The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life (17 page)

“Jes’ the ’earse, the three o’ them, an’ the sever’d ’and. An’ tha’s all.”

Herg went back with the other group of policemen.

“So, Inspector Inglethorpe. What will you do next?”

“Continue our investigations here, of course, but I think we’ll have more luck across the Channel. I’ve already contacted the French authorities and we’re proceeding with every possible effort. Still, Dr. Gladstone, there’s one thing that bothers me a great deal. It’s been quite a while and they still haven’t sent you any hint of a ransom note. What would such criminals want with the daughter of a wealthy physician if they weren’t after ransom?”

I felt helpless. “I wish I knew, Inspector Inglethorpe. I wish I knew.”

When I arrived at home I went to the study. The hand was, indeed, gone. Camille must have wandered in and retrieved it. Such a strange fascination she had with that curious
objet d’art.
I wondered what Lodovico thought of seeing the little girl playing with the facsimile of his hand, his scar, and what had caused the scar?

I was still deep in thought when Ursula broke into the room.

She wore a bright scarlet shawl and her flesh was waxen against its brilliance. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“It’s all right,” I returned.

A tension prickled between us. Ursula strolled casually to the fireplace and admired the African grasshoppers. We pretended not to be overly aware of each other; but we were. I expected Ursula to apologize. As I have said, it was rare for us to fight. I could tell she was deeply disturbed over the rift that had developed between us. She seemed anxious and involved in her thoughts. Finally she turned toward me. Her eyes were searching.

“Father?”

“Yes?”

“You blame me, don’t you?”

“You disobeyed me. If you hadn’t disobeyed me this might never have happened.”

She regarded me sadly. “Did you never disobey your own father?”

Had I? Had I ever really disobeyed him? Only in my thoughts. “No,” I replied solemnly.

Again her eyes searched mine. There was a strange mixture in her gaze. There was remorse, but there was something else. Was it anger? Anger at what? Not at me. A question lingered on her lips. I knew she wanted to dispel the uneasiness that existed between us. Only her intense pride held her back. Was it the soft word I waited for?

Her lips began to move. “Why do you think they took Camille?”

The question surprised me. I frowned at her, distraught by my own bewilderment. “I don’t know.”

She stepped forward and allowed a single white hand to grip the back of the padded and buttoned black leather armchair. The pressure of her grip and the knitting of her brow indicated it was a question of unexpected importance to her. It was strange. It was not an easy thing for me to say. Ursula had always been very compassionate about Camille. Ursula had comforted her and rocked her to sleep, perhaps even more than I had, but there remained a certain streak of coldness in Ursula. Naturally, she was concerned about Camille’s welfare, but I could not help feeling her curiosity was of a deeper vein than mere sibling affection.

She looked directly in my eyes. “Do you think they will hurt her?”

I shrugged. I remembered Niccolo’s indignation at being accused of “biting children,” but I also considered how deliberately he had lied to me and created the subterfuge to kidnap Camille.

“I don’t know,” I gasped impotently. “Do you think he will hurt her?” In the ensuing seconds I realized Ursula’s answer was much more important to me than I might have expected. I found myself watching her anxiously, waiting for her answer as if I secretly felt it was somehow more valid than my own perceptions and feelings.

“I’d like to think he won’t,” she replied. “I’d even like to hope he won’t,” she stressed, “but when I search the farthest corner of my feelings I find that I simply don’t know.”

There came a tap at the door and we both turned to see Cook standing there. “There’s a woman waiting in the drawing room who wishes to have a word with you,” she informed.

“You let her in before consulting me?” I asked, a little piqued.

“She insisted,” Cook blustered. She wafted a lock of white hair out of her eyes. “She told me her name was Lady Dunaway, and as I turned around to fetch you, she pushed right in and made her way into the drawing room.”

“Well, I’m going out,” Ursula said as she quickly left without even saying good-bye. I cast her a quizzical glance as I shook my head and proceeded to the front of the house. As I entered the drawing room I realized for the first time that it was a particularly sunny June day. Golden light flooded through the French windows and the gilt on the pianoforte glistened brilliantly. Indeed, everything shimmered, the deep red brocade wallpaper, the brass standard lamps, the bright chintz sofas and chairs, and even the mellow green and gray Constables on either wall glowed as if filled with a new atmosphere. In front of one of the Constables stood Lady Dunaway.

