Verse of the Vampyre (3 page)

“Vote?” Lady Vee repeated as though the word were foreign to her. “How many here are qualified to vote on this subject?”

More rumblings. Grace had a feeling the Innisdale Players were a hairsbreadth from turning into the Innisdale Lynch Mob.

The side door to the theater banged open again, and Derek Derrick struggled to shut it against the rain. A blast of storm-scented air wafted up the aisle. Grace shivered.

“Christ! It’s a hurricane out there!” Derrick made his way through the rows of chairs and vaulted onto the stage. “Were you waiting for me? You didn’t have to do that!” He offered his white and practiced grin, unfazed by Lord Ruthven’s glower.

“We’re not rehearsing,” Theresa informed him. “Lady Venetia has found another problem. This time it’s the entire play.” Derrick dropped beside her and squeezed her shoulder sympathetically. Grace tried not to notice that familiar gesture.

“It is not as though rehearsals had really progressed,” the devil in the blue dress said defensively.

“How can they progress when you’re raising an objection every step of the way?” Catriona stalked back across the stage in their direction.

For the first time, and probably because of her chance encounter with the moving-van man, Grace noticed that Catriona’s voice had the faintest trace of a Scottish burr.

Grace replayed the voice of Peter’s mysterious caller in her head. Could it have been Catriona?

“Anyway, who’s to say
Manfred
is the stronger piece?” growled Roy Blade. “Within two years of its publication,
The Vampyre
was translated into French, German, Spanish and Swedish. Even before Polidori’s death it had been adapted for the stage.”

Everyone began to speak at once.

Lady Vee bristled. “
Any
work by Byron would be a
fahhhr
more suitable choice than Polidori, who…”

“But there are no roles for women in it!” Theresa protested.

The idea that Lady Ives might have actually read Byron’s masterpiece momentarily dumbfounded the others.

Into the silence, Grace placated, “After all, Polidori’s work was strong enough to be mistaken originally for Byron’s own. Goethe even called it Byron’s best work.”

“It’s influenced a hell of a lot of writers,” Roy Blade declared. “Sheridan Le Fanu, Edgar Allan Poe and Bram Stoker to name a few.” He warmed to his theme, oblivious to the signs of restlessness in his audience. “True, it may not be the seminal vampire text, that credit would go to Burger or perhaps Goethe for
Die Braut von Korinth
—”

“Brilliant bloke,” Derrick commented to Theresa, who put her hands to her head as though she felt a headache coming on—or wanted to cover her ears.

Lady Vee ignored all this, speaking solely to Grace. “Goethe was being
ironic
. Vampires!” She made a noise of disgust. “I agreed to invest in a work of cultural significance. Polidori was a sycophant. He plagiarized the idea of a vampire from Byron, who had the good sense and exquisite taste to abandon the project as unworthy.”

Roy Blade rose, towering over the elderly woman—who puffed up like an adder. “Perhaps if Byron and his snotty crowd of effetes hadn’t deliberately set out to humiliate and punish Polidori for having committed the unforgivable sin of working for a living instead of being born to aristocrats or intellectuals—”

“
Work?
He was a leech by profession and nature. He was hired to
spy
upon B. by his publisher.”

“Would that be Polidori’s publisher or Byron’s?” Derrick queried with great interest.

“I think we’re getting off the track,” Grace said.

Catriona curled her lip. “You have the gift of understatement.”

“And you have the gift of unproductive commentary.” Years of dealing with smart-ass adolescents had sharpened her tongue, but Grace regretted her hasty words when Theresa uttered a pleased, “Ooh!”

“Please continue, Grace,” Lord Ruthven said. She assumed he was not encouraging her to attack his wife, but to address Lady Vee’s issues.

“In fairness,” she went on, “while Polidori admitted he was inspired by Byron, his work was written and published before Byron ever penned his fragment.”

