Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Vampire Menace

by Olga Wojtas

  “I mean on the road. I must have been going chez Maman to see you just as you were going chez Madeleine to see me.”

  “I wasn’t anywhere near Madeleine’s,” he said, and I realised he must be in a bit of discomfort when he gritted his teeth rather than sighing. He looked so miserable that it was all I could do not to stroke his thick, lustrous hair. “I went to Maman’s to ask about the cheese, but they couldn’t – or wouldn’t – help me, so I went to check things out for myself.”

  His obsession with cheese was a bit troubling. It was possible that he had some sort of hormonal imbalance or was suffering from a lack of nutrients. But there could be other reasons behind his food cravings. Excess cortisol can lead to increased appetite and a hankering for fat.

  “Do you feel a bit stressed at the moment?” I asked.

  He gave a hollow laugh. “More than a bit.”

  “Are you getting enough sleep?”

  “No sleep at all. I can’t sleep because of the stress.”

  Lady Macbeth had problems with sleeping as well. Perhaps both Madeleine and the mayor were cracking up. Madeleine was always so caustic about the mayor, and implying that there was something going on between him and me. Could that be to deflect suspicion away from him and her? Maman had said Sylvain had been torn to death by wild animals. But would the local CSI be able to tell the difference between someone who had been attacked by wild animals and someone who had been hacked to pieces by his wife and his wife’s boyfriend? Only a few hours ago, I had thought the mayor was a cold-blooded killer and then I had decided he wasn’t. Was I just vacillating because he had a pretty face? Framed by thick, lustrous hair. I sent a mental plea to Miss Blaine to stop me getting distracted.

  The mayor prodded gingerly at his rib-cage and gave another groan. He was in pain, he was vulnerable, and I was going to take full advantage of it to get the truth out of him.

  “Did you kill Sylvain?” I snapped in the voice that forced confessions out of even the most uncooperative third years.

  “No,” he quavered.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it’s the sort of thing I would remember.” His voice was still shaky, but emphatic.

  “Did Madeleine kill Sylvain?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did wild animals kill Sylvain?”

  “I don’t know.”

  It struck me that I was rather good at conducting an interrogation. It’s not the sort of thing I normally have the opportunity to do, since the questions I ask in the library are more along the lines of “Do you have photo ID or proof of address?” and “Do you know your PIN?”

  “Why are you stressed?” I demanded.

  There wasn’t a second’s hesitation. “Because of the cheese,” he said. “I went to see the cheesemonger but the shutters were up and there was no answer when I knocked on the door.”

  That was odd. I had passed the cheese shop on my way to Maman’s, and while the window still hadn’t been cleaned, there had definitely been no shutters. Perhaps he was having hallucinations because of a lack of cheese. I wasn’t dealing with a killer, I was sure of that, but I was dealing with someone who seemed to have a serious disorder; whether physical or emotional, I wasn’t sure.

  “You need to go to the pharmacy, and as quickly as possible,” I said, letting him lean on me as I helped him to his feet. “First, get some arnica. It’s a great anti-inflammatory and will sort out any bruising. But also get some nutritional yeast.”

  “Will that help my ribs as well?” he asked.

  “It’s very good for you,” I said obliquely. He was so fixated on cheese that I couldn’t risk telling him that it was an excellent cheese substitute and would reduce his cravings. They could also be reduced by adequate hydration. “And are you drinking enough water?”

  He looked suddenly hangdog. “Lots and lots of water.”

  I couldn’t understand why he thought this was something to be ashamed of until I realised that he hadn’t stopped speaking. We were talking in French, so I had heard him say “eau” when in fact he was saying “eau de vie.”

  “Brandy?” I said reproachfully. “You’re drinking loads and loads of brandy? I said you had to cut down on your drinking for the sake of your liver, and that was when I thought you were just having the occasional half-bottle of wine.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, a sad smile on his lips. “The supply of brandy is almost gone. Like the cheese.”