She turned the moment I entered the room.

Lady Dunaway was a sight to behold. She was very tall, fully as tall as myself, and she wore a plaid ulster and cape, with a two-peaked Sherlock Holmes cap. At first when I examined her face I thought her features were unusual. Her cheekbones were a little too high, the angle of her chin a little too sharp. A pair of small and froggish gold-rimmed eyeglasses rested precariously on her long and very straight nose, and the lenses magnified her deep brown eyes ludicrously. As I continued to look at her, the eyeglasses were so incongruous with the broad white face that my mind’s eye blotted them out. It was only then that all the awkward jigsaw pieces of her features melded into a strange harmony, and I saw how striking a woman she actually was. She was beautiful, but in an aquiline, even alien way. Her raven-black hair was drawn tightly into a knot behind her head, and it made her face look very smooth and chalky, like a piece of statuary. Her presence was exceedingly dignified, and I guessed her to be in her early thirties. Her hands were large, and she wore prim suede gloves.

“Dr. Gladstone?” she inquired and the smoky contralto of her voice startled me. It was deep for a woman’s. It did not go with the delicate little eyeglasses, but it formed the perfect counterpoint with the powerful bone structure of her face. In the distance I heard the front door close as Ursula left for her undisclosed appointment.

I smiled. “Lady Dunaway?”

She nodded, but did not smile. “Lady Hespeth Dunaway,” she said as I motioned for her to have a seat. Even though she was large for a woman, I could tell she was svelte and graceful beneath the folds of her ulster and cape. She sat down on the bright chintz sofa.

I sat down in one of the nearby chairs.

“You have a lovely home,” she said, toying with the locket around her neck.

“Thank you.”

“Is this the pianoforte?” She gestured at the window. “The pianoforte?”

“The one the little girl played.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

She did not answer.

“So tragic. Please let me offer my sincere condolences.” She gazed at me intently. Even through the large spectacles I discerned a warm and deeply felt sadness. “Thank you,” I muttered.

“May I ask you something? Did you like the young man, that Niccolo Cavalanti?”

“My dear Lady Dunaway, why are you asking me these questions?”

She gazed at me blankly. “Well, did you like him?”

“With all due respect, I’m afraid I cannot answer unless you explain to me why you are here and why you want to know all of these things.”

“I’m interested,” she said simply and tilted her head back, gazing at me with indignation.

I started to think she was one of the sympathetic and doting women who had written me. That was it, I thought, just another one of these silly women. But all of a sudden her peculiarity, the pallor of her complexion, and the power and authority with which she spoke struck a chill into me. Had Lodovico sent another emissary to my home? Was this creature a vampire?

With a sweeping gesture she threw her plaid cape behind her shoulders, stood, and walked toward the pianoforte. I was ready to jump up when I noticed something. There was a gleam about her hair. It was in the middle of the afternoon. She was standing in the full flood of the sunlight pouring through the windows.

At just that moment Cook clattered in with a tray of tea and scones and placed it on the mahogany table amid the chintz furniture. She glanced at me with nervous curiosity. As always, her eyes revealed she was dying to know what was going on. I did not know what was going on. I shrugged and she clucked her tongue in exasperation as she left the room.

Once again Lady Dunaway turned around.

“You must have liked him to have trusted him in your home. I’ll wager you were even fond of him.”

The words struck a note within me and I felt an odd urge to answer.

“Did he give you any reason to suspect he might kidnap your little daughter?”

“No, but-”

“No, he wouldn’t have. You’re obviously an intelligent man. You observe what is going on around you. It would be difficult not to arouse your suspicions.” She stopped for a moment. “Did he tell you incredible stories of his past?”

“Yes.”

“And you say he looked just like the angel in that painting?”

“Yes.”

“I never knew that painting, but I looked it up after I read all of the articles in the newspapers.”

“Lady Dunaway,” I said harshly, “you must tell me what all of this has to do with you.”

“I will,” she said crossly, “but first you must tell me one thing.”

I suppressed my temper one last time.

