The Vampyre Quartet

by G. P. Taylor

  ‘Got him now!’ shouted a man, ‘He’ll never make it …’

  Jago ran faster. He could see the expanse of water below as the bridge moved beneath his feet, and he thought of Bia and his mother as he steeled himself. With all his strength he leapt from the bridge and flew. It seemed like minutes passed in slow motion. The wind blew back the hair from his bloodstained face and the sound of the baying crowd dimmed as blood pumped through his head. Jago looked back at the crowd and saw the soldier aim another shot. The explosion ripped towards him as again the bullet missed his face. Jago realised he was falling. The edge of the bridge came closer – he knew he had to make it.

  Suddenly he hit the ground. The steel lip of the bridge caught his leg as he tumbled head over heels.

  ‘Stop him!’ shouted a soldier to the guard by the work hut.

  A man ran towards him with a bludgeon in his hand. Jago couldn’t escape. The blow was swift, painful and sharp. He fell to the ground clutching his knee. A fishing net was cast over him as the man hit him again.

  ‘Leave him!’ shouted a constable as he ran towards Jago, helmet in hand. ‘He’s to be arrested.’

  ‘You don’t arrest Vampyres, you kill them,’ the man protested as he took another swing, crashing the bludgeon onto the ground near Jago’s head.

  ‘Leave him,’ the Constable insisted as he tore the net from Jago and pulled him to his feet. He stared at Jago, examining every inch of his face. ‘This lad isn’t a Vampyre, you fool. He’s just a boy and he’s injured.’

  The constable brushed the strands of hair back from Jago’s face. There was a long cut at the side of his forehead. The man tried to smile as a jeering crowd gathered.

  ‘Leave him for us,’ the soldier shouted from the other side of the river. ‘He nearly killed me.’

  ‘He’s under arrest. If you want to complain, go to the courthouse,’ said the constable quickly as he snapped a handcuff on Jago’s wrist. ‘Do what I tell you,’ he whispered. ‘They’ll kill you, given half the chance.’

  ‘I’m not a Vampyre,’ Jago insisted as the man dragged him from the bridge. ‘I want to go home, to London …’

  ‘You’ll have to come with me,’ the officer said as he pushed his way through the gathered crowd that pushed at Jago yet seemed fearful to get too close. ‘These people are superstitious. They’ll only be satisfied if they hang you.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Jago protested.

  ‘You’re from Streonshalgh Manor. The whole town is saying they saw a Vampyre and he was from that place. They don’t care if they are right or wrong, they just want a body on the end of a rope.’

  Jago was dragged through the street. His wrist was burning from the tight metal band that held him to the man. The crowd followed at a distance, not daring to come to close. They shouted and snarled and threw discarded fish heads that were stacked in boxes on the quayside.

  ‘Kill him! Pull out his teeth and then we’ll see if he can bite,’ shouted a woman who vanished into the swirling mist.

  ‘Keep walking … faster,’ the officer said as he held Jago closer. ‘If they want to make a move it will have to be soon. The courthouse is just down the street.’

  The crowd pressed nearer. Shabby men with brown teeth and lathered faces spilled out of the doorway of the Angel Inn and stood leering in the street, beer in hand.

  ‘I’m innocent,’ Jago said as they spat at him and threw the dregs at his feet.

  ‘They don’t care – stay close – don’t look at them,’ the officer said as he twisted the cuff and eyed the gang of men with shaved heads and fishermen’s scarves. ‘Only twenty yards …’

  ‘Get the lad,’ one of them shouted as a hail of stinking beer glasses landed in the street. ‘String him!’

  ‘Run!’ shouted the constable as he dragged Jago towards the courthouse. Jago sprinted, running as fast as he could. Two barefoot lads, just his own age, lashed out at him with fists.

  ‘Which way?’ Jago screamed as the constable stumbled twisting the handcuff before he let go.

  ‘Straight on, straight on,’ he screamed urgently. Jago saw him draw a short wooden staff from an inside pocket of his serge trousers. ‘Back!’ he shouted at the crowd as he hit out with the staff. ‘Keep back.’