Roy Blade burst out, “Who knows what he might have achieved if he hadn’t been driven by Byron’s ridicule and ostracization to take his own life. He was only twenty-six. A boy! He had a brilliant mind. The youngest man ever to receive his medical degree from the University of Edinburgh. Had he found an ounce of kindness or encouragement, he might have—”

“Now, I don’t think you can blame what happened to Polidori in England on Byron,” Grace objected. “As far as I know, Byron never said anything disparaging about
The Vampyre
other than to make it clear it wasn’t his own.”

“You’re not helping,” Catriona informed her. “Look, we’ve had this out. As
Ms.
Hollister points out, we voted.” She turned to Lady Vee. “
You
were outvoted, if you will recall.” As she moved, she trod on the stage trapdoor.

With a cracking sound, it gave way beneath her.

A
s Catriona dropped through the black square, Theresa screamed. There were outcries of shock and horror from the others.

Catriona’s hands shot out and grabbed the edge of the stage. She hung there for a moment. Strangely, she never screamed, never made a sound. Her hands flattened out, then flexed as she tried for better purchase on the wooden floor. Her elbow worked its way over the edge, then the top of her head appeared.

It was only a matter of seconds; then the paralysis of disbelief that had held the group, shattered.

“Oh, my gosh!” cried Grace, springing forward to help. She had the notion that Roy Blade moved with her, but it was Derek Derrick beside her as her hands closed over Catriona’s wrists. Though distantly aware of people running, of footsteps pounding across the stage, of doors banging, of commotion and chaos, all her focus was on hanging on to Catriona.

Catriona’s hands felt callused and unexpectedly strong as they locked on Grace’s wrists. For a beat Grace felt her own balance go; then Derek’s hand clenched a fistful of the dangling woman’s leather collar, taking her weight.

“Catriona, my God!” Lord Ruthven helped them draw her up. His face was bloodless. “My God!”

The others circled round, babbling shock and relief.

Catriona shook her fiery hair out of her face and laughed breathlessly. “Quick reflexes, Grace. I owe you.”

“Not as quick as yours.” Anyone else would surely have crashed through to the basement.

Catriona’s eyes flicked to Derek Derrick’s. “Ta,” she said coolly.

“Close call, eh!” He looked like Grace felt: badly shaken. Staring down into the trap, he called, “All clear. We pulled her up.”

Roy Blade called back, his words muffled. A light went on from below.

He had broken records in his charge down to the basement, but he would not have been in time, Grace realized. It was a chilling thought.

“But how could it have happened?” Theresa was protesting, as the group milled, offering suggestions, comments and general opinions. A couple of men offered to put boards across the opening.

“It’s an old theater.” Lady Vee’s voice trembled.

Grace knelt, peering cautiously through the opening. “Good heavens, what a drop. It looks like it goes straight down to the basement.” She called, “Can you tell what happened?”

Roy Blade’s negative response floated up.

“They say the theater is haunted,” Theresa whispered. Derek Derrick chuckled and slipped an arm around her slim shoulders.

“Balderdash!” Lady Vee said. “Grace, I can’t imagine what you hope to accomplish in that
most
unflattering position.”

“Shouldn’t there be a lift or something?” When no one answered, Grace rose and dusted off her hands and knees.

If someone wanted to stage an accident, a theater was an ideal setting. Even in a new, well-maintained theater, trapdoors, pits, balconies, catwalks and stairs offered a variety of deadly possibilities for falls and electrocution. And Grace had seen plenty of TV shows where victims had been conked by falling battens or counterweights. For that matter, real-life actors and crew alike fell off stages with distressing frequency.

The Innisdale Playhouse was poorly lit, the wiring was old, and most of the stairs and scaffolds did not have rails. Why am I thinking like this? Grace wondered. Perhaps because from the moment she had walked in that night she had sensed a certain peculiar energy in the air, something she recognized from years of teaching. Mischief. That’s what it was. She had felt mischief in the room.

“It could have been an accident,” she reflected aloud.

