Verse of the Vampyre (14 page)

“Did anyone see the accident? Were there witnesses?”

“Half the hunt, I imagine. As MFH, Sir Gerald gave witness at the inquest. He swore there was nothing unusual. It’s a dangerous sport. People die foxhunting.”

“It’s awfully convenient that two people on Miss Coke’s hit list are dead.”

“Accidents do happen, as the poets say.”

“Theresa’s death was not an accident.”

“There is that,” admitted Peter.

W
hen Grace got in her answering machine was blinking. The first message was from Chaz asking her to meet for dinner. That was followed by Chief Constable Heron’s deep voice requesting her presence at the police station. There was one last message from an alarmed-sounding Chaz, who had just heard about the shooting incident.

Grace chose police interrogation.

The chief constable looked weary as he closed his office door behind her and sat down at his desk.

“I understand there was trouble at the hunt.”

Grace gave her version of the shooting. Heron listened without comment. Grace knew he was probably comparing her story to the others he must have heard that afternoon.

“So you did not actually see anyone?”

“The fog was too thick.”

“Were you able to form an opinion as to which direction the shots came from?”

“Not really.” Grace was apologetic. She was annoyed with herself for being too flustered to pay closer attention.

Impulsively, she said, “You’ll probably consider this another off-the-wall theory, but it’s just occurred to me that Lady Ruthven, Catriona, has had a run-in with almost every member of
The Vampyre
cast.”

“You think Lady Ruthven is picking off cast members?”

I wouldn’t put it past her, Grace thought. She said only, “I told you about how she nearly fell through the broken trapdoor at the theater?”

“You did.”

“That’s not all,” Grace said. “Catriona’s saddle girth broke during the season’s first official hunt. If she had been jumping at the time, she could have been seriously injured. I don’t know how she wasn’t.”

Unless she was staging these accidents for some reason of her own?

Heron said nothing. Another thought struck Grace. “I suppose Sam Jeffries’ billet straps were examined after his accident?”

To her surprise Heron chuckled. “Give us a little credit, Grace.”

Grace blushed, realizing how officious she must sound.

“Everyone is saying hunt saboteurs opened fire on us.”

“I’m aware of local opinion.”

“But you don’t agree?”

“I don’t disagree,” Heron said. “I don’t know enough about the incident to have an opinion yet.”

“What if it’s not sabs? What if it has to do with Catriona?”

“Both incidents you’ve described would be imprecise methods of murder.”

Grace made a face. “I know. It’s probably coincidence.”

“Most likely.” Heron’s shrewd eyes met hers briefly. After a significant pause, he added, “It is interesting that Lady Ives was wearing a cape similar to Lady Ruthven’s when she was killed.”

“I don’t understand this whole vampire thing,” Chaz was complaining.

He had attended rehearsal with Grace, and now they sat at the pub talking quietly to escape the notice of the other cast members who had stopped by for a pint.

It had not been much of a rehearsal. Theresa’s death was a blow to the production, as much for psychological as practical reasons.

“You don’t find vampires sexy?”

“Of course not. Have you ever seen
Nosferatu?
What’s sexy about teeth like that?”

“Oh, but the modern concept of vampire is based on the Byronic vampire. Polidori’s Ruthven, which he based on Lord Byron, is sort of the grandfather of all the vampires who followed, including Dracula.”

“Bela Lugosi,” Chaz agreed. “Now there was a sexy guy!”

Grace chuckled. “But think of all those half-naked Hammer Studio vampire ladies. They were supposed to represent a kind of unleashing of female sexuality.”

“Evil female sexuality.”

“Some people find evil sexy.”

Chaz said glumly, “I know all about good girls seduced by bad boys.”

Grace decided to ignore that. “Long before Lestat was a twinkle in Anne Rice’s eye, the beautiful man with a dangerous secret was a staple of Gothic fiction. Heathcliff is sexy—even according to my jaded tenth-graders. Mr. Rochester is sexy. And by all accounts, Byron, who was, after all, the role model for all those Byronic heroes, was pretty darned sexy.”

“None of them were vampires.”

“Well, I guess there are a number of erotic elements to the vampire legend. What could be more intimate than the symbiotic relationship of the vampire and his chosen? I mean the victims that they turn into other vampires.”

“Uh, vampires don’t actually exist, Grace.”

She made a face. “It’s the whole symbolism. The vampire seduces his victim, feeding on the life force until he ultimately kills the thing he loves. And think about it: orgasm is sometimes referred to as the ‘little death.’ ”

“By whom?” Chaz was plainly disapproving.

But Grace was on a roll, resting her elbows on the table in her enthusiasm. “Lovemaking involves the exchange of vital bodily fluids, and so does vampirism.” She shrugged. “For whatever reason, it’s very attractive to some people. You should see the Internet sites devoted to vampires. I don’t mean academic research; I mean clubs and lifestyle.”

“It just doesn’t seem like your kind of thing, Grace.”

She was startled. “It’s not.”

“I don’t mean vampires, I mean getting involved with this play, with these weirdos.”

Peter had said almost the same thing about the fete. Did she really seem so stuck in her ways?

“I don’t know if it’s my kind of thing. Isn’t that what life is about, growing, changing, becoming?”

Chaz’s face wrinkled as though he found it hard to hear her. “I just don’t know what you’re doing with all these nuts. And what’s with the Honorable This and Lord That? Everybody in this one-horse town has a title. It’s…I don’t know…”

“Un-American?”

“Hey, you’re an American,” Chaz said. “Don’t forget it.”