  I relented. He could do with something to cheer him up. “Here,” I said, opening the wooden sewing box and taking out the posters. It was lucky they had been in a container – if I had bumped into the mayor when they were unprotected, they would have been crumpled beyond repair.

  He unrolled them and looked at each one in wonderment.

  “But these are – did you? – incredible!” he stuttered. “How very – yes, everyone will come to see her. The men, at any rate. Her legs – so very… And this is really what she looks like when she sings?”

  I had been so busy trying to create a poster that was artistically striking that perhaps I had taken slight liberties with the actualité.

  “Maybe not all the time,” I said. Some of the punters might be a tad disappointed to find Mary Garden was primarily a singer, but I was sure I could persuade her to dance a wee jig in between numbers.

  And before I knew what was happening, the mayor was bending towards me to give me a kiss. Perhaps it would have been a formal kiss on both cheeks, perhaps it would have been something more lingering, but I never found out, since I involuntarily cried, “Don’t crumple the posters!” and he jumped back. The moment was lost for ever.

  “I must put these up immediately,” he said. He turned to go and spotted a brawny figure striding down the street towards us. It was Cart Woman.

  “Look!” he called to her, flourishing the posters. “This is the young lady you have to collect for the celebrations.”

  She peered at my paintings and sniffed. “She looks a flighty piece. I’m not sure I want her in my cart.”

  The mayor shot me a pleading glance.

  “These images are purely for publicity purposes,” I said. “She’s actually a very demure, polite young lady.”

  Cart Woman ignored me. “You said she would have a man with her,” she said to the mayor. “A flighty piece with a man. I run a respectable cart. No, I’m sorry, you’ll have to find somebody else.”

  “But there isn’t anybody else,” the mayor burst out. “You’re the only one with a cart. And the only one who knows the route to the pick-up point.”

  I stealthily felt in my reticule for my purse. It opened.

  “You can’t get more respectable than the lady and gentleman the mayor has invited to perform for the celebrations,” I said, balancing the open purse on my hand as though I was about to juggle with it. “The lady is modest and reserved, and the gentleman is of the utmost probity – he plays the piano.”

  Cart Woman’s eyes were fixed on the purse.

  “In fact,” I said, “they each lead such a cloistered, contemplative life in Paris that I’m sure they’ve never been to the country before. They’ll be quite overwhelmed when they find out how well we do things here. I imagine you’re providing extra cushions? And a rug?”

  “There was no mention of cushions and rugs when the mayor booked me,” said Cart Woman.

  I gave her a sympathetic smile. “Men, eh? No, he would never have thought of that. It’s always up to us girls to sort things out properly.”

  There was nothing inappropriate or demeaning about my use of the word “girls”: I was displaying sisterly solidarity. But Cart Woman stood stolid and unyielding.

  “Oh,” I said as a sudden thought struck me, “if the mayor didn’t actually order the deluxe excursion, you’re having to underwrite all the extras yourself. That’s very kind, and I understand you want to show that Sans-Soleil has one of the finest carts in the land. But I’m a bit of a patron of the arts, and I wonder if I could ma
ke a small contribution to your expenses?”

  I held out the open purse to her. At the sight of the contents, she gasped as Madeleine had done. “You must do a lot of patronising,” she said.

  After a moment’s study, she extracted a couple of coins. “This should cover my costs.”

  “Then you’ll meet Mademoiselle Jardin and the piano player at the pick-up point as planned?” I asked, briefly wondering whether I’d just invented a new tongue-twister.

  She spat on her hand and held it out to me.

  “No need for that,” I said. “We have a gentlewoman’s agreement.”

  The mayor spat on his hand and clasped Cart Woman’s. “And we have a Sans-Soleil agreement. I must put these posters up immediately. Ladies, I’ll see you later.” He strode off, whistling a happy tune.

  But Cart Woman didn’t look happy. She surveyed me grimly.

  “He may not always get it right, but he does his best. He doesn’t deserve people attacking him in the street,” she said.

