The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘At last,’ Draigorian answered as he allowed the scarf to drop from his face. ‘Will you help me back to the house? It is the day that Clinas takes off. I am here quite alone.’

  As Draigorian took hold of the spectacles, Jago saw his eyes. They burnt like dark stones set within two pools of blood. If he was not mistaken, they were the same eyes as he had seen the night before.

  Draigorian held out his arm for Jago to take hold and steady him.

  ‘Will the light hurt you?’ Jago asked as he helped the man.

  ‘Not as much as your thoughts,’ he whispered in reply so only Jago could hear. ‘I will be fine in such company, Jago,’ Draigorian went on. ‘If you hadn’t have come I would have been there until night, it is really quite difficult with this condition of the skin.’

  Jago guarded his thoughts. It was as if Draigorian could understand all that went on in his mind.

  ‘They bombed the cottages by the quayside,’ Bia said as they helped him up the steps back to the house.

  ‘I heard them, thought they were coming to destroy my factory. That is why I came outside.’ He stopped walking, as if short of breath. ‘Do you know, I have not stood under a tree for many years. I have watched them leaf and bud and then fade away from my window at night, but have never stood beneath one.’ Draigorian coughed and with his free hand pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth. ‘I think the experience could even be worth what will happen to my skin. What do you think, Jago?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Jago answered.

  ‘Just what I expected form one so young. It is only when you get to my age that you think such things.’ Draigorian pointed up to the branches of an oak tree above him. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘A tree?’ Jago replied not knowing how to answer.

  ‘A tree indeed.’ Draigorian blustered merrily. ‘But I see a struggle between earth and sky. Gravity pulls at the branches to bring them to the ground and the strength of the tree is shooting them to the stars. It is a battle between life and death and every year death will come to the tree. It will lose its leaves and cast its fruit. Passers-by will think it is no more. What kind of tree are you, Jago?’

  ‘He’s a plum tree, Mr Draigorian,’ Bia answered before he could speak.

  ‘A plum indeed, Biatra,’ Draigorian replied eagerly as if the game would go on. ‘And, you are a willow – a willow with long red hair – thoughtful as it stands by the water.’ Draigorian touched the side of her face gently. ‘And I, a gnarled old oak with bark for skin stretched over the thick bone.’

  Jago swallowed hard as he heard his thoughts spoken by Draigorian. The man said no more until they got him to the house. Bia went ahead and opened the kitchen door. The fire was set in the grate ready to be lit in the afternoon.

  All was clean with nothing out of place. The white tiles had been polished; the brass around the fire glowed brightly. Clinas Macarty always made sure it was that way on his day off. He would prepare all that Draigorian would need and then would go to the town and drink tea. Bia had watched him many times. She knew he would never take all the hours he was due and by lunchtime he would be back at the house.

  ‘Do you need anything?’ she asked him as Draigorian slipped his long black coat from his shoulders and rested it on the back of a chair.

  Draigorian looked up at the clock on the wall and made his calculations as to the time it would take for the task he would set.

  ‘Perhaps you would do me one thing?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Something that I would not like dear Clinas to find out?’

  Bia looked at Jago and then nodded.

  ‘I have an item that needs to go to a friend of the family, quite locally of course – nothing too far. I don’t think that Clinas would approve of this as it is seen as an heirloom and Clinas always likes to keep what is mine within the house. Do you understand?’

  ‘Keep it secret?’ Bia asked.

  ‘Precisely,’ Draigorian replied. ‘There is something in my study that I would like to show you. Bring me some tea in five minutes and I will set your work for the day. You can go together. It is a long walk, but I am sure it will be easy for you both.’

  Draigorian sighed and sounded relieved as he went through the door and up the stairs to his room. Jago watched the way he walked and tried not to think anything that the man would sense. Bia took out a tray from the cupboard and set the tea. Everything was placed neatly – napkin, silver spoon, china cup. The kettle gurgled on the stove where it had been warming since Clinas had left.

  ‘What do you think he wants?’ Jago asked.

  ‘It’s an errand, wants us to take something without Clinas finding out,’ she answered.

