by Olga Wojtas
“Yes, that’s Ermintrude,” he called back. “Don’t worry, she’s not dangerous.”
“I’m more worried about the hygiene element.”
“It’s fine, she’s house-trained. Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, could you let her out? She’s been cooped up for quite a long time.”
I had heard that cows couldn’t walk downstairs, but nobody had told Ermintrude. Her descent wasn’t elegant, but it was efficient. I unlocked and unbolted the castle’s massive doors, and, with a moo of relief, Ermintrude lolloped away into the darkness.
I couldn’t see where she had gone. I was going to feel totally daft stumbling around yelling, “Ermintrude!” and heaven knows what I might stumble into.
But just as I was about to go looking for her, she reappeared and licked my face. I felt I was being lightly sandpapered. It struck me that if more cows were house-trained, they could be useful exfoliants in beauty salons – but since I don’t hold with beauty salons, which encourage women to be dissatisfied with their looks and pursue unrealistic images of beauty, I decided to keep this insight to myself.
Ermintrude waited patiently while I locked up again, then led the way upstairs, galumphing through the main hall and into the windowless octagonal room where Dracula was slumped in one of the high-backed leather armchairs. She set about licking his face.
“Good girl,” he said. “Lie down.”
She bent her forelegs until she was in a downward dog pose, then folded her hind legs under her, and laid her head on Dracula’s knee.
“I’ll get the tea,” I said. “And anything for Ermintrude?”
The cow looked at me hopefully, but Dracula said she’d had quite enough grass already. I returned to the kitchen, whose shelves made Mother Hubbard’s look well-stocked. I wondered if he ate out a lot. Sans-Soleil seemed short of eateries, but perhaps as a bat he flew further afield – Michelin guidebooks first came out in 1900, which could have given him an idea of where to go.
There was tea, oatmeal, flour, sugar, a few rounds of shortbread and a tiny lump of pink-veined cheese with some teeth marks in it, but that was it. A colander lined with a loosely woven cloth sat over a pan, exuding a stench of rancid milk. On a shelf nearby stood several jugs of fresh milk, the first I had seen in Sans-Soleil, and very much more than a thimbleful.
I brewed the Camellia sinensis tea and brought it through with the shortbread and a large jug of milk, large enough to make a point. I was miffed that he had been so stingy when he obviously had enough. He should have heard enough digs about mean Aberdonians to encourage him to defy the stereotype.
“You’ve not got much food in,” I said.
“I manage,” he said. “I haven’t been getting as much protein as usual. I normally eat the local cheese, which is excellent, but – well, I’m sure you understand the situation. I was terribly pleased to be able to have a soupçon this evening.”
His idea of a soupçon and mine were very different, given that he had demolished virtually an entire wheel of cheese.
“It’s been very awkward no longer being able to access it,” he said. “I have very few alternatives, since I’m a vegetarian.”
“A vegetarian?” I echoed in disbelief. That didn’t sit well with the blood-sucking. And I remembered when I had met him as a wolf, his jaws dripping blood.
“Yes, for centuries now. It creates difficulties, but it’s a matter of principle. I’ve been having to get my protein from the–”
For a moment, I didn’t understand him, and then realised he had spoken in French. Sangliers. So that was how he defined being a vegetarian. He might not eat meat while he was in human form, but he devoured whatever was around when he was a wolf.
He needn’t think it was acceptable just because he said it in a foreign language. I was conscious of a tinge of sarcasm in my voice as I translated, “You mean wild boar?”
“Like hellebore?” he asked.
“Up to a point,” I said, reluctant to spell out the dissimilarity between wild animals and flowers. It confirmed me in my view that home education is no substitute for proper schooling.
“I’ve been trying to make my own cheese,” he added. “But it’s not very good. My mama never taught me how to make cheese. I suspect she doesn’t know how to make it herself – she’s never taken an interest in culinary matters.”
“I suppose you can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” I said, and then realised how rude that sounded. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest your mama was a dog. I should have said you can’t teach an old bat new tricks.”