“Did this Mr. Cavalanti sleep during the day?”

I realized I was in the presence of an utter lunatic. I stood up quickly. “So you’ve read about the hearse, and you have this theory that Niccolo Cavalanti was a vampire. Is that it?”

For the first time my words seemed to have some effect on her and she looked at me with shock. She was obviously an eccentric English noblewoman, not unlike the frenzied letter writers. I suddenly imagined the two-peaked Sherlock Holmes hat was of obvious significance. Lady Dunaway, if she was a lady, had read the papers and had decided to go sleuthing.

“I’m afraid I’m very busy,” I snapped. “Please pardon me, but I must ask you to leave.”

She stiffened. “You think I’m crazy, just like the rest, don’t you? You think I’m crazy?”

“No, no,” I said calmly as I approached her.

She drew back in a huff.

I was afraid she was going to fly completely off the handle, but she abruptly composed herself. With self-assured calculation she stared directly into my eyes. Her breast rose and fell. She was on the verge of saying something. I could tell she was deliberating, hoping. And then she took hold of herself as a single word passed through her lips. “
Jettatura
...”

It swept through me like a bolt of lightning. I had not mentioned it to anyone. It was not to be found in any of the newspaper articles. “Why do you say that word?” I demanded.

“Because I am not crazy,” she returned and grasped my arm tightly. Her eyes were wide and entreating. “And because I, too, have seen an angel.”

My heart leaped.

“Won’t you please sit down,” I beckoned and we both returned to our seats. I almost shook with excitement as I poured her a cup of tea, and once again our eyes locked.

“My good Lady Dunaway, you must tell me more. Do you know Niccolo Cavalanti?”

She took a sip as she composed herself. “I
knew
him.”

“You do not know where he is now?”

“I’m afraid I do not.”

“But how... why?”

“You must let me explain. You see, after I read about your daughter in the newspaper, and after I saw the name, there was no question that it was the same young man. But I was afraid. I thought it was a trick, some sort of hoax. I thought... well, the vampire was trying to lure me in. They’re very tricky, you know. You can never believe or trust them.”

I nodded.

“But please, Dr. Gladstone, tell me what you know. How did you become involved with, well, with
them?
Tell me, and then I’ll tell you how I met Niccolo Cavalanti.”

I proceeded to explain the entire incident to my newly found confidante. At every twist and turn of the story she was gasping and nodding excitedly. “Oh, yes, Il Magnifico. Yes, yes.” She sat her cup of tea down. “
Lodovico!
Oh, yes... Lodovico.”

Finally, when I had finished, Lady Dunaway literally squealed and embraced me heartily. “Yes, oh, yes,” she kept repeating. I was astonished to see she was crying ever so slightly.

“You must excuse me,” she said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. “It’s just I am so overwhelmed finally to find someone to talk to. Someone who won’t think I’m crazy.”

The last words touched me and I began to catch a glimmer of the sadness hidden behind her dignified demeanor. When she had once again regained her will, she cleared her throat. A faraway look shimmered in her eyes.

“My meeting with Mr. Cavalanti was somewhat similar to yours,” she began. “But first I must tell you a little about myself. Have you ever heard of my husband, Lord Lucien Dunaway?”

I shook my head no.

“No matter. I often wish I hadn’t heard of him myself. In any case, we live in Cornwall. We have an estate, Dunaway Hall, on the cliffs overlooking the English Channel. As you might gather, I don’t get along well with my husband. I am not the type of wife he really wants. He is not the type of husband I want.” She sighed. “I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, Dr. Gladstone. I know it is highly irregular to be so talkative about family matters, but I never talk. No one ever listens, and I must confide in someone.”

“I understand,” I said quietly.

“Well...” she said slowly, “Lucien... there’s just no tactful way of putting it. Lucien is a monster. He’s much older than I and he doesn’t want a wife. I mean, he doesn’t want a human being, a thinking and feeling woman. He wants something vacuous. Something pretty, and”—she paused—“he wants something that won’t fight back. A possession, a chattel that he can level abuse upon whenever alcohol and rage sweep his mind. But as soon as the storm is over he wants his chattel to stand up again and smile and greet dinner guests as if nothing has happened.”