“What do you mean!” exclaimed Lady Vee. She clutched Grace’s arm as though she needed the support. “Of
course
it was an accident!” The others chimed in, staring at Grace as though she had committed some social solecism.

It was Catriona who said, after staring at Grace for a long moment, “I don’t believe in accidents.”

She sounds like Peter, Grace reflected.
I don’t believe in coincidence,
he had said in much the same tone of voice.

Catriona pushed through them, making her way backstage. The black curtains with their scarlet-stenciled masks of tragedy and comedy rippled in her wake. The others followed in uneasy silence.

Navigating the backstage obstacle course of props, leads and electrical cords, Catriona found a light switch and continued to the theater basement.

“For God’s sake, watch your step, everyone,” Lord Ruthven ordered, as they clattered down the stairs. “This place is a death trap. We’ll get the inspectors in tomorrow.”

In the narrow stairwell they met Roy Blade. Catriona brushed past him. Blade backed against the wall so that the others could file past. Slowly he followed them.

The basement was dank and poorly lit. It smelled of old plumbing and something acrid. An electrical short? White light streamed in from the open trapdoor about twelve feet above them. There was an old-fashioned lift, but it had been shoved to the far wall. The broken trapdoor lay on the floor.

Grace picked it up. It looked all right to her inexpert eye. No saw marks, no obvious signs of tampering. The wood showed splintering around the hinges, but that seemed in keeping with the nature of the accident.

“Drag that table over here and give me a leg up,” Catriona ordered.

Derek and Roy moved to obey. A heavy, battered table scraped its way across the cement floor and was positioned beneath the trapdoor.

Lord Ruthven took the broken trapdoor and examined it himself. “Don’t break your neck falling off that damn table,” he dictated, as Catriona joined Derek on the table. Derek cupped his hands, and nimbly she stepped up, reaching for the open trap. With one hand outstretched, she steadied herself on the frame, craning her neck to examine the latch that had given way.

Grace watched Lord Ruthven watching his wife, and wondered again if Lady Ruthven had been the woman Peter had gone to meet. It did give Lord Ruthven a reason for being in the cemetery that time of night. Perhaps he had been spying on the missus?

But if Catriona had been the woman who called Peter, why had she not shown herself?

“I remember sitting in this theater during an air raid,” Lady Vee said suddenly, her voice echoing against the cement walls. “We had decoy sites just outside of Penrith, you know. To lure the Germans away from the ironworks in Cleator Moor and elsewhere. We were watching a production of
Night Must Fall
when the siren went. It’s the last time I recall sitting in this theater.”

“T-That’s World War II,” Theresa accused, teeth chattering. Her tone implied the topic was past its expiration date. “How long must we all stay down here? It’s like a morgue!”

“What do you see?” Lord Ruthven called up to his wife.

She dropped lightly down to the tabletop. “Nothing. Not a damn thing.” She smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. “Perhaps the latch did simply give.”

“What else?” Theresa asked blankly. She stared at the others. No one had an answer.

“It’s not a very sure way of—of—” Grace stopped, uncomfortable with where her thoughts were leading her.

“Of killing someone?” Catriona finished for her. “It’s not, is it?”

“All right, ladies. Gentlemen,”—Lord Ruthven was brisk, shepherding the others out of the basement before they had time to react to Catriona’s extraordinary comment—“I think we’ve all had enough for one night. We’ll meet back here tomorrow evening.”

They began to file back up the stairs.

“We haven’t resolved which play,” Lady Vee began, stopping in her tracks.

With less than his usual patience Lord Ruthven said, “Lady Venetia, your concerns are commendable; that’s one reason I wanted your input on this production, but the group has selected the material, and it is a strong piece, ideally suited to the season. If you can’t reconcile yourself to it, we shall have to arrange financial backing elsewhere, I suppose.”

There was a long silence, filled in by the drum of distant rain somewhere far above them.

“We shall see what we shall see,” Lady Vee said ominously.