  ‘Why should that be kept from Clinas?’

  ‘He thinks Draigorian is selling things off to pay his debts. Since the war, money has been tight. Clinas keeps a track on things. I heard the government doesn’t pay on time for the work at the factory.’

  ‘So he sells things from the house?’ Jago asked.

  ‘If you look in the hallway upstairs you can see the marks on the walls where the pictures have gone. Clinas told me they were in storage in case we were invaded. I think he sold them,’ Bia said as she placed the small decorated teapot on the tray. ‘That’s why Clinas never takes the whole day off. I was here once when a man came to see Draigorian. They argued and Clinas threw the man out. I think it was all over money.’

  Bia picked up the tray and nodded for Jago to open the door. She went ahead until they came to the study. The house seemed to wheeze with every step they took – like a living creature, breathing, listening and waiting for them. Jago looked back down the long candlelit passageway with its shuttered windows. It was just as Bia had said. On both walls were the marks of old picture frames and in some place the hooks on thick wires hung empty from the high rail.

  ‘Tea!’ shouted Bia as she pushed against the study door. It opened slowly and they stepped inside.

  ‘Good,’ Draigorian said happily. ‘Now what you are about to do for me will always be a secret. Yes?’ he asked as he looked directly at Jago.

  They both nodded. Draigorian pushed the darkened spectacles further up his long nose to fully cover his eyes.

  ‘We won’t speak of it,’ Bia answered loudly, her words echoing in the room.

  ‘Speak of it, Biatra? Don’t even think of it.’ He laughed as he lifted a leather case from the floor and put it on the desk in front of him next to the skull in which he kept his pencils, poked through each eye socket. ‘I will show you this before your journey as I know that you will not be able to walk all that way without your curiosity opening the case.’ Jago looked uneasily at Bia. ‘I was once a child and would have looked inside as soon as I had got from the house. I would rather show you now in the secrecy of this room than you look when on the road.’

  ‘Where are we to go?’ Bia asked out of turn.

  ‘I will come to that, Biatra. In this box is something that my family has protected for many, many years. A friend requires it on loan and you are to take it to them.’ He slowly opened the black case, flicking the two latches one after the other and lifting back the snakeskin lid. ‘I don’t think you will have seen anything like it before. It is very old, older than me.’ He laughed as he spoke, his words filling the dark, high-vaulted room.

  Draigorian slipped his gloved hands into the case and from within pulled a silk bag. Something looked familiar to Jago. He felt as though what he was about to be shown would not be a surprise. As the black bag was opened, Jago cold see the rim of a gold chalice. Like the Cup of Garbova, it had worn writing around the edge, and as Draigorian peeled back the cloth Jago could see it was identical to the cup given to him by Cresco.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Bia said as the candlelight shimmered in the gold reflection.

  ‘You don’t seemed surprised, Jago – have you seen something like this before?’ Draigorian asked.

  Jago wished he had bought one of Maisie’s talismans for stopping a Vampyr
e reading his mind. He tried to look surprised and admire its beauty.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ he said softly, not daring to wonder how there was another cup just like his own.

  ‘Truly amazing,’ Draigorian said, ‘and beautiful. Before my family came to this country we had two such cups. One was taken from us and has never been recovered. They were very, very old. Hugh Morgan would like to examine it more closely. He is a fine artist and this is going to be a part of one of his paintings. I would like you to take it to him at Hawks Moor. Do you know the house, Biatra?’

  ‘Take the dale road and up to the moor and before the bay, there is the house,’ she answered.

  ‘Precisely,’ Draigorian replied. ‘And now you have seen the chalice there is no need for you to stop on the way and look at it – is there?’

  ‘Do you trust us to take it?’ Jago asked. ‘It must be worth hundreds of pounds.’

  ‘Its value is not in its worth but in what it represents. We live in dangerous times and to have it preserved for ever in art would be a fine thing,’ said Draigorian as he covered the cup in the silk bag.

  ‘So we just take it to Hugh Morgan and then come back?’ Bia asked.