That sounded even worse. I cast around for a change of subject.
“I was worried I’d lost Ermintrude when I took her out,” I said. At the sound of her name, the cow looked up at me. “Shouldn’t she be wearing a cowbell?”
“Oh no,” he said. “I don’t want anyone to know she’s here. That’s why I keep her indoors.”
Now everything was clear.
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “You’re going to eat Ermintrude!”
Dracula sprang to his feet, his hands over the cow’s ears. “How dare you suggest such a terrible thing! I would never dream of eating Ermintrude.”
His eyes glowed red and I found myself edging back in my seat.
Just as suddenly, he subsided. “Forgive me, madam. I had no right to speak to you like that. If my mama knew I had been so discourteous to a lady, particularly one who is my guest, she would thrash me to within an inch of my life.”
That would be a pretty bad thrashing for someone who was undead.
“Please accept my apologies – I was distressed in case Ermintrude picked up what you were saying.”
“No apology necessary,” I said. “But you needn’t worry. Ermintrude can’t understand what I’m saying. She’s a cow.”
“Animals understand,” Dracula said. “Are you suggesting that a cow is a lesser creature than a wolf?”
I had never thought of it quite like that. In my mind, I have a hierarchy of animals, with guinea pigs fairly near the bottom, but I found it difficult to make a comparison between cows and wolves.
“When we first met in the forest,” he said, “had I not understood English, how would I have known what to do when you said ‘sit’?”
“It’s all to do with the tone of voice,” I said. “And hand gestures. It’s nothing to do with the words.”
“Really?” he said, with slightly more than a tinge of sarcasm. “I heard you make a noise and wave your hand, and somehow I intuited that you meant for me to sit? And to show you the way out of the forest? I assure you, madam, I know from direct experience as a wolf that human speech is perfectly comprehensible.”
I was going to argue that he wasn’t a real wolf, he was a man masquerading as a wolf. That led me to question whether, being one of the undead, he could be classified as a man. I was no longer at all sure of my ground, so I kept quiet. I still thought he was being completely disingenuous about the vegetarianism.
But there was one point that was worth clarifying. “When you’re a wolf, you can still understand everything I say in English?”
“Of course. I was trying to explain precisely that – forgive me for being unclear.”
“You were perfectly clear,” I said. “I was just puzzled. Because when I was attacked by those thugs, I definitely remember saying, ‘Wolf, you get the one at the back, and I’ll tackle the rest of them.’ Perhaps you have selective deafness?”
Dracula flushed. “I heard you,” he said in a low voice. “As I told you before, I have a great dislike of confrontation, particularly when there may be a threat of violence.”
He had his good qualities, but he would never match a Blainer unless he became a lot more proactive. I remembered that he had also run away when the villagers set upon me.
“So, what happened to you?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I hid behind a tombstone. Since you were insensible, they were obliged to pick you up and carry you. They had a little difficulty because of th
e weight, and in the end it took all four of them. I followed at a safe distance and saw them take you into the morgue. They left shortly afterwards, which was when I was able to make my ingress through the broken window. I was astonished and, I may say, delighted, to find my bed. I had missed it dreadfully.”
He saw the expression on my face, and added hurriedly, “Of course, my key purpose was to ensure that you were safe and well.”
It wasn’t fair of me to make an issue of it; he had, after all, got me out.
“What I don’t understand,” I said, “is why your coffin – your bed – was there in the first place?”
“I don’t understand either,” he said. “It was stolen recently. It was a particularly pleasant day, completely overcast, and I had decided to have a little siesta in the garden. My bed is of my own design, as you have seen, the wheels enabling it to be transported easily. The handles inside the lid let me keep myself protected during a journey, and also to lift it back on if there’s a sudden ray of sunshine.”
Ermintrude nuzzled up against him.
“Yes, girl, you tried to warn me, didn’t you?” he said, bending down to scratch her head. “She was very good, you know. I had come upstairs to make myself a cup of tea when I heard her mooing. I ran back down to find her snorting and pawing the ground, and my lovely bed gone.”
