Miss Blaine's Prefect and the Vampire Menace

by Olga Wojtas

  She stood up. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to bed.”

  I sat at the kitchen table a while longer, watching the candle burn down. She seemed genuinely convinced that Sylvain was still alive. But there had been a funeral. With a coffin. And if Sylvain wasn’t in it, who or what was?

  Eight

  It was midnight the following night. I flitted unseen along the dark streets of Sans-Soleil. My unlit head torch was pressing into my forehead, and I carried another couple of pieces of equipment I had found in my suitcase. In some ways, Miss Blaine was remarkably thorough; in others, notably telling me what I was supposed to be doing, not so much.

  Everyone was tucked up in bed, in readiness for the cheese celebrations the next day. All of the chalets were shuttered and silent, so I was navigating by memory and night vision.

  But as I rounded a corner, I saw a tiny chink of light. I calculated that I must now be in the rue Morgue. The light came from the wooden shack: one of the shutters wasn’t quite closed. I could hear voices. Voices I had heard in there before. The judge, the teacher, the policeman, and the undertaker and cheesemonger. As I got closer, I could pick up what they were saying.

  “It can’t be done,” said the undertaker and cheesemonger.

  “You don’t say,” said the judge. “It certainly hasn’t been done. And unless you work it out in the next seven hours, it won’t be done.”

  “Why don’t we go and dig out the proper stuff? At least that would be something,” said the teacher.

  “Don’t even suggest that,” snapped the policeman. “That would just make the genius’s failure all the more obvious.”

  “Why am I getting the blame?” said the undertaker and cheesemonger querulously. “Fat lot of use you lot have been.”

  “How could I help?” asked the judge. “I’m a judge.”

  “I’m a teacher,” said the teacher.

  “And I’m a policeman,” said the policeman.

  “Yes, very funny,” said the undertaker and cheesemonger. “So, what are we going to do?”

  “What are we going to do?” said the judge. “We’re going to do exactly what we’ve been doing. We lie low.”

  “Why should we listen to you, you young whippersnapper?” demanded the policeman.

  “Because I’m the only one talking sense. You think wisdom comes with age? Can I point out that the eldest of us is the one who–”

  At this point, I decided I had heard enough. The bickering was as unedifying as it had been last time, and I had things to do.

  I had slept late that morning, as had Madeleine, after the little contretemps with the villagers. Breakfast was awkward, with both of us being civil but wary. I tried to give her back the crucifix again, but she insisted on me wearing it when I was going out. The emphasis was very much on my going out: she obviously didn’t want to spend more time in my company than was absolutely necessary.

  So I went out. The villagers were bustling about at their various tasks and I beamed at them, but they were too shamefaced to meet my gaze.

  “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you,” I murmured, just loud enough to be heard. I was anxious for them to know I didn’t bear a grudge, and it was also helpful to remind them of my saintly, non-vampiric status.

  Cart Woman was oiling the wheels of the cart and she at least was prepared to talk to me. “I’ve made cushions, so it’s all ready for the floozie and her fancy man,” she said.

  “I’ve told you,” I said, “Mademoiselle Jardin is propriety itself, and the relationship between herself and the musician is above reproach.”

  “Rubbish. They’re from Paris, aren’t they?” said Cart Woman, as if that settled the matter.

  Aberdonians don’t put up with any nonsense: I could imagine Cart Woman saying something inappropriate, and Mary Garden heading straight back to Paris, accompanied by her accompanist.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’ve been to Paris, and you wouldn’t believe how rude everyone is.”

  “I would,” she said.

  “And what’s really ironic,” I went on, “is that they say the most awful things about people in the provinces. Especially villagers. They say villagers have got no idea how to behave, that they’re so ignorant they don’t even know how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.”

  “Do they indeed?” said Cart Woman. “Well, these two will get a surprise when they meet me. They’ll never have met anyone so genteel and refined in their lives. I’ll treat them like royalty.”