“I don’t forget it. That doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate another country’s culture. Especially since my grandparents were English.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Why didn’t you? Grace wondered. Why did we never truly know each other? We went out for years, but in many ways we’re still strangers. Grace had been no better than Chaz. She had been satisfied with smooth surfaces.

The irony was that, while no place on earth seemed more picture-perfect than Innisdale, it was here that Grace was learning to understand about the danger that sometimes lurked beneath the placid surface.

An ormolu-and-sphinx-decorated standing clock dominated the marble entrance hall of Lady Vee’s domicile. Grace had a brief wait before the butler returned to usher her into the royal presence. She listened to the clock ticking down the minutes. It sounded unnervingly loud in the still house.

The room, like its owner, seemed to be a relic from another age, right down to the Empire furniture and gold-starred, black portieres. There was a gigantic portrait of a beautiful woman with ebony hair cut Egyptian style. She wore a sheer green gown and held a plumy fan, sort of like a flapper Cleopatra. Lady Vee in her younger days, Grace deduced.

Lady Vee, exuding lukewarm cordiality for Grace’s unexpected visit, broke out the sherry bottle. It was probably excellent sherry, if you cared for sherry, which Grace did not. She murmured, “Lovely,” and got to the point. “It may seem like an odd question, but I wanted to ask you how I came to be invited to join
The Vampyre
production.”

“The only oddity is why it’s taken you so long to ask that particular question,” the old charmer retorted, refilling her own glass.

Grace worked it out. “Meaning that my presence wasn’t necessary?” Or welcome apparently.

“It was necessary to someone, it would seem.”

“The Ruthvens?”

Lady Vee smiled, looking uncannily like the sphinx in the main hall. “Won’t you stay for luncheon, my
deah?”
she invited.

Wednesday’s meal turned out to be a Sunday roast with all the trimmings. The beef was marinated in cider. It was served with a celeriac-and-potato bake topped with Gruyère cheese.

Over watercress soup Grace again brought up the subject of the Ruthvens, asking how they had become involved in the Innisdale Playhouse production.

“I’ve no idea,” Lady Vee said. “Allegra would know. Allegra convinced me to support this project.”

“Allegra has been active in the local theater for some time now?”

“Allegra devotes her time to many worthy causes.” Lady Vee’s mouth primly enfolded her soupspoon.

Allegra needs a job, Grace thought. She said politely, “Did Allegra mention any credentials the Ruthvens might have? I’ve heard several people refer to the fact that Lord Ruthven is a big name in London theater; I just wondered what that impression might be based on?”

Lady Vee’s eyes flickered. “It was common knowledge.”

“As it is common knowledge that he is Lord Ruthven?”

“Bah!” Lady Vee reacted predictably. “That man is no more Lord Ruthven than I am.”

She had suggested as much the night of the Hunt Ball, but her conviction was interesting. “Peter said something similar. What makes you think he’s not Lord Ruthven?”

“Why not ask
deah Petah?”

“Because he won’t tell me. I think you will.”

The dark eyes were lizardlike beneath the emerald-shadowed lids, then Lady Vee replied simply, “Because he’s not Scottish,
she
is!”

“And Ruthven is a Scottish name? But if she inherited the title—”

Such base ignorance on the all-important topic of inheritance and titles within the British nobility seemed to disconcert Lady Vee. “It doesn’t work that way,” she managed finally, sounding exasperated.

“All right, but she could still be—”

“I have no idea of that creature’s antecedents,” Lady Venetia said sweepingly. “I know only that she is what we used to call a ‘wrrrrong ’un.’ ” Lady Vee rolled her
R
’s as though she, too, had spent a fair amount of time roamin’ in the gloamin’.

“A ‘wrong ’un’?”

Lady Vee looked impatient. “An outlaw. In animals we call it ’rogue.’ She is a rogue. A wrong ’un.”

“What do you base that theory on?” Grace couldn’t help the skepticism that crept into her voice. Pride and prejudice seemed to be thriving in this tiny corner of the realm.

Lady Vee smiled a sly smile. “Because, my
deah,
I was rather something of a wrong ’un myself once.”

Grace was still chewing that over when Allegra joined them.

“Sorry I’m late.” She nodded without enthusiasm to Grace. “I didn’t realize we had company.”

“How is poor Gerry?” Lady Vee rang the bell at her elbow.

“Dreadful. The police are hounding him,” Allegra said crisply. She cast a brief look Grace’s way. She looked tired, but her cheeks were attractively flushed, her eyes bright with indignation and another emotion.

Maybe things would work out for Allegra this time, Grace reflected, then guiltily, she thought of poor Theresa, who wasn’t even buried yet.

Lady Vee said, “Grace was curious as to how she came to be invited to take part in
The Vampyre
production.”

Allegra expelled a long angry breath, and said, “How the devil anyone can care about that bloody play after what’s happened is beyond me!”

“Don’t be vulgar,” Lady Vee retorted. “In any case you miss the point.” She was silent while a maid came in and served Allegra. When they were alone again, she said patiently, “How is it that the Ruthvens came to be so well entrenched in the theater group? Were they invited, or did they volunteer?”

Grace decided to cut to the chase. “How did you know that they were who they said they were?”

“Why wouldn’t they be? What could they possibly hope to gain by pretending to be the Ruthvens?”

Once again the Hon. Al seemed to have missed the point. Still, she had started Grace thinking. The Ruthvens didn’t have to participate in local theater in order to worm their way into Innisdale “society.” Nor were they likely to make any money on the project. They had not solicited financial backing other than Lady Vee’s; the play was more likely to cost them money.