Call Me Ismay (21 page)

“Actually, sir I... I don't know that necessarily to be true.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Langston replied, anxiously. “You told me that they are on their way to the cemetery.”

“Yes, yes, but... only part of that is true.”

Stanley, still seated on the curb, now lifted his head as Lillith's words grabbed his full attention. Langston stood still for a moment, his hands thrust into his coat's pockets.

“Miss Lillith, the time for any word play has come and gone. Where are Gidley and Lyons?”

“They are on Their way to the cemetery! Just... not this cemetery.”

Langston's eyes widened and Stanley practically leapt off the curb. “Miss Lillith, what in the name of heaven are you saying to me?” Langston sputtered, as Lillith began to fidget nervously. “Are they to be here with us today, or no?”

Lillith cast her eyes downward, pulling her shawl close to her body, uncertain of how to explain. “I...  I...” Langston stood in stunned silence as Stanley moved in closer. “I sent Them to Putney Vale.”

“Putney Vale Cemetery?”
Stanley cried out. “That's more than an hour's walk from here!”

“An hour? More than two at a fast pace!” Langston exclaimed, irrationally checking his pocket watch again. “Miss Lillith, why would you do such a ridiculous thing?”

“I wanted to consult with you first, Mr. Langston!” Lillith pleaded, her large, helpless eyes now brimming with tears. “I wanted you to stop Them, and meeting Them now I fear would only dangerously embolden Them!”

“And just what do you presume Mr. Lyons will believe if Mr. Langston doesn't appear for what was understood to be a private meeting of great importance?” Stanley interrogated her furiously. “You do not realize that would possibly raise suspicion on Mr. Lyons's part and create further danger? Indeed,
danger
certainly seems to be the word that is bandied about the most this morning, and I, for a kick-off, want no part of it! And without any further word to you, miss, I wish you good day!” He pulled on his flat cap with indignation. “And Mr. Langston, my apologies, but please excuse me from any of your future dealings with Lyons or Gidley or- most certainly-
this
little handful of trouble,” he said, indicating Lillith. “It's obvious that the two of you speak a language that I do not wish to understand.”

“Stanley, calm yourself. I certainly don't believe that Lillith had anything but my best interests at heart...”

“Good
day
, sir,” was Stanley's surly reply. Without another word, he turned on his heel and headed west down Magdalen Road.

Langston and Lillith watched the young man decisively make his way down the street, swiftly retreating off into the distance. After several moments, Lillith broke the silence. “He truly doesn't understand.”

“No,” he doesn't, Langston quietly replied. “Whether it's through willful ignorance or a general insensitivity, I cannot tell. I'm not so sure he'd understand even if
all
of the facts were laid before him and explained to him in the greatest of detail. And that's why he'll perhaps one day end up as an editor for the
Chronicle
.” Langston let out a small, sad little laugh. “In the meantime, you've now got two angry and very powerful men who will want an explanation as to why the reporter that you arranged for did not show up this morning. How exactly are you prepared to handle that situation?”

“Leave that to me. I can tell Them that you were unavoidably detained at the newspaper- by the labor strike, you had to work late into the day because of that.”

“It's fortunate for you, Miss Lillith, that we have the strike to blame- but the strike is not going to be good for our country,” Langston replied with certainty. “Britain is headed for outright civil unrest if our leaders are not careful.”

“It's mostly on the leaders,” Lillith agreed, her eyes staring off into the direction where Stanley had by now all but disappeared. “They'll try to pin the blame on the working class, but it's the politicians and their frightening sense of entitlement that is going to ruin us all.”

Langston gazed upon her- a contradiction in strength and fragility. There was a sense of worldliness in this meek (by appearance) little chambermaid that was astounding. He tried to not be too obvious as he let his eyes wander to the few dark ringlets of her hair that framed her face and were now gently rising due to a soft morning breeze. Seeking an appearance of dignity, he confidently placed his hands in his coat's pockets; he snapped out of his reverie as he realized he still had a boarding pass that she'd presented him with this morning, stuffed into his overcoat.

He took the ticket out once more, reviewing its details. ISMAY, IMRIE & CO. it read on one side, OCEANIC STEAM NAVIGATION COMPANY, LIMITED, OF GREAT BRITAIN on the other.

“Miss Lillith, I...” Lansgton paused, and for a fearful moment he thought he felt a tremor in his ever-sensitive stomach. He drew in a breath and continued. “I am not certain of what you believe that I should do with this ticket. If I go to America, it seems to me, with a ticket that I normally would not have access to, my prospects in returning home to Britain would seem nil. And just the simple act of taking this journey, keeping Edward Lyons in my sight, offers no protection that I might not return home due to some other certain...
concerns
regarding mortality,” he continued, choosing his words in such a manner that Lillith could not possibly misunderstand his true meaning. “Unless you mean for me to bring the kit along. And speaking of which, I have concerns over what those tools might do to harm
you
, if you should be exposed to them. Do I do right in keeping them from your line of sight?” His heart started racing as he remembered that he actually had a crucifix in one coat pocket, and a vial of holy water in another.