Ermintrude licked his hand in sympathy.
“I went to the village to report the theft to the police,” he said. “But the officer couldn’t have been more unhelpful.”
“What did the officer look like?” I asked. “Was he young and very handsome?”
“Oh, no, by no means. A tall, severe-looking man with bushy side whiskers.”
Sylvain’s replacement. “And what did he say?”
“He said it was my own fault for leaving it unattended, and there was nothing he could do. So, then I went to see the judge–”
“A chubby, florid young man?” I asked.
“That’s the fellow. He threatened to put me in jail. He cared even less about my stolen bed than the police officer did, but he said it had come to his attention that I had a cow, and that all milk was now being requisitioned.”
“That’s very interesting,” I said thoughtfully. “You’re very isolated here. How would he know you had a cow unless someone had told him? Perhaps someone who had seen Ermintrude when they stole your bed. Or perhaps the judge himself was involved in the theft.”
“Good heavens, madam, you can’t be suggesting that a jurist would be involved in something clandestine?”
“I’m beginning to think there’s something odd going on with these men,” I said. “You know the judge actually jailed me for what was an extremely minor incident? The mayor got me out.”
Dracula’s face brightened. “Ah, the mayor! What a sympathetic gentleman. I went next to seek his help. He asked me such detailed questions about my bed, what it looked like, what its dimensions were, whether I had left a note in it saying, ‘Remember you must die’. He was so moved by my predicament that he became quite tearful.”
“When was this?” I asked.
Dracula thought. “My bed was stolen last Sunday. I didn’t think there was any point in going to the village then. They’re not religious, but they do believe in their day of rest. So I went on Monday. Around lunchtime, I think.”
Monday. I had arrived in Sans-Soleil on Monday morning. I had found myself in a coffin in the town hall, a coffin containing a note saying, “Remember you must die”. A coffin whose confines had felt remarkably similar to the one now in Dracula’s bedroom.
“So, you went from the police station to the court to the town hall?”
“No, that wasn’t necessary. I sought advice from a lady who had a cart, and she explained that the people I needed to talk to were all in a local establishment called Chez Maman. I spoke to them there.”
“And did the mayor say anything about getting your bed back?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. It was difficult to make out what he was saying because he was crying so much. I thought he said he would do what he could as long as he was still alive, but that didn’t make a great deal of sense.”
“He does get a bit gloomy,” I said, but my brain was working overtime. The coffin in the town hall hadn’t been the mayor’s; it had been Dracula’s. And the note in it – the same note that had gone to Sylvain and Cart Woman’s husband. There was something linking it all. I was sure of it.
Dracula interrupted my thoughts. “I must apologise for being so brusque the day you called on me. Please excuse my stupidity, but I became suspicious of you.”
He bent down to scratch Ermintrude’s head again, which I realised was just to avoid looking at me. “I’m afraid to say I told the judge an untruth. I couldn’t risk losing my supply of milk. I take it in tea, I need butter to make shortbread, and I’ve been trying to make my own cheese.”
Of course. It was cheesecloth lining the colander in the kitchen. But the repulsive smell suggested that he wasn’t being at all successful in his enterprise.
Dracula gave a small embarrassed cough. “I told the judge that Ermintrude wasn’t mine, that she was just a stray who was passing through.”
The cow gave a reproachful moo and shifted away from him.
“I wasn’t being disloyal, girl – I was trying to protect you,” said Dracula. He glanced at me contritely. “When you turned up, asking if I had any milk, I thought you might have come to requisition my supplies. Or even…” He dropped his voice and put his hands over the cow’s ears again. “…requisition Ermintrude.”
“Why on earth would you think that?” I asked.
“Nobody comes to visit me here. You turned up out of the blue, and while I was initially very pleased to have a guest, I thought you might be an inspector enforcing the new laws.”
Everybody seemed to mistake me for an inspector. I supposed it was something I would just have to live with, the consequence of my natural air of authority.