  The French guillotined royalty. “Treating them as honoured guests is perfectly adequate. Oh, and could you point me in the direction of the cemetery?”

  “What?” said Cart Woman.

  “The cemetery,” I repeated. “You know, where people are buried. I just fancied seeing it.”

  “Odd place to fancy seeing,” she said. “Is it because you’re religious?”

  I latched on to this. “Exactly. A cemetery’s a great place to ponder one’s mortality. A real memento mori.”

  She looked blank.

  “That’s a Latin phrase meaning ‘remember you must die’,” I explained.

  Cart Woman shrank away from me.

  “It’s not morbid,” I said, “it’s realistic. It encourages you to make the most of the time you have left.”

  But she wasn’t listening. She fished something out of her apron and held it out to me at arm’s length. “Has this anything to do with you?” she said through dry lips.

  It was a piece of paper. On it was written “Souviens-toi, tu dois mourir.” Remember you must die.

  “No,” I said. “No, nothing to do with me.”

  “Or someone else in your religious order?”

  “No, I’m more of an anchoress, a solitary practitioner. Where did you get this?” I asked.

  “I didn’t get it. My husband did.”

  “He didn’t know who sent it?”

  “I don’t know. He never mentioned it to me. I found it on his desk after he was supposedly torn to death by wild animals.”

  “You really don’t think he was torn to death by wild animals, do you?” I said.

  “I can’t understand why he would have been anywhere near the forest. He always kept to the village streets. He was hylophobic.”

  I had encountered people with all sorts of odd phobias over the years, but this was the first time I had heard of someone with an irrational fear of forests.

  “Was this the result of early trauma?” I asked.

  Cart Woman nodded.

  “Fairy tales can be very frightening for children,” I said. “I can understand that he would be scared of woods after hearing about Hansel and Gretel, and Little Red Riding Hood.”

  “It wasn’t fairy tales,” she said. “A tree fell on his house when he was a child and missed him by centimetres.”

  That did make a forest walk sound implausible.

  “It was lucky that he survived,” I said. “But you are sure he’s dead now?”

  “You asked me about this before,” she said testily. “Don’t confuse me with Madeleine. I told you, she’s not from round here, and she has some crazy notions. Of course I’m sure my husband’s dead. There was a funeral.”

  “And how was the wake? I’m sure everyone came round to say their goodbyes.”

  She shook her head. “No. I was told there couldn’t be an open coffin. It would be too distressing, since he had been torn to death by wild animals.”

  “That’s … that’s so sad,” I said. I had been about to say “interesting”, but I thought she might take it amiss. Cart Woman hadn’t seen her husband’s body because he was said to have been torn to death by wild animals. Madeleine hadn’t seen Sylvain’s body because he was said to have been torn to death by wild animals. Cart Woman’s husband had received a memento mori note. Sylvain had received a note as well. The mayor had also had a note, although he hadn’t been torn to death by wild animals. Gradually, I was building up a picture – so gradually that
I couldn’t actually see anything yet. This was day five of my mission. I definitely needed to make the most of the time I had left.

  “So, if you could give me an idea of where the cemetery is?” I prompted. “I’ll say a wee prayer for your husband while I’m there.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “He was a militant atheist.”

  I followed her excellent directions to the kirkyard and rather wished I hadn’t. The smell of decay I detected on my arrival in Sans-Soleil intensified the closer I got. There were a number of new graves, but as yet they didn’t have memorial stones or any other identification. All but one had candles on them. I deduced that the candle-less one was Sylvain’s: Madeleine would see no reason to tend it. I carefully noted where it was, and returned to Madeleine’s to wait for nightfall.

  Night refused to be rushed, but fell eventually: and here I was, having left behind the unedifying bickering of the teacher, the judge, the policeman, and the undertaker and cheesemonger, heading back to the kirkyard with my head torch. The smell of decay was worse than ever. I ignored the graves with feebly flickering candles, and made for Sylvain’s.

