Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Vampire Menace

by Olga Wojtas

  Now he was puzzled. “Short bread? You mean a small baguette?”

  “A Scottish delicacy.”

  “So, you talked about food? Not … anything else?” He sounded uneasy.

  “We talked about lots of things, including cows and monkeys.” I wondered whether I should offer to sing the Boddam song.

  “He didn’t … he didn’t complain about anything, did he?”

  “He had terrible toothache, but he didn’t really complain about it, although it was ruining his sleep.”

  “Good,” said the mayor. “Good. I mean, not good that he had terrible toothache, but good that he wasn’t complaining about it.”

  During all our conversation, he hadn’t opened his mouth wide enough for me to see his teeth and confirm that he was a vampire. I was going to have to tell him a joke, a joke so funny that he would laugh out loud.

  The funniest joke I know – it makes me laugh every time – goes like this:

  Q: What’s brown and sticky?

  A: A stick!

  But it probably wouldn’t come over so well in translation. I tried to construct a French variant, using marron (brown) and marrant (funny), but it didn’t really work.

  “Are you all right?” asked the mayor.

  “Fine,” I said. “Just thinking.”

  My second favourite joke is:

  Q: What do you call a man with a pile of leaves on his head?

  A: Russell!

  That didn’t work in French either. There was only one thing to do. I lunged at the mayor, grabbing the sides of his face and thrusting my thumbs in his mouth.

  He shrieked.

  I shoved my thumbs upwards so that I could check for long, sharpened fangs, and the next thing, his teeth were flying through the air. The mayor clearly wasn’t a vampire.

  I let go of him and wiped my thumbs on my skirt. “Oh,” I said. “Falsers? Sorry.”

  As I turned to see where his teeth had gone, there was a shout.

  “She attacked the mayor! Help! Help! Police!”

  A crowd was rapidly gathering.

  “What? What happened?”

  “I saw it all, he was just talking to her, and then – whump!”

  “Whump?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “The mayor’s been attacked!”

  “Police!”

  “What sort of whump?”

  “The Englishwoman punched the mayor in the mouth – knocked all his teeth out.”

  “I’m not English,” I protested. “And I didn’t punch him.” My second refutation was lost as the clamour intensified.

  “Police! Someone call the police!”

  “Whump! Just like that, completely unprovoked.”

  “Terrible! We’re not safe in our beds with these foreigners around.”

  “Grab her!”

  “You must be joking. I’m not going anywhere near her. I might get punched.”

  I took a step forward, and they all took a step back, falling silent.

  “I did not,” I said, “punch the mayor. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding.” I looked around and spotted the teeth lying in some mud. At least, I hoped it was mud. I went and picked them out, and handed them back to the mayor.

  “Maybe better rinse them under the tap for a while before you pop them back in,” I said.

  I turned to the baleful throng, many of whom were baring their teeth, with not a fang in sight. I had been too hasty in my conclusion. “I was checking for vampires. You can never be too careful. I’d advise you to keep your windows and doors closed at night just to be sure. Anyway, the mayor’s not a vampire, so nothing to worry about in terms of municipal administration. That’s reassuring, isn’t it?”

  I smiled encouragingly but nobody smiled back.

  “Really, I am very sorry,” I said to the mayor who was clutching the dentures. “If your teeth have been damaged in any way, I’ll naturally cover the cost of repairs.” I hoped Miss Blaine would see this as a necessary expense. “All I can say is that it was an honest mistake, and I very much hope you’ll be able to accept my apology.”

  “Now then, now then.” A tall man with bushy side whiskers, the police officer who had been so objectionable to the children, was being ushered towards me by a bunch of villagers. I noted that he was simply wearing his dark suit, without his uniform of cape and kepi. “There had better be a good reason for disturbing me.”

  The clamour erupted again.

  “She punched the mayor!”

  “I saw everything!”

  “It was an unprovoked assault!”

  “Arrest her!”

  He looked at me and looked at the mayor, who had slipped his teeth back in. I really hoped it was mud they had landed in.

  “It’s something out of nothing,” I said. “We’ll be laughing about it by teatime. Shake?”

  I extended my hand towards the mayor, who recoiled.

  “Arrest her,” repeated a villager in quite a belligerent way, and others took up the cry. “Yes, arrest her! Arrest her!”

  The policeman put up his hand as though he was directing traffic. “I arrest you,” he announced.

  He was a disgrace to the uniform that he wasn’t wearing.

  “You can’t just say ‘I arrest you,’” I said. “First, you have to identify yourself as the police, especially since you’re not in uniform, then you have to tell me that I’m being arrested, then you have to tell me the crime you think I’ve committed, explain why it’s necessary to arrest me, and then tell me that I don’t need to say anything other than giving my name, address, date and place of birth and nationality. Which is Scottish, by the way.”

  I suddenly realised that if I gave my date of birth, it would cause all sorts of difficulties.

  “Scrub all that,” I said. “You probably can just say ‘I arrest you’. Now what?”

  The policeman looked uncertain.

  “Take her to the judge,” said a villager, and that was them all off again. “Yes, yes, the judge, take her to the judge!”