Suddenly, I had one of the flashes of insight for which we Blainers are famous. “That must be what’s happening in the village – all of the milk is being requisitioned. And I know why. It’s needed to make cheese. Tomorrow is their cheese festival.”
“Cheese festival?” said Dracula, suddenly animated. “What happens at the cheese festival?”
I would have thought that with his love of cheese he would have been a regular at the festivities. He really didn’t get out much.
“I understand they look at cheese, they examine it, they discuss it, they throw it and they eat it. Apparently, they don’t eat the bits they’ve thrown.”
“Can anyone attend?” he asked, his voice shaking slightly.
“It’s not for me to say, but I’m sure you could sneak in.”
“I’d had no cheese for so long,” he murmured. “And then, last night, when you kindly opened the coffin and I was able to eat some at last – it revived me. I’ve really not been feeling at all well, without the cheese, and not getting a good night’s sleep.”
“It’s good that you’ve got your bed back, then,” I said. “You’ll get a proper sleep now.”
He shook his head. “Not without my mattress.”
“What’s happened to your mattress?” I asked.
“Who knows? Scattered to the four winds, I dare say. My lovely Aberdeenshire soil, brought over specially.”
“Of course!” I breathed. “You’re a vampire. You can rest only in your native earth. But shouldn’t it be Transylvanian?”
“No!” he shouted, alarming the cow. “Madam, I will thank you not to perpetuate the fallacies and calumnies of that … that book.”
“Are we talking about Bram Stoker’s Dracula?” I asked, just to make sure.
He collapsed back into the wing armchair, wringing his hands. “I liked Mr Stoker very much when he came to Port Erroll. I enjoyed chatting with him, particularly as he had such a very keen interest in vampires. I found he had some quite extraordinary ideas about us, and I
explained to him that they were entirely misconceived. Naturally, I thought he would listen to me and then that … that book appeared and I found he had deliberately contradicted everything I had told him.”
His eyes glowed red. “I wish I could have introduced him to my mama. He wouldn’t have dared to ignore her. But, of course, he was a writer, and my mama would never converse with a tradesman. I have been let down, deceived, betrayed.”
“I understand exactly how you feel,” I said gently. “If it helps to talk, I’m here for you.”
“Mr Stoker and I would walk along Cruden Bay beach for hours,” he burst out. “I’m a vampire. What better source could he have? And yet he preferred to take unverified, unsubstantiated and positively unbelievable material from some lady.”
“Yes,” I said, “Emily Gerard. She wrote The Land Beyond the Forest, subtitled Facts, Figures and Fancies from Transylvania.”
Dracula was struggling to keep his temper. “So I understand. When Mr Stoker told me how helpful and instructive this lady’s book had been on the subject of vampires, I asked what qualified her to write it. He informed me that she had spent some years in Romania. Romania, forsooth!”
A word forever associated in my mind with Miss Blaine. Not “Romania”, “forsooth”. I immediately felt an indissoluble camaraderie with Dracula, undead though he might be. But I still wasn’t quite following.
“Forsooth indeed,” I said, before adding, “and that was a problem because–?”
“Yes!” he cried. “Exactly! What did she know about Aberdeenshire? Mr Stoker could give me no reassurance that she had ever been to the north-east, or indeed the east.”
“Why?” I asked uneasily. “Where was this lady from?”
Dracula was a gentleman. But had he been a villager, I had no doubt that, at this point, he would have spat on the ground.
“Airdrie,” he said.
I felt dreadful, burning shame. I’m a librarian; I’m supposed to know all about books. I knew, of course, that this particular volume had been published in 1888 by William Blackwood and Sons. And I had taken it for a serious, scholarly work. I should have been more vigilant, knowing that, in 1901, Ms Gerard would write a work entitled The Extermination of Love, A Fragmentary Study in Erotics. Airdrie is a mere fifteen miles from Glasgow. The woman couldn’t be relied on to tell you accurately whether the cat was sitting on the mat.