  ‘Hugh Morgan and no one else. It is a secret for which you will be rewarded. Show the cup to no one on the road – no one at all,’ Draigorian insisted eagerly as he placed the cup back in the case and snapped the clasps tightly shut.

  ‘You said there was another such cup – where is it now?’ Jago asked.

  ‘If only I knew,’ Draigorian answered. ‘It was a long time ago and in another land when it disappeared. There is a legend that when the two cups come together any enemy can be defeated and even death itself conquered. But then again, it is just a legend and any legend is a glorified lie.’ Draigorian laughed gently and smiled at them both. ‘Whitby is awash with rumours of Vampyres and yet I have lived in the dark for many years and never seen one.’

  Jago hesitated. The room was silent. No one spoke. Bia looked at the case and then Jago. For some reason she didn’t want to touch the cup and was glad it was imprisoned within its bag. The pendulum of the long-case clock swung back and forth in time with her heartbeat.

  ‘Better be off, Jago,’ Bia said to break the silence. ‘Hawks Moor is a fair walk.’

  ‘I have a bag, take it and hide the case within. Take some food from the kitchen and I will see you in the morning and give you your reward. I will telephone Hugh and tell him to watch out for you.’ Draigorian offered the case to Jago.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Jago asked.

  ‘I think I can trust you, Jago,’ Draigorian answered as he handed him the case and then gave an old fishing bag to Bia. ‘Keep it in this and tell no one what you have, understand?’

  ‘What about Mrs Macarty – what if she asks where we have been?’ Bia said as she walked to the door.

  ‘I will tell her you went on an errand. She doesn’t need to know the details of your adventure,’ Draigorian said as he peered over his spectacles. ‘If you leave within the hour, I am sure Hugh Morgan may even feed you.’ Draigorian picked up the heavy Bakelite telephone and waited for the exchange to answer. ‘Hawks Moor, please,’ he said. He waved them away with his gloved hand as the telephonist connected his call. ‘Hugh … Crispin Draigorian …’

  The door closed as Jago stepped into the hallway and he could hear no more.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Bia asked.

  ‘Go, it’s all we can do. We can’t refuse,’ Jago answered. He put the snakeskin case into the old fishing bag. ‘In my dream last night I followed Strackan and I saw a place that might be Hawks Moor – I saw a house and a labyrinth in the garden and the shadow that attacked the woman. I have seen this cup before. There is a photograph of Crispin Draigorian – I found it in the library. On the back it said PD, London 1861. Pippin Draigorian …’

  ‘It couldn’t be him,’ Bia said. ‘He’d be too old and he’s dead.’

  ‘PD, that’s what it said. Pippin Draigorian, it has to be him,’ Jago insisted.

  [ 14 ]

  Hawks Moor

  THE ROAD FROM HAGG HOUSE was dusty and steep. The edges were overgrown with high banks of stinging nettles and hogweed that stood in clumps like dried-out sentinels. Bia carried the fishing bag over her shoulder. She wanted to look back at the town and Jago, who lagged behind, talking to himself and throwing stones into the undergrowth.

  ‘When do you want to eat?’ she asked, thinking of the hastily made sandwiches that she had so carefully wrapped in greaseproof paper and stacked neatly on top of the case.

  ‘Cheese?’ he asked in reply, having not eaten any since the outbreak of war.

  ‘Home-made. Not like the real thing. Strange taste – but it’s still cheese,’ Bia answered as she stopped at the crossroads of the lane and looked at the sign that pointed to Hawks Moor. ‘Think it has something to do with a sheep. Clinas gets it from a farmer, but not quite sure what it’s made of.’

  Bia pulled a face and laughed but Jago wasn’t listening. His mind was held captive by the pillar of smoke that hovered over the town.

  ‘Still can’t understand why they didn’t bomb the factory. I saw a submarine leaving the harbour on the first night I was here. They must know what goes on down there,’ he said as he turned to Bia.

  ‘I don’t ask. The least I know the better. My mother said that they had found some bodies in the estuary and they were all workers from the factory and none of them had any blood left in them.’ Bia held out a thick crust of bread folded over a slice of cheese that defied any attempt at rationing.