  The press of the crowd carried us through the village, not to the courthouse but to Chez Maman. The policeman entered first.

  “I’ve arrested the Englishwoman,” he announced.

  I gave a loud sigh, which was ignored. I could discern the tiny figure of Maman behind the bar thanks to occasional glimpses of grey – she was using a filthy dish towel to dry glasses.

  “Why have you done that?” she croaked.

  “Because she attacked the mayor. Now it’s a matter for the judge.”

  Maman flapped the dishcloth towards the back of the howff, and a figure rose and came towards us, still clutching a glass of cloudy pastis. A chubby, florid young man. The judge.

  Maman had meantime gone to the coat hooks and retrieved the policeman’s cape and kepi, and the judge’s gown, jabot and black cylindrical hat. The two men got into their outfits, and the judge sat down at the nearest table and took a swig of pastis. I had been shoved in front of the table by the crowd, as many of whom as possible were inside the howff, with the rest thronged at the door. Maman was already taking drinks orders.

  I stood there for a while, but court-wise nothing was happening, apart from the chubby judge making inroads on his drink.

  “Are we waiting for the prosecution and defence advocates?” I asked.

  The judge looked at the policeman.

  “I don’t know,” said the policeman. “Are we?”

  “I don’t think we have any,” said a villager.

  “If we have, I’ve never seen them,” said another. “Hey, I’m next in the queue. Absinthe please, Maman.”

  I stood around for a while longer. Eventually I said to the judge, “Are you an examining magistrate?”

  “Might be,” he said cautiously.

  “If you are, it’s your job to question me, the suspect.”

  “All right,” he said, and paused. “How do I do that?”

  It’s just as well that jurisprudence is one of my hobb
ies, along with international law, and that I was familiar with the French inquisitorial system.

  “You can start by asking the police officer about his enquiries.”

  “What about your enquiries?” the judge asked the police officer.

  “What about them?” the police officer said.

  The judge looked at me helplessly.

  “Have you made any enquiries?” I asked the police officer.

  “I asked Maman if she had any cognac, but she didn’t.”

  “Enquiries about this case.”

  “No.”

  There was a silence.

  “Honestly,” I said. “Do I have to do everything round here? Just tell us, in your own words, how you came to find me and the mayor.”

  His face cleared. “I was drinking in here when a bunch of people rushed in and grabbed me and said I was needed. As we were running along, they said you had attacked the mayor.”

  “Ah,” said the judge. “That’s important evidence. So now we know you attacked the mayor.”

  “That’s not evidence,” I snapped. “It’s hearsay, and hence inadmissible.”

  “Oh,” said the judge, looking disappointed.

  “Go on,” I said to the policeman.

  “They brought me to where a large crowd was gathered, and they told me you’d punched the mayor in an unprovoked assault.”

  “Ah,” said the judge. “Further evidence of your guilt.”

  “You’re not listening to me,” I said in the tone I used to recalcitrant first years. “Hearsay, inadmissible. Go on, officer.”

  The policeman puffed out breath from hamster cheeks. “That’s it, I think. They told me to arrest you and bring you to the judge, so I did.”

  “Thank you. You may stand down,” I said.

  The policeman sat down and was handed a glass of beer, which he drained in a oner.

  “Now we can hear from the alleged victim,” I said. “His honour the mayor.”

  The mayor was shoved forward by the crowd. He seemed to be running his tongue along his teeth in a tentative way. I worried about how they tasted.

  “Mr Mayor,” I said, “please tell the court in your own words what happened.”

  He took a deep breath. “It all happened so quickly. We were talking about the English milord–”

  “The Scottish milord,” I corrected.

  There was puzzled muttering from the crowd.

  “Anyway, we were talking, and you stopped. You were just standing there – you seemed to be lost in thought. And then you shoved your hands in my mouth and pulled my teeth out.”

  “Guilty!” cried the judge.

  “Hold on for a second,” I said. “You don’t even know whether the mayor wants to press charges.”

  “Do you want to press charges?” asked the judge.

  The mayor looked at me. “Do I?” he asked.

  “That’s a matter for you,” I said. “But probably not. It’s not going to do your tourist industry much good if your first international visitor ends up in the clink.”

  “Then I don’t want to press charges.”

  Maman had emerged from behind the bar, the rancid grey cloth over her shoulder, and was whispering something to the judge.

  “Charges must be pressed in the public interest,” the judge intoned.

  “And what are the charges?” I asked.

  The judge swirled the remaining pastis round in his glass and drank it down. “Just a minute,” he said. “I need another drink.” He went over to the bar, followed by Maman, who poured another slug of alcohol into the glass, followed by a dribble of water. I could hear whispering, but even with my remarkably acute hearing, I couldn’t make out what was being said.

  The judge came back and sat down. “Assaulting an elected official,” he said, which led to a lot of satisfied nodding. He crashed his glass down as though it was a gavel, sending a spray of pastis shooting out.

  “Guilty,” he declaimed as Maman arrived with her manky cloth to wipe up the spillage.

  There were cheers from the villagers.

  When the noise died down, I said, “You can’t do that.”