  “That was a misunderstanding,” I said. “I was just being cautious, making sure that everything in the village was as it should be. You can’t be too careful where vampires are concerned. They’re very cunning.”

  She gave a snort. “That’s as may be. But you wouldn’t catch me attacking public servants in the street.”

  “Is that because you’d only do it when there were no witnesses?” I said to lighten the mood, but there was no repetition of the laugh, just a withering look.

  “Anyway, he’s forgotten all about it now,” I said. “His mind’s on more important matters, like where his next cheese is going to come from.”

  “I know how he feels,” she said.

  I was about to tell her to pop into the pharmacy and get some nutritional yeast when she snapped, “It’s my livelihood. Week in, week out, I take the cheeses to the pick-up point, and get the other villages’ produce in exchange. And now, no cheese, no produce.”

  “Barter schemes are very good,” I said. “But in this case, it sounds as though in the short term at least, you’ll have to buy what you need from the other villages.”

  “How can we?” she said. “Nobody here has any money.”

  That was why the mayor had said he couldn’t raise taxes. But if nobody had any money… “Tell me,” I said, “where did the mayor get the funds to build the town hall?”

  A shrug. “I don’t know, and I don’t ask. None of my business. My business is taking cheese to the pick-up point. I’ve been promised coffins, but where are they?”

  “Coffins?” I said. Call it Blainer’s intuition, but I had a feeling this might be significant. “Tell me more about the coffins.”

  “I can’t tell you anything about the coffins because I don’t have any,” she snapped. “It’s a crying shame about the cheese shop. I always enjoyed walking past, seeing the cheesemonger hard at work making cheese. The kids loved it too. It was a village institution. And now it’s all being done behind closed doors in the morgue. It’s not hygienic, if you ask me.”

  “How do you make cheese in a morgue?” I asked, which sounded like the start of a rather unwholesome joke.

  “How should I know? I tell you, this place is going to hell in a handcart.”

  I had heard that phrase before, the wee girl telling the policeman that her mum thought the place was going to hell in a handcart in the absence of Sylvain. It made sense: if anyone knew about handcarts, it was Cart Woman.

  She strode off, leaving me to gather my thoughts. I could see that the undertaker and cheesemonger wouldn’t want to be constantly running between two different sets of premises, but making cheese in the morgue did seem potentially unhygienic. On the other hand, would it be preferable to bring bodies into the cheese shop? Probably not.

  What was the problem with the cheese? Cart Woman had had a regular job transporting it to the pick-up point – why had that stopped? And what did coffins have to do with anything? A visit to the undertaker was in order.

  I went into unobtrusive mode and set off for the rue Morgue. The wooden shed that I had seen the children approach had its windows shuttered. This must be where the mayor had gone to get some cheese. I sidled up to it. There was no sign of life, which seemed perfectly appropriate for a morgue.

  And then I spotted three figures in the distance. If they got close, unobtrusive mode might not be enough to protect me. I crept round the side of the shed where I couldn’t be seen.

  I could hear their voices as they approached: the teacher, the judge and the policeman.

  “How do you suppose he’s doing?” said the judge.

  “I don’t suppose he’s doing anything. He always says he can’t do it without assistance,” said the policeman.

  “He can’t do it even with assistance.” The teacher this time. “Frankly, I don’t know why the kids wasted their time.”

  “At least they weren’t wasting your time,” said the judge. “You’re as good a teacher as he is a cheesemonger.”

  “And what about you two?” the teacher retorted. “Maman told me all about that so-called trial with the Englishwoman.”

  I bit my lip hard.

  “It was a complete farce,” the teacher went on.

  “And I suppose you’d have been better,” sneered the judge.

  “No suppose about it. I bet I know more about the law than both of you put together.”

  I didn’t find this remotely edifying, professional men bickering with another – in fact, in my view it was very unprofessional.

  There was a thumping on the wooden door, and after a while it creaked open.