  “Thank you, Miss Blaine,” I murmured as I extended the spade’s retractable handle and locked it in position.

  I started digging, pushing the blade into the ground with my foot and levering it. It was a lot easier than I had expected – whoever had filled the grave had failed to pack the soil tight. Far in the distance, I heard the howl of a wolf. I kept digging, piling the earth neatly beside me. Suddenly, the spade hit something solid. Not a stone. I peered downwards, directing the head torch, and saw it was a wooden lid. This definitely wasn’t six feet under: it was relatively close to the surface.

  I started digging with renewed vigour and then whirled round as I heard heavy breathing behind me. A massive shaggy-haired wolf stood there, its tongue lolling and its tail wagging.

  “Hello,” I said, “is that you?” and it lowered its head in the lupine equivalent of a nod. Before I could even say “good wolf” it started scrabbling at the hole I had been digging, sending the earth flying. It was an impressive worker and before long, we succeeded in uncovering the coffin. The stench was horrific. It smelled exactly as I imagined a decomposing body would smell.

  The wolf sat on its haunches, panting, its eyes shining red in the light of the head torch. I hesitated, afraid of what I was going to find. The wolf padded up to me and nudged me with its head in the direction of the coffin. I picked up the claw hammer that Miss Blaine had sent along with the spade, and began easing out the nails securing the lid to the coffin base. Only half were out when the wolf began whining and pawing at the lid. Trying not to breathe, I pulled out the rest of the nails.

  Leaning over the hole I had dug, I grabbed hold of the top edge of the lid and lifted it. The wolf gave a howl of triumph. It bounded past me straight into the coffin, salivating. It opened its jaws, revealing its long sharp teeth.

  The coffin was full of cheese. Wheels of pungent, red-veined cheese. The wolf fell upon it, gulping down huge mouthfuls as though it hadn’t eaten for years. It was a first-hand example of the expression “to wolf it down”.

  There was a sudden tinkling noise and the wolf leaped backwards with a startled yelp. In the middle of one of the cheeses was a bottle. I carefully eased it out, brushing off bits of cheese, which the wolf gobbled up.

  The contents looked a bit like red wine, but not exactly. I was studying the bottle, turning it round, when I heard the wolf give a growl and saw it bare its teeth.

  There, at the edge of the kirkyard, was a petrifying sight. Four mutant scarecrows. They were coming towards me with their strange blank faces and my mind raced – how to tackle them? My martial arts skills are second to none, but I’d never had to deal with mutants before. And then I realised that they were simply four ordinary people with hessian sacks over their heads, who had cut little eyeholes so that they could see out.

  “What are you doing here?” I said sharply, conscious that they could ask me the same question.

  They didn’t speak, but kept advancing on me. Each of them was carrying a spade, a spade that looked more weighty and deadly than my retractable one. I thought back to my kendo training, wishing I was wearing the helmet with its metal grille, and the padded gloves and breastplate.

  The silent foursome were circling me now, raising their spades and preparing to strike. With an inferior weapon, and hampered by my long heavy skirt, I had little chance.

  “Wolf,” I called in my best Woodhouse way, “you get the one at the back, and I’ll tackle the rest of them.”

  There was no answering howl or bark or even snuffle. I glanced round and saw to my horror that the wolf had disappeared. And then the assailants were on me.

  “Kiai!” I shouted, stepping forward and striking. The first assailant crumpled as I parried blows from the other three. I felled another one. But the odds were against me. As I parried again, my spade’s retractable handle shattered. I sent a thought wave to Miss Blaine suggesting that she provide better-quality equipment next time when a spade caught the back of my knees and I fell forward.

  And then there was a hessian sack over my head as well, with no eyeholes or mouth-hole, and the ghastly stench of decay was so overpowering that I had no strength to retaliate. Some sort of binding went round the sack, fastening it tight round my neck and over my mouth so that I couldn’t call for help.