  “Yes I can,” said the judge. “I’m the judge.”

  “You have to interview me first,” I told him.

  “Do I?” said the judge.

  “It’s the law,” I said. “I have to get an opportunity to explain myself.”

  “In that case, explain yourself.” He sat back and folded his arms.

  “You’re all very pale here,” I said. “Apart from Madeleine, of course.”

  There was a collective sigh from the men followed by dark muttering from the womenfolk.

  “This led me to develop a research project,” I explained. “I had a hypothesis, but I needed empirical evidence. It was essential to collect primary research data, and after a critical analysis of alternative methodologies, I implemented the research strategy that appeared to best meet my aims. I evaluated my findings and concluded that my hypothesis was not proved.”

  The judge turned to the policeman. “Do you have any idea what she’s on about?”

  The policeman shrugged.

  “I thought you were all vampires,” I said. “I was checking whether the mayor had fangs. I didn’t know he had dentures. I’ve already apologised.”

  The judge crashed his glass down again and repeated, “Guilty.” Then he said, “Now what?”

  “Now the disposal,” I said.

  The judge leaned forward. “We can dispose of you?”

  “In a number of ways,” I said. “Since I am of unblemished character, it could be an absolute discharge. You might come to that conclusion if you also take into account that the mayor doesn’t want to press charges. Or you could impose a fine. Or a custodial sentence.”

  “That one,” said the judge. “A custodial sentence.”

  “That means putting me in prison,” I said, just in case he didn’t know.

  “Yes,” he said. “Putting you in prison. That’s good.”

  “No,” said the mayor. “That’s bad. We want to build our reputation as a tourist-friendly destination, not one where tourists end up in prison.”

  The judge glowered at him. “Are you arguing with me? Do you want a custodial sentence as well?”

  The mayor subsided.

  “Right,” said the judge. “Madame Maque-Monet-Gueule, I sentence you to a custodial sentence.”

  This place was full of tautology.

  I spoke over the applause that had broken out. “You don’t say it like that. You sentence me to a period of custody.”

  “All right,” said the judge. “I sentence you to a period of custody.”

  He was the most useless investigating magistrate I had ever encountered.

  “You have to say how long the period is,” I explained.

  “How long is it?”

  “That’s for you to decide.” I was getting slightly exasperated. It was bad enough being in the dock without having to be prosecution and defence advocate, clerk of court and judge as well.

  “Life,” the judge determined.

  I was obliged to intervene in my role as clerk of court. “That’s not appropriate for a crime of this nature. It’s far too long.”

  “What would you suggest?” the judge asked.

  I considered this. “Maybe a week?”

  The glass crashed down on the table for a third time. “I sentence you to a week in custody. Take her away.”

  As I was being dragged off by the policeman, it struck me I could have said “an hour”. I hoped Miss Blaine wouldn’t find out.

  Accompanied by the crowd, we made our way to the police station, where the policeman halted.

  “Keys?” he said querulously.

  “You should have them on your belt, shouldn’t you?” I said.

  He fumbled at his waist, then felt in all his pockets. “Can’t find them.”

  “When did you have them last?” I asked.

  He looked uncomfortabl
e. “I don’t remember.”

  There was a jangling sound behind us, followed by a familiar collective sigh: “Ah, Madeleine!”

  “Are these what you’re looking for?” asked my landlady. “My Sylvain keeps them safely at home, but I’ll let you borrow them until he comes back.”

  The crowd broke into sympathetic murmuring alongside furtive gestures suggesting that she wasn’t in her right mind.

  The policeman seized the bunch of keys and started trying them in the front-door keyhole to no effect until Madeleine retrieved them and used the right one. The three of us went inside and the crowd dispersed.

  Madeleine tutted at the sight of the dust covering the surfaces. “The state of this place. It was spotless when my Sylvain was here.”

  The policeman tugged at his bushy side whiskers. “Sorry, Madeleine. I haven’t been in much.”

  Madeleine shook the keys. “Obviously not. You’d better get it sorted before he comes back. Here, this is the key for the cell.”

  She opened the door to what appeared to be a broom cupboard, albeit free of brooms. There was no window as such, apart from a transom window to the main office.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “And by the way, madame, you don’t get a rent rebate.”

  And with that, she departed, letting the front door slam shut behind her. The policeman, gazing in the direction in which she had gone, gave a wistful sigh.

  Then he gathered himself. “All right, in you go.”

  I peered into the cell. “I’m not going in there. It’s too small, there isn’t adequate ventilation, there’s no seating or bedding – it’s completely against my human rights. What was the point of the French Revolution if you’re not going to uphold the Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen?”

  “You, madame, are neither a man nor a citizen,” said the police officer, shoving me in the direction of the cell.

  I was going to argue about the definition of the word “man”, but I suspected he wouldn’t be receptive. I tilted back on my DMs to turn myself into an immoveable object. “Look, I can’t be imprisoned for a week. I’ve got things to do, people to see.” Most important of all, I had to work out what my mission was if it wasn’t to rid the village of vampires.

  The policeman looked thoughtful. “I’m sure we could come to some arrangement,” he said, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.