There was a dwarf in Grace’s garden the next morning. He wore green leggings and a red cap and had a long gray beard. A ballerina in a pink tutu accompanied him.

“Wow!” Grace said, opening the door.

She was renting a small cottage on the grounds of Renfrew Hall. The Gardener’s Cottage was a cozy bed-sitter painted a fanciful pink. The door was bright red, as was the trim on the windows. An iron stove kept the cottage toasty in the winter, and in the summer Grace woke to the sound of doves cooing beneath the eaves and the scent of apple blossoms. A far cry from the convenient but characterless apartment she rented in Los Angeles.

“You two look terrific. Is this a dress rehearsal for the Halloween fete?” She glanced up at the somber blue sky. It was going to be a gorgeous day. The cottage’s silvery shingles steamed in the sunlight. Raindrops glittered on the grass and flowers.

The dwarf advanced, hopping a large puddle. The ballerina skirted the sides.

“I’m a princess,” the ballerina informed Grace. She was a bit stubby for the ballet, and her love of peppermint bull’s-eyes was bound to prove detrimental. Her name was Patricia Smithwick, and she was the four-year-old granddaughter of Grace’s landlady.

“She’s a ballerina,” the dwarf corrected in an unexpectedly deep voice. His beard was coming unstuck. He licked at the gray fringe, attempting to retrieve it with his tongue. Jeremiah Smithwick was the ballerina’s brother. He was six and had inherited the same tilted hazel eyes, freckles and sandy curls. They stood together in the shade of a velvety green Chinese astilboides, obscurely reminding Grace of “The Elf and the Dormouse,” a poem she had been required to memorize in grade school.

“A princess ballerina!” she admired.

“Just a princess,” the ballerina assured her. She studied Grace’s cinnamon-colored turtleneck dress and matching cardigan, her snub nose wrinkled in thought. “Are you going foxhunting?”

“Not this morning. I’m going to work.” She held up her purse in illustration.

“Granny used to go foxhunting.”

“I didn’t know that.” It was difficult to picture her landlady sailing over hedges and fences, but of course Sally Smithwick had not always been a comfortably sized grandmother.

“Granddad was afraid of horses. He’s in heaven now. I’m going to have a pony for my birthday. I know his name.”

“No you
don’t!”
the dwarf objected.

Patricia stuck her tongue out at him, which was not something princesses or even ballerinas did much in England.

“I was only a year or two older than you when I learned to ride,” Grace said, hoping to defuse the looming hostilities.

“I’m going to hunt foxes,” Patricia confided.

“No, you’re
not!”
the dwarf informed her. “A fox would eat you up!” To Grace, he said politely, “Granny wants to see you.”

Oh dear, thought Grace. Late for work two days in a row; she had always prided herself on her punctuality. “I’ll stop by on my way out,” she promised the pint-sized posse.

Accompanied by Jeremiah and Patricia, Grace got her battered Aston Martin DB4 out of the carriage house that served as garage. The car’s engine disturbed the swallows nesting in the rafters, and to the children’s delight they circled in Disney-like formation before swooping out of the double doors.

The car had belonged to Sally’s late husband, and she had sold it to Grace for a pittance despite the fact that it would have fetched a terrific price from a collector. Grace loved the baby blue sports car, for all its dents and dings. Every time she turned the key in the ignition she felt like Mrs. Peel in
The Avengers
.

She drove around to the front of the redbrick house and parked. A former vicarage on the edge of the village, Renfrew Hall was run as a bed-and-breakfast during tourist season.

Sally met Grace at the door, her freckled face troubled, although she went through the motions of offering tea and polite conversation.

The interior of Renfrew Hall was a homely hodgepodge of styles and personalities. Flea market finds and gorgeous antique pieces roosted side by side. Slipcovers in checks and flowers competed gaily for attention. It was a home designed to accommodate children, dogs and cats. The clock tick-tocked comfortably on the fireplace mantel. Scents of vanilla and cinnamon hung in the air.