  “Any luck?” asked the policeman.

  “With the cheese or the coffins?” It was the undertaker and cheesemonger speaking.

  “Both. Either.”

  “No. It’s a disaster.”

  “We’d better come in and sort things out,” said the teacher.

  There was the sound of footsteps entering the shed, and the door closing.

  I crept back round to the front of the shed and positioned myself beside a set of shutters.

  “See what I mean?” asked the undertaker and cheesemonger.

  I couldn’t, since the shutters were close-fitting.

  “You’ve got a model, can’t you just copy it?” said the teacher.

  “Of course, I would never have thought of that. Thank you so much.” The sarcasm was palpable even through the shutters. “Perhaps you could show me how easy it is.”

  “Yes, why don’t you do that?” said the judge. “You claim to be a teacher, so teach him. Your pupils have all gone home for the day, so you’ve nothing else to do. I’ll get on my way.”

  “So will I,” said the policeman.

  “Hang on,” said the teacher, “where are you off to?”

  “I’m not like you, scarcely starting work before it’s finishing time. I’ve got work to do,” said the policeman.

  “So do I,” said the judge.

  “What sort of work?” the teacher demanded.

  “I’ve got to be on the lookout for that Englishwoman, in case she starts attacking anybody else,” the policeman said.

  For the second time, I managed to stop myself intervening.

  “And I’ve got to be on standby in case there needs to be a court case,” said the judge. “We’ll see you later.”

  I could hear footsteps approach the door, and discretion won out over valour. There could well be a local by-law against loitering, not to mention eavesdropping, and I didn’t want to spend a second night in jail. But as I sprinted down the nearest alleyway, I reflected that I probably didn’t want to spend a second night chez Madeleine. There was every possibility that she was a cold-blooded killer, and she had definitely taken against me. If I took the next turning to the right, I would be going in the direction of the school, and that could be a good alternative. I could prepare the lesson for the next day and curl up in a corner somewhere. I can sleep pretty well anywhere after all those summer holidays in a tent
. At least there were no midges in Sans-Soleil.

  The playground and environs were deserted. The schoolhouse door was locked, but one window was slightly open, and I quickly scrambled through. The school room was dominated by the teacher’s high desk on a raised platform. It was a model of practicality, with storage space under the lift-up writing slope, and a series of shelves down to floor level. I perched on the accompanying stool, and had a clear view over all of the pupils’ double desks.

  There was something odd about the room. The pupils’ slates were all stacked on a shelf at the back of the room and were covered in dust, as though they hadn’t been used for some time. But the desks and benches were clean enough. The inkwell on the teacher’s desk was dry. Was any teaching going on in this place? I opened the writing slope and was shocked to find neither textbooks nor jotters but cigarettes, matches and a hip flask.

  A bottle of ink was on the ledge by the blackboard, and I refilled the inkwell. The blackboard was covered in a detailed circular diagram of sines and cosines. The children were studying advanced trigonometry. I was back in an era when there was rigorous teaching of Euclid and Pythagoras. These children would know more about angles than the Venerable Bede.

  But the diagram was smudged and smeared, as though a jacket had rubbed against it when someone had walked past. It was no longer a coherent lesson, so I had no qualms about taking the duster and rubbing it all out.

  It took a while to find the chalk, which was stuck behind the hip flask. On the blackboard I wrote “Cardinal Numbers”, listing one to twenty underneath, a similar list for “Ordinal Numbers”, and then lists for “Months of the Year” and “Days of the Week”.

  That would be a start.

  I took off my jacket, rolled it up to form a pillow, lay down and quickly fell asleep.

  ***

  When the teacher unlocked the door the next morning, I was already at the high desk, having washed at the sinks in the cloakroom, and was making notes with a scratchy dip pen.

  He did a double-take. “The door was locked. How did you get in?”

  I waved my hand airily. “Didn’t the police officer tell you? Locks are child’s play to me. In fact, I might incorporate lockpicking into the children’s playtime.”