  Jago could tell the man was frightened; his eyes spoke more than his words.

  ‘Give us the lad,’ the fishermen shouted as they chased on. ‘Let us do what’s right.’

  Jago knew what they meant – he could smell it on their breath and hear it in their voices. In ten paces they were on the steps of the courthouse. It was an old building with pillars on either side of a large oak door. A blue lamp swung over the entrance and lit the fog. They ran the several steps. Jago grabbed the handle as the officer beat back the gang with his staff. Jago was frightened and out of breath. It was as if he was surrounded by a pack of wolves.

  ‘Get inside, get inside!’ the officer shouted as the mob surged forward.

  The door slammed behind them. The entrance hall was icy cold. It echoed with the sound of shouting outside. Chequerboard tiles disappeared into the darkness of a long corridor with rooms off both sides. Each was labelled with a wooden plaque above the door that stuck out like a dull road sign. The constable slid two brass bolts across the door and dropped an oak beam into a slot at either side. The thick mist crept underneath, surrounding his feet like bonfire smoke.

  In front of Jago was a tall oak counter topped in black leather and etched in gold. It looked as if no one had ever dared to touch it. The wood was brightly lacquered and the leather polished. To one side was a small brass bell.

  ‘What will you do with me?’ Jago asked.

  ‘You better not be a Vampyre – not after all that I have done for you,’ the constable said as he brushed the spittle from the sleeves of his black coat. ‘That lot would have killed you.’

  The taunts grew louder in the street. Furious voices shouted raucously. Jago could see from the officer’s eyes that they were not out of danger.

  ‘What is this place?’ Jago dared ask.

  ‘The police station,’ he replied abruptly. ‘There are cells below. You’ll wait down there.’

  ‘Don’t I need to be put on trial or something?’ Jago asked, having no idea how the law worked.

  The man laughed. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  Jago answered softly as he wiped the blood from his face.

  ‘Well, Jago Harker, I am the law in this town. All the others spent the night chasing a ghost around the town – army and everyone … But I decide who goes or stays. ’

  ‘And there is only you against all those men outside?’ Jago asked suddenly realising the drastic jeopardy of the situation. ‘Who will stop them?’

  The man laughed. ‘Well, you might well ask …’ He took out the keys and released the steel bracelet from Jago’s wrist. ‘You’re not thinking of trying to escape?’ Jago shook his head as the tears mixed with the blood on his cheek. ‘It’ll be all right. They won’t get you. I’ll telephone the battalion. They’ll come and disperse the crowd.’ His words were kind and made Jago sob even more. ‘Come downstairs, it’ll be safe in the jail.’

  He led Jago down a flight of tiled stairs. The air grew colder and was too chilled to breath. At the bottom, in a corridor lit only by a meagre light bulb, was a green steel door, its shutter smeared with spilt porridge.

  ‘This it?’ asked Jago, his voice echoing around the cold vault with its white ceiling and tiled walls.

  ‘Paradise Hotel,’ the man replied sarcastically. ‘Safest place in Whitby,’ he shrugged.

  ‘You going to lock me in?’ Jago asked as the man pushed him inside and began to close the door.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ he answered with a bemused smile. ‘I could always let that lot out there have a go at you?’

  Jago shook his head. He had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. In the absence of all benevolence, this shabby policeman with his frayed trousers and oversized jacket
was the only kindness he knew.

  ‘Very well,’ Jago answered as the door closed with an irritating squeal.

  The hatch slid open and the man looked inside. He tried to be reassuring. ‘It will be all right,’ he said with a cough. ‘I’ll go and talk to them – say I’m awaiting the doctor to examine you and prove you aren’t a Vampyre.’

  ‘I need to go – catching the train to London,’ Jago said hoping his bloodstained face would sway the man.

  ‘No trains,’ he replied. ‘Problem at the station.’

  The man slid the hatch shut. Jago knew what he was talking about. Bradick was dead. They would have found him by now. Soon the news of Jago’s capture would be around the town. Sibilia Trevellas would find out where he was. With Henson captured, Jago felt he had no hope.

