The Falstaff Vampire Files (10 page)

“That used to be my favorite restaurant. Now I can’t go back there.”

“More’s the pity.” His cheeks had gone from that waxen pale to flushed.

“You drank that girl’s blood?”

“Now, Kris, ‘tis my vocation, Kris. It’s no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.”

“But I didn’t see any mark on her.”

His voice sank to a low growl. “There are veins I can tap, Mistress Kit, if a woman be willing, deep down in places that leave no mark to the inquiring world.” He pulled a pair of purple silk panties out of his pocket and dangled them from one plump hand. “No match to the dress, but a pretty souvenir.”

“Put those away!”

He laughed, sending a thrill to places I wasn’t about to acknowledge and a dizzying sense that my life was spinning out of control.

Chapter 28

Kristin Marlowe’s typed notes

August 6th continued

Violet met us at the front door
to her house with an air of suppressed merriment. “I have a surprise for Sir John.”

“Can it wait just a minute? Will you excuse us?”

Sir John nodded graciously. Radiating good will and cheerfulness, he went, humming a melody I’d never heard, to sit in the front room.

I pulled Vi into the kitchen and told her what had happened at the restaurant. “He could be dangerous, Vi.” When I got to the part about pulling the pair of panties out of his pocket, Vi started to laugh. “So he didn’t eat a thing?” she asked

“Unless the lady in red slipped him a pork chop in the ladies room.”

“More likely he slipped her—”

“Vi!”

But her eyes were shining. I had never seen my friend so happy. “You say vampires are fictional and Sir John Falstaff is a fictional creation, but fiction has to be based on some kind of reality.”

“Not necessarily, it could be—”

“Yeah, yeah, superstition, misinterpretation of other illnesses, blah-blah-blah. But you saw him before he went out to dinner—he was pale and he came back all pink and rosy. Did he drink someone’s blood?”

“I didn’t see him do that. Maybe he’s just a horny old con man,” I concluded.

“I’m sure he’s all that too.” Vi didn’t look in the least discouraged. “But Falstaff was a rogue too, wasn’t he? In the plays, I mean?”

“Maybe he’s a gifted actor who turned to crime because it’s hard for fat actors to get the good roles. This Falstaff and vampire yarn could be part of some elaborate con. Maybe he’s working his way through the Ashland Shakespeare Festival mailing list.”

“Hey, you found him. How was he to know you’d wander into Hal’s garden shed?”

“Good point. Just don’t let him near your wallet or your credit card info.”

“Don’t worry, Kit, he’s just as good material for me if he is a con man. Come on, I brought him a can of Falstaff beer. Let’s see what he says about that.”

I sighed. “All right.” I didn’t want to leave her alone with him.

Chapter 29

Kristin Marlowe’s typed notes

August 5th continued

Sir John loved that they had named a beer
after him. He didn’t seem disappointed when Vi explained that we couldn’t drink it since it came from a bartender’s collection. He said all his hunger and thirst had been satisfied at the restaurant.

I hadn’t ruled out an elaborate con game, and he might have partners in crime. I held all possibilities open while Vi brought out her old fashioned tape recorder and a box of fresh cassettes.

Sir John talked for hours. The man could spin a wild tale. He talked of medieval warfare and of royal intrigue. After several hours even Vi, who was recording it and madly scribbling on a pad of paper, stopped and shook her hand. “I’ve got writers cramp and I’m going to run out of tape soon.”

“I’ve got clients tomorrow. Shouldn’t we all get some rest?” I needed to get some sleep, but I was afraid to leave them alone together.

“Wait, just a few more questions.” Vi turned to Sir John. “If you’re Falstaff, then maybe you’re really Sir John Oldcastle?”

“Ah, you’ve heard of him?” Sir John’s face was suddenly guarded.

“I haven’t.” I looked from Vi to Sir John. “Who’s that?”

Vi’s passion for vampires was exceeded only by her passion for Shakespeare. “Oldcastle was a friend of Henry the Fifth, although he ended up getting burned at the stake for his religious views. The legend is that Shakespeare got in trouble with Oldcastle’s descendents for portraying him as a drunken lowlife. So he had to change the name and make a statement about how he didn’t mean it in the play.”

“Wait a minute, Shakespeare was what? 1600. Wasn’t Henry the Fifth—” I turned to Vi—”A couple of centuries earlier?”