“I would be quick to avoid them, of course, if I knew that you had them with you. I would be cautious because at least I would know what to expect. The crucifix is most important; if that is in Our line of sight, the tools are at their most deadly, but that is only if We can actually see the crucifix. If there is
no
crucifix before Us, the other weapons are almost useless.” Langston relaxed a bit, learning that if he kept the tools he had brought along with him out of sight, Lillith would remain unharmed. “Our blood becomes more sensitive to the presence of weaponry over time. What I'm hoping is that if we can get Lyons and Gidley contained, once we're out west, I might actually be able to take the time in some remote place and fully recover from this sickness.”

“Re-
recover?”
Langston stammered. “Do you mean to say that this- this
vampirism
-” he whispered- “is a
disease
that can be treated like any other?”

Lillith quietly nodded. “A place with the desert sun would be best. I have always wanted to see the Painted Desert in Arizona,” she said, her eyes becoming moist in desperation and yearning. “Sunlight doesn't kill a vampire, Mr. Langston- it cures it.”

“Do you mean-!” Langston cried out in astonishment. “Do you mean to say that
exposure
to vampirism is what makes it worse?”

“In a sense, yes. I think I maybe mentioned Our... Mr. Lyons and I... Our 'sessions' when we first met, that's when I would write to you, when it was over?” Langston nodded in assent. “It is a sort of... mutual feeding, that sustains the condition, and if you can't find a
willing
partner, well then...” Her voice trailed off and she looked at Langston in desperation. “You should know that I have never,
never
engaged in feeding that was not consensual. I could not live with myself if I had. However, as for Mr. Lyons, and especially Gidley, on the other hand... They'd just as soon have me trolling the streets of London for other young women, acting as some cursed madam.” Langston's eyes widened. “I am saying too much.” She pointed to the ticket in Langston's hand. “They say They are leaving next month. At the moment, I am not sure if it is Liverpool or Southampton, but I will let you know straightaway.”

“Well, there is a significant difference- about a 200 mile difference, so you had better let me know.”

“Are you saying you will do it?” Lillith virtually pleaded.

“I am not saying anything,” Langston replied, a little irritated. “I told you I have found your written communication a bit vague, and if you want my help in this manner you must be completely specific.”

“I misspoke, I apologize,” Lillith sighed. “Mr. Langston, I must return to work now, and so should you. But please take this into the most serious consideration. I am sorry to have misled just about everyone this morning, but if our leaders can make unsavory deals in order to move forward, so can we. I would warn you, again, to leave London as soon as possible, and
do not
return to the newspaper.” Before he could respond, she very lightly placed one of her gloved hands on Langston's fingers, and leaned in close for a final word. “Kerry,” she whispered into his ear, addressing him by his Christian name for the first time, “there will be plenty of women who will follow Edward Lyons to the ends of the earth. But I know at least one woman who will follow you, and you alone.” She stepped back, and although her eyes were sad, they somehow managed to regard him warmly. “Goodbye, Mr. Langston.
Hold your weapons close,
just like the holy water that is in your left coat pocket, and the crucifix that is in your right.”

Langston's mouth fell open in astonishment at Lillith's correct description of what and where the tools were. She turned and headed down Magdalen Road in the opposite direction that Stanley had gone. Langston stood in place, ticket in hand, terrified and yet exhilarated. After making brief but oh so gentle physical contact with Lillith, he wondered if this is what it felt to be one of those newfangled incandescent light bulbs.

                                       *********

His cheeks ruddy from exertion and not emotion, Stanley Johns puffed his way through the half-million trees of Wimbledon Common. He had stopped to solicit the occasional bit of direction from a stranger or two, but Stanley was confident he could ultimately find his own way to Putney Vale Cemetery.

The morning's events had both aggravated and invigorated him.
Unthinkable that Kerry Langston would be drawn in by a scullery maid,
he thought to himself.
It seems that Englishmen are always on the run for a bit of tail.
But
w
hile he's off playing about with some tart from Cornwall, I am indeed going to see what this Edward Lyons is up to, along with that creepy Gidley man.

Stanley's route that morning had been a circuitous one, taking the roads Penwith, Lavenham and Augustus before plunging into the Common, then heading north for Putney Heath which he was certain was adjacent to the cemetery. Throughout his journey, his thoughts on Langston varied from exasperation to fear to guilt over his now-divided loyalty. His parting words to Langston had not been kind, but he felt compelled to confront Lyons and his toady on his own, if not as a roundabout way of showing his support to Langston, then at the very least satisfying his own overtaxed curiosity.
Just what in bloody hell was that maid saying to Langston?
he wondered.
What's that nonsense about sailing over to America? Whatever it might be, it has to be significant enough to send all us men traipsing about London Town.