  He sat in the cold damp cell and listened to the sound of water lapping against the walls outside. Jago could still hear the faint shouts and taunts of the mob. They had gathered around the door and screamed for his release. He knew they would hang him as a Vampyre. In a way, it amused him. He wondered how surprised they would be to find out that it was people in their midst who were the real Vampyres. But he knew he should not be surprised that he, a stranger, should stand accused.

  Jago was alone with his thoughts for several hours. He sat in his leather coat, a blanket over his feet, and watched a cockroach circle the floor in the cold light of the cell. In the hurry of his arrest, Jago had not been searched. The knife felt snug in his pocket. He pushed the blade until it snapped through the lining and he slid it into the hem of his coat so it could not be found. Jago wrapped the pyx in his handker-chief and hid it in the lining near to the dagger.

  Some time later, after he had counted every tile in the cell and wondered who had put them in place, he heard footsteps. They were lighter and faster than the constable’s and came down the steps to the cell quite urgently. There was a jangle of metal as a chain clanged against the door. A key turned the lock and as it opened, the loud click echoed through the room. The door grated against the tiles. Jago sat back, pressing himself against the wall in dire expectation.

  ‘I’m surprised you never told me that you were in the care of Mr Morgan,’ the constable said as he pushed the door open until it hit the wall. ‘It would have been so much simpler.’

  The man stepped aside and gestured with his hand to the tall shadow behind him.

  ‘Jago, Jago … We have been worried about you,’ Ezra Morgan said like a snake as he stepped inside and pushed the officer out of the way. ‘I have been searching the town trying to find you.’

  ‘See,’ said the constable. ‘You weren’t alone after all. And all that talk of going to London.’

  ‘Don’t let him take me,’ Jago said. ‘He’s the Vampyre.’

  ‘Vampyre?’ Morgan said, his voice tainted with mirth. ‘Of course I am a Vampyre – PC Crake has known that for many years.’

  The constable laughed. ‘Told you he was speaking rubbish,’ he said. ‘All yours. I’ll help Rathbone get him in to the car.’

  ‘What about the people – they still want to kill me?’ Jago asked.

  ‘Gone away,’ Morgan said. ‘They found the Vampyres – or what they thought were the Vampyres – at the bottom of the cliff. Must have fallen when the chase was on. They were from Streonshalgh Manor. Mrs Macarty is heartbroken. She had such great expectations for them.’

  ‘What? Griffin and Staxley?’ Jago asked.

  Ezra Morgan thought for a moment as he put a long finger pensively to his chin. He looked at PC Crake as if for reminding of the names of those found.

  ‘Gladling, I believe they were called – all brothers – so they were,’ Crake answered.

  ‘The Gladlings are dead?’ Jago asked incredulously.

  ‘All of them,’ Morgan said. ‘Chased out of the Manor by the mob and fell from the cliff. The Vampyres are now dead and peace has returned. Amazing how easily people are placated.’

  ‘But … but …’ Jago stumbled over his words as the fate of the boys set his mind racing.

  ‘Rathbone is waiting,’ Morgan answered coldly as he pointed to the door.

  [ 29 ]

  Friday the Thirteenth

  EZRA MORGAN NEVER SPOKE as the car dragged itself up the hill and out of the town. As always, the road to Hawks Moor was empty. Jago had seen only one car since they had left the courthouse. It had been parked across from the bridge, its engine running, fumes coming from the tail pipe. He had given particular attention to the men inside – both had worn black trilby hats with their collars pulled up. They had watched the Daimler drive by and had stared at Jago as he looked out of the window. He had wanted to shout out, let them know he was being taken against his will, but deep inside he knew it was useless. Throughout the journey Morgan had held him by the wrist so he could not move, whilst Rathbone had constantly looked back in the rear-view mirror.

  Jago had tried to talk to reason with them, and had even asked Morgan to let him go. Neither Morgan nor Rathbone had spoken. It was as if they both knew what turmoil was going on inside his head, and they were mocking him.