  ‘Can’t help thinking it wasn’t right. Where was the air force to stop them?’ Jago asked as he took a bite from the bread.

  ‘We don’t have one near here. Nearest airbase is miles away. I saw a Spitfire once, came down the valley and then out to sea. The harbour isn’t defended. They never expected anyone to come this far north.’

  ‘Just not right,’ Jago said again. ‘I can feel it.’

  ‘Which way do you want to go?’ Bia asked pointing at the sign and not wanting to talk of war. ‘We have a choice. They were supposed to take all the road signs down in case we were invaded, but they left this one. Two ways to the same place.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ he asked, not bothered which way they went, only wanting to get the cup to Hugh Morgan as soon as he could.

  ‘One cuts across the land the other goes by the coast,’ she answered as she walked ahead, having already made her decision.

  ‘Guess I’ll just follow you,’ he answered. He finished the stale crust of bread and hoped she had brought something to drink to wash away the taste of the cheese.

  ‘Staxley will be that way,’ she said, pointing to the coast. ‘He and Griffin are working at the lighthouse on the clifftop. Didn’t think you’d want to get near them.’

  Jago thought for a moment as he followed her along the lane and watched the swathes of lush green undergrowth move in the breeze. Suddenly he realised how alone he was – and as he allowed the thought room in his heart it took away his breath.

  ‘You have no one?’ he asked Bia.

  ‘All depends what you mean,’ she replied as she switched the bag from one shoulder to the other.

  ‘Your parents are both missing,’ Jago went on. ‘Possibly dead.’

  ‘Possibly alive,’ she answered. ‘Can’t give any space in my head to death. Bad enough having you appearing and telling me Strackan is real.’

  ‘Do you believe me?’ Jago asked.

  ‘There’s something not right about you, Jago. Something weird,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ he answered. ‘Never been called weird.’

  For some reason, he linked arms with Bia as they walked. It was something he had only ever done with his mother. All he knew was that he wanted to feel close to someone and not be alone.

  ‘I have a friend in London called Mr Cresco. A man who my mother would leave me with whilst she went to work,’ Jago said as they walked. ‘I thi
nk he might have something to do with all that’s going on.’

  ‘How?’ Bia asked not minding that they walked so close together.

  ‘You’ll think I am really mad,’ he said.

  ‘I already do,’ she replied as the hill slowed their pace.

  ‘Trouble is,’ he said hesitantly, ‘trouble is, I have a cup exactly the same as the one in that case.’

  ‘Draigorian said that it was missing,’ Bia answered, not believing what he said.

  ‘It was given to me by Mr Cresco. He hid it in my bag before I was sent here. He called it the Cup of Garbova.’

  ‘So where is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Hidden in my room so Staxley won’t find it.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s the same cup?’ Bia asked.

  ‘Quite sure. There was also another man in the painting of Draigorian I found in the library. He was with Mr Cresco. I am sure of it,’ Jago continued, hoping she would understand.

  ‘You saying they know each other?’

  ‘They must do. It looked as though they were friends,’ Jago replied.

  ‘Is that why he gave you the cup – to give it back to Draigorian?’ Bia asked.

  ‘Cresco never said. He just hid it in my bag wrapped in paper. I didn’t know it was there until I found it when I unpacked,’ Jago said.

  ‘So why give it to you?’

  Jago was about to reply when he heard the sound of a car engine coming up the lane from the town. He turned and saw a black Daimler car. In the driver’s seat was a man in a chauffeur’s uniform, grey hat and jacket with brass buttons. The car slowed as it got near. Jago and Bia stood back into the verge, unable to get out of its way for the thick hedge of brambles. The driver edged closer as he tried to pass them. Jago saw the rear window of the car lower as it drew alongside.

  ‘Going far?’ asked the man inside as the car stopped, blocking their escape.

  ‘Hawks Moor,’ Bia replied. She tried to smile and push the fishing bag out of sight.

  ‘Such a coincidence,’ the man said. ‘So am I.’