Stanley hadn't given much thought to the possibility of Gidley and Lyons not being at the cemetery by the time he arrived. Putney Vale was less than half the distance he'd walked this morning from Kingston-Upon-Thames, the district that Lyons represented as MP, so Stanley believed it was not outside the realm of possibility that they might still be there, or at least nearby, waiting for a reporter to appear. Panting for breath as he hurried along, Stanley briefly weighed the option of introducing himself as Kerry Langston.

He stopped for a moment, the highly unusual amount of walking for the day catching up with him. Slightly lightheaded and the small of his back aching, he leaned against a golden chain tree, its leaflets not quite fully developed.
Bloody hell
, Stanley thought.
If ever there was a time I wouldn't care about funny looks for ordering a cold lager at a pub, it would be now.
His mouth was dry and he coughed stridently.
My American Grandpapa was right- beer should only be served cold.
Casting a weary eye before him, he thought he could see through the woods, in the not-too-far distance, an imposing wrought iron gate and what had to be stone markers behind it.

“Gorblimey. At last,” he exhaled, finding some new strength in his stretching lungs and aching feet. He trudged forward, and chuckled out loud at the thought that he'd never been happier to see a cemetery. He removed his flat cap, running his hands through sweat-moistened curly hair. “Now to find Lyons and Gidley,” he muttered.

Taking hat respectfully in hand, Johns walked slowly and with purpose for several quiet moments, passing the Sainsbury and Tate Mausoleums, both of them stolid little temples made out of white marble. Sculptured angels abounded, with cobwebs on their wings and patches of moss on their feet. As he continued on his way, not a soul to be seen, and a slight tired limp impairing his walk, he wondered what Langston had been referring to earlier when he said that he'd chosen a cemetery as a meeting place as a demonstration of having a sense of humor.

It was at that moment something small and circular landed in the pathway before him- as if it had been tossed out right in front of him. Stanley looked about, towards the tree limbs overhead, wondering if there was a mischievous squirrel about. He looked down, took a few steps forward and then gingerly picked it up: an apple. A small, green Laxton's Superb apple.
I don't recall seeing apple trees anywhere-

Stanley felt the air expel itself violently from his lungs, as someone or something tackled him from the left, jarring his ribcage and giving him the impression that he'd become airborne. His arms clawed wildly about, unable to make contact with his attacker, his eyes unable to see anything from the side as it seemed that his head and neck had become immobilized. He could hear feet trampling on the ground, as he continued to tumble helplessly away from the pathway, fearing that his skull was about to make powerful contact with a granite grave marker. Finally he was thrown to the ground, in a dark patch behind what had to be some sort of crypt, his arms and legs sullied with mud and wet leaves clinging to his face. As he struggled to sit up, he felt the end of a walking cane land forcefully on his sternum.

“From the newspaper, are you?” a surly voice demanded.

Stanley, trying to catch his breath and blink away the tears of pain that had flooded his eyes, struggled to answer but managed to only to break into a coughing fit.

“
From the newspaper, are you? Do I have to spell it out in Morse code on your puny little chest?
”
the snarling voice repeated, the cane tapping malevolently into Stanley's chest, the face of his attacker unseen in the darkness.

“Yes, yes, I am. I'm a reporter. I only came to-”

“Silence!” the voice bellowed, the cane suddenly crashing down upon Stanley's already tender knees. Stanley yelped in pain, then quickly covered his own mouth, trying to placate his attacker in any way he could.

“Apples. Always going after the apples. Gets 'em every single time.” The menacing voice had turned away, shifting its tone, addressing someone jocularly in the distance. There was then a rustling sound as the stout silhouette of a man suddenly came tumbling down upon the terrified reporter. “What business have you?” the voice demanded, returning to its prior viciousness. Stanley could only sputter a few noises, frightened and very much in pain, and he clenched his eyes as he saw the cane come rising up and land another staggering blow to his legs. “
What business have you
?” the voice demanded once more.

“Mr. Gidley, that will be quite enough,” came a calm, clipped directive from the distance. Stanley gasped, pulling himself up by his elbows.

“Gidley? Bartholomew Gidley?” Stanley cried out, both in pain and confusion. “I- I know how you hate reporters but this is more than a bit extreme, don't you think?”

There seemed a stunned silence on the part of his attacker. Stanley then felt an aggressive, angry hand grope for his arm in the darkness, pulling him up to his feet with astonishing speed.

“When Mr. Lyons has time to answer questions, He will do so but not within the confines of a foul graveyard!” the voice spat out, angrily. The visually unidentified man then took a step forward, a shaft of light catching his face and allowing Stanley to see. “Nor will a Parliamentary Private Secretary be reduced to spending His afternoon putting the likes of you in their place.” Bartholomew Gidley, complete with top hat and a scarf over his collar, glowered at Stanley with what could only be described as eyes as black as coal.

“I know my place, Mr. Gidley. You've probably forgotten I exist, just another annoying staffer trying to get the likes of you to tell the truth,” Stanley panted. “I happen to have good reason to believe that Mr. Lyons is preparing to abandon his duties as MP. Isn't that correct, Mr. Lyons?” Stanley called out, reasonably sure that the other voice he had heard belonged to him.