She nodded, “More or less, around 1400.” She leaned forward. “So were you Sir John Oldcastle?”

He winked. “I have had many names. Over many years. The best way to live a half-life is with discretion. My hostess at the Boar’s Head Tavern put me in Arthur’s bosom, but I have found myself in many a softer bosom since. Women, Mistress Kit! My downfall and my salvation.”

“You’re not answering Vi’s question,” I said.

But Sir John was off on a tangent and Vi wasn’t pressing the question. “Passed along like a guilty secret,” he said with a gesture like flowing water. “Mistress Reba found me on a visit to a friend in Yorkshire, and grew enamored of my embrace.”

“You turned her into a vampire?” Vi was fascinated.

“I did not.”

“But you could have?” she asked.

“That’s best not spoken of.”

“That woman you fed off in the restaurant—” I didn’t want to bring myself into this inquiry. “Will she become a vampire?”

“That is no simple matter of a tryst on the tiles. She knows not where to seek me out—I can find her if I need to.” He tapped his nose. “As I sought you.”

“My God.” I got a sick feeling in my stomach. “Vi, can I speak to you a minute?”

“No need to hide. I hear every word spoken in these walls, and can predict your future words. You will say—banish Jack.” He rose and put a hand to his heart in playful martyrdom. “Drive him from your gate.” He waved his arms dramatically and stood as if to go.

“Don’t be silly, Sir John, you can stay.” Vi stood up too, and took his arm.

“Banish plump Jack, banish all the world!” He was really getting into it, with self pity so blatant that it did have an edge of satire.

“Come on, Sir John. Let’s just agree to one rule—no biting me or Kit or anyone in my house without an invitation,” Vi said with a flirtatious glance. “Can you agree to that?”

“You have my word on it.” Sir John bowed and sat back down.

Vi had suddenly started calling me Kit. For ten years she called me Kris, and after a few hours with this man she now called me Kit. I sighed and shook my head, but the historical details set Vi off on a new round of questions and Sir John began to describe a colorful odyssey across Europe, packed up like luggage and passed from one rich patron to another over several generations.

Vi changed the tape. At some point I fell asleep.

“Help! Quick.” I awoke to a hoarse rumble of urgency in Sir John’s voice, then he loomed over me pulling at my hand

I sat up with a start. The house was filled with a predawn gray light. I got to my feet, unsteady with very little sleep. Sir John pulled me into the room where the guest bed had been pushed against the far wall and his huge crate now took up most of the floor space. His rough, round face looked gray in the light. He was pawing urgently at the Venetian blinds, which were partly open. His breath came hoarse and quickly. Could he be having a heart attack? Did vampires—I couldn’t finish the thought.

“Are you ill? Should we call a doctor?”

“Doctors? No.” He coughed again and took a deep, raspy breath. “Each dawn I die. Direct sun will kill me past repair. Pray you close the shutters.”

My muddled brain finally registered that he couldn’t work the blinds. I lowered them and closed them so that the room fell into a deeper gloom.

Sir John took a deep shuddering breath. Bars of predawn light filtered through the blinds as the sun began to rise. There was a faint hissing sound. A cloud of dust particles rose off him like smoke where the light struck his skin. He backed away from the window and threw the lid of his crate open with a tremendous crash.

“That should wake Vi,” I said.

With one swift motion he hauled a massive length of battered black velvet from the box. Sir John clambered in with surprising agility and seized the lid in one hand. He pointed with his free hand to the huge pile of velvet on the floor next to the box. He was wheezing now. His voice came out halfway between a croak and a groan. “Cover the box straightaway. Block all the light, I pray you.”

He lay back down and the box lid fell with a heavy thud.

“Kris?” I looked around to see Vi behind me, rubbing her eyes.

“Vi! Help me!” I yelled. “Please!” came a muffled cry from within the box.

The hissing sound grew louder, and what looked like dust particles were shooting out of the box.

I grabbed the velvet cloth and started to drag it over the box, Vi helped and we had the box completely draped in the black velvet in a few seconds. A faint sigh that might have been “Thank-ee” came from within the box, and then the whole thing shook with such a rattle that the floor trembled. For a moment I thought of an earthquake, but the Venetian blinds hung still and the china cat statues on the window sill didn’t move. Stronger light filtered through the blinds now, in a bar pattern on the draped casket, which sat totally silent.

