to run after Mr Petter and ask him to return to the department for me?’
Developments. There were always developments.
But the thing was, not to lose sight of the plan.
Further conversation with Petter produced little else that was salient to the case, except an indication of the best day and time to visit the Greek and Roman galleries of the British Museum. That is to say, the best day and time for observing gentlemen who went there for a purpose other than admiring classical antiquities.
It wasn’t easy getting even this nugget out of him. Sensing the importance that the three policemen placed on his testimony, he clammed up entirely at first. His eyes widened in panic. His mouth – though it quivered occasionally – remained firmly shut. Quinn’s assurances only seemed to add to his fear. ‘It’s all right, Mr Petter. You’re not in any trouble. There’s no question of any action being taken against you.’
A high-pitched whimper was all that this tack elicited.
Sergeant Inchball gave vent to his exasperation by repeatedly banging the table with his fists. It was not an interview technique particularly well-suited to the timid artist. Quinn sent him away to see if he could procure some tea for their guest.
‘He’s frustrated,’ Quinn explai
ned. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s his temperament. He’s prone to it, frustration. We all have our weaknesses, I suppose.’ If Quinn meant anything by this, it was not what Petter took him to mean. He realized he had made a mistake when he saw the terror flash in the young man’s eyes. ‘Take me,’ he added quickly. ‘I have weaknesses too. Oh, yes. What I could tell you about my weaknesses!’
‘What are they?’
Quinn looked over to Macadam, who shook his head warningly. The sergeant was probably right. To confess to an unfortunate habit of killing suspects would probably not help the situation. ‘Legion. You wouldn’t believe it. Sergeant Inchball’s weakness is he’s too easily frustrated. Sergeant Macadam? Well, he does like his motor car. It wouldn’t be going too far to say he loves it. Harmless. Harmless weakness. Most of them are. Now then, Mr Petter, you like to draw, don’t you? Not that that’s a weakness. It’s a great talent you have there, Mr Petter. Obviously you like to draw; you’re an artist. That’s your job. But you also do it in your own time. In your leisure time. You like to go to the Greek and Roman galleries of the British Museum to draw the statues. And I expect you’re very good at it too. I would very much like to see some of your drawings of ancient sculptures.’
Petter mumbled what Quinn understood to be an offer to bring in examples of his work.
‘No, no. That won’t be necessary. What I propose is that we go there, you and I, together one day. And you show me how you do it. I like to visit museums myself, so I would very much enjoy it. And if, while we’re there, sketching – I might even take a pad and stick of graphite along myself – if you happen to see anyone, any gentleman, whom you think you may previously have witnessed in the company of our unknown friend, I would like you to point him out to me. Discreetly, you understand. A nudge in the right direction. Do you think you could do that?’
The spasm that wracked Petter’s head was possibly an agonized nod of assent.
‘Now then, when do you think would be the best time to do this?’