  As though from a great distance, I could hear a conversation. It was difficult to make it out. The scarecrows’ hessian sacks meant they were even more muffled than Lord Erroll with his scarf, and my hessian sack was an additional level of deafening, quite apart from my head swimming from the awful smell.

  This is how the conversation went:

  “[inaudible] so dark [inaudible] sure it’s her?”

  “Of course it is. [inaudible] husband’s boots.”

  “[inaudible] big feet.”

  “I don’t like this. Men [inaudible] but this is a woman.”

  “Not a pretty one. Not like Madeleine.”

  [Long pause, possibly for a sigh.]

  “[inaudible] got our orders. [inaudible] buried and dead.”

  “Well, get on with it.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Neither can I.”

  “Stop arguing and just [inaudible] get on with it.”

  “Oh, give it here. I’ll do it.”

  There was a searing pain at the back of my skull, and I lost consciousness.

  When I came to, I had so many questions. Who were my assailants? Why did they persist in thinking that men and women should be treated differently? Why on earth did they say “buried and dead” instead of “dead and buried”? And where was I?

  I tried to wiggle around, and found that I couldn’t. I was in some sort of receptacle, my hands folded across my chest. It was so snug that I was stuck fast. I unfolded my hands and tentatively began a fingertip investigation of my surroundings. I was encased in wood. Completely encased. There was wood beneath me, at my sides, and just over my head.

  I was in a coffin.

  I had been buried alive.

  Nine

  Exactly how buried was I? If I was six feet under, that was roughly six tonnes of soil. My breathing was already impeded by the hessian sack. How much longer would I able to breathe?

  I tried to do a calculation. The internal volume of the coffin minus my own volume would give me the amount of air available, which I could then divide by the amount of oxygen I would require each minute. A simple sum, which would normally take me no time at all, but for some reason, I couldn’t concentrate.

  I remembered my instructions to the mayor to be more zen. That was exactly what I needed, to slow everything down, so that I was using up the minimum amount of oxygen. But despite that, I was breathing quite fast.

  I had never imagined I would be a victim of vivisepulture. If it was going to happen, the nineteenth century was the best time – following the cholera epidemic, there
was a lot of nervousness about being buried alive. It even had its own word, “taphophobia”, and was much more common than hylophobia, with people devising some very ingenious safety coffins. The simplest and most effective was a bell that the interree could ring, alerting the cemetery night watchman. The only problem was that my coffin was lacking a bell, and I was pretty sure the Sans-Soleil cemetery was lacking a night watchman.

  I felt around with my fingertips, and again came across traces of earth and grit in the coffin joints. Was this the very coffin I had found myself in on arrival? On that occasion, it was a vivid enough reminder of my mortality when I hadn’t even been enclosed; but now, to be buried alive in it – that was the ultimate memento mori.

  I reached up to touch the lid above me, and met two metal handles that I could grip. Oh, the irony. Of course, they had been installed because of the rampant taphophobia, but six feet under, much good would it do you.

  I had no hope of Madeleine coming looking for me. She would just be delighted that I wasn’t there, while my rent money was. Cart Woman knew of my interest in the kirkyard, but would she know I was missing?

  Brother Wolf. If only he could sense where I was. The earth would still be workable. If he could scrabble down to me and howl a bit, he would alert the villagers to come and rescue me. I focused. Brother Wolf … Brother Wolf … Brother Wolf …

  Even as I thought it, there was a scraping sound, not of earth, but of wood against wood. The coffin lid was lifted off, and through the hessian sack I could faintly discern a light.

  “Good evening, madam. If you would allow me?”

  It was Lord Erroll’s voice. Gentle fingers felt around my head and neck, and within moments, he had removed the hessian sack. I blinked in the light of the lantern.

  He extended his hand to me and helped me out of the coffin.