Chapter 30

Kristin Marlowe’s typed notes

August 7th

Vi and I looked at each other
and without a word turned and left the room. We ended up in her kitchen leaning over the stove as if some dangerous force could overhear our conversation.

“Do you think he’s okay in there? I didn’t see any air holes,” she whispered.

“Oh, my God! We should look.” I started back toward the bedroom and Vi followed behind. The house was so quiet that I could hear the antique clock on the living room mantel ticking two rooms away.

We looked at each other and at the crate sitting still under the black velvet drape.

“I don’t want to do this,” Vi said. “Except—”

I took a deep breath, slipped a hand under the drape, and seized the lid. “Hold the cover out, so no direct sunlight gets—um—gets on him.”

She took the drape and held it up while I raised the lid, which was heavier than it looked, half expecting a sudden convulsive leap out of the box or a repetition of the shuddering. But all was silent. No sound. No breath.

I ducked under the drape and the lid, and saw Sir John’s lifeless body. Gingerly, I reached into the box. I put my hand on his chest, startled by how stiff his body felt. He had been living and breathing less than five minutes ago. This was no yogic breath control trick. His flesh was hard as wood. I pressed my fingers to his neck, seeking a pulse. Cold and rigid. I jerked my hand out and leaped back, letting the lid fall down with a terrific crash.

Vi jumped back and dropped the cloth. For a few seconds my head and shoulders were smothered in dark velvet. I scrambled out from under it.

“Damn it!”

“What did you feel?”

“He’s not breathing. His chest and neck feel as hard as this box.” I started to rap the wood, but realized I half expected an answering rap from inside. I just didn’t think I could bear that.

“Admit it, Kit. He’s a vampire,” Vi said.

“Stop calling me Kit. Maybe he just died and got unusually fast rigor mortis.” I was trying to be logical, but my brain was too tired for the exercise.

“In less than five minutes? Maybe in Antarctica with the freezing temperature. I don’t know.”

“Come on, let’s straighten out the drape, so no sun gets in,” I sighed. “Vi, do you think we should prop the coffin lid open a little under the drape. Just in case he is breathing very slowly, like those yoga guys. That way he can get some oxygen?”

“Okay, just stay there.”

Vi came back with a large book. Of course it was
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.
That cheered me up a little. She held the velvet drape out while I ducked under. She helped me lift the lid, and I held it while she set the book securely on the corner to hold it up. There was no repeat of the dust particles shooting out of the box, so I guess the light didn’t get in.

“Let’s get some coffee, okay?” Vi’s eagerness seemed to have vanished along with Sir John’s life. Sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for the water to boil, she rubbed her face. “Maybe I made a mistake. Suddenly having a corpse in the spare bedroom is creeping me out.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I just don’t know.”

“You’re the vampire expert. What happens now?”

“Well, in fiction, the vampire sleeps—or actually dies—all day and rises at dusk. But I don’t know anything about real vampires. Up until last night I truly thought there was no such thing. I thought Sir John would make some excuse and leave.”

“Maybe the fiction is based on some kind of reality that we ‘ve just encountered. We should call Bram Van Helsing. He’s the expert and he’s at Larry’s.”

It was still too early, but I was too exhausted to care. I made the call, got Larry’s machine, apologized for the early hour. “I’m trying to reach Bram Van Helsing. If you could tell him I really need his help. I don’t know if he remembers our conversation the other day. Seriously, I have an emergency of a vampirical nature.”

A voice came on the phone immediately. “Hi, Kris, it’s Bram, and I’m screening Larry’s calls. He’s already at the conference in Edinburgh. So what’s this vampire crisis?”

“I don’t expect you to believe it, but I’m hoping you can come and take a look and give us some advice. We have a guest here in her house who says he’s a vampire, and he appears to have gone into the most deathlike cataleptic state I’ve ever seen immediately at dawn. I know this sounds bizarre, but after talking to him and observing him, I really do worry that calling for medical assistance might injure or kill him.”

“That is interesting.” Bram sounded enthusiastic, or maybe he just hadn’t been up all night. “Some vampire fans have tremendously strong beliefs. Also he could have porphyria. People with that disease really do get third-degree burns from the sun.”