  As the car reached the top of the hill, the fog was lifting. It filled the estuary and clung to the moorside, but at the pinnacle of the hill all was clear. Above the town, Jago could see the bright blue sky that filled the everlasting horizon. He looked up at sky like nothing he had ever seen before. Already, in the highest part of the sky, tiny flecks of silver broke against the heavens and were instantly consumed. They flashed like momentary sparks as the meteorite cloud came closer. When the car dropped over the brow of the hill and skirted the valley towards Hawks Moor, the dark of night was already drawing in.

  Ezra Morgan ruffled like an old hen. He looked at his gold watch and then without warning handed Jago a bar of chocolate wrapped in silver foil.

  ‘I forgot I had this,’ he said in a melancholy voice. ‘It is quite a rare thing in these days of rationing. Perhaps you would like it? It is from Bonnets the chocolatiers.’ It was as if he remembered some kind gesture from his own childhood and wanted to give Jago at least one good memory before what was to come.

  Jago took the chocolate and hesitated.

  ‘Don’t worry – it’s not poisoned.’

  ‘Why did you allow Hugh to be with my mother?’ Jago asked.

  Morgan waited until the car had stopped on the gravel drive under the trees before speaking. ‘Rathbone, I would like a few moments alone with the boy – if you would be so kind …’

  Rathbone slid from the Daimler and shut the door. He walked under the trees and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Trevellas said she was a brood mare – what did she mean?’ Jago asked.

  ‘She is bitter and in some ways I can understand her. It is only when you have a child of your own that you know what it is like to think you will have to one day give him up.’

  ‘But I will never know that, I will be dead,’ Jago said.

  ‘On the contrary, Jago. You will be very much alive. Tonight you will become like us,’ Morgan answered, his breath heavy with the scent of red wine.

  ‘I think you are being replaced – that it’s all over for you. Strackan wants a new Quartet. That’s what Lorken told me before he died. He said that Sibilia Trevellas –’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Morgan interrupted quickly. ‘I have known Strackan for eight hundred years. He cannot just clear away a generation of Vampyres just like that. We have served him well.’

  ‘This could be your last night on earth. Think of it, Mr Morgan. The Lyrid of Saturn has never happened before. It’s as if Strackan wants to start all this again.’

  Morgan frowned as he looked at Jago closely. ‘I should have had you come and live with me instead of Cresco,’ he said with slight admiration. ‘I feel I have missed so much of your life. Of course, Julius kept me informed by letter. But I should have been there. I am your grandfather.’

  ‘And you will see me changed into another creature?’ Jago said.

  Morgan loo
ked uncomfortable. ‘It will be a good thing. It is what Strackan wants,’ he replied.

  ‘Are you sure it’s him and not Sibilia Trevellas?’ asked Jago, sensing his hesitation.

  Morgan sat back into the leather of the seat and sighed. ‘Am I that easy to read?’ he asked as he raised a wrinkled brow.

  ‘She said to me you asked her to kill your wife. Brought her from Edinburgh,’ said Jago.

  ‘It was not quite as she has explained. Sibilia arrived at Hawks Moor when I was away. As soon as I got back, I knew something was different. Then I saw Hugh. He was crying by the edge of the cliff and shouting that a woman had pushed my wife. Believe me, I loved her.’

  ‘Then why have her killed?’ Jago asked.

  ‘I didn’t. It was just an unravelling of time. The consequences of actions long ago. Sibilia Trevellas was my first wife. She came with us when we went to kill Strackan and the Hermit. Sibilia practised witchcraft and sorcery. She told me she could charm the Vampyre and we would be safe. What she kept secret was that he had been visiting her and that the venom was at work within. She wanted us to be just like her. My dear wife set an elaborate trap and in it consumed me and my friends.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you stay together?’ asked Jago.

  ‘When I realised I was a Vampyre just like her, my interest in Sibilia waned. She wanted to be with Strackan. It was as if he had power, and power for its own sake can only destroy. We came to an agreement. I would live my life alone and she would leave this place. Sadly, I forgot that not even the strange life of a Vampyre could rid my wife of the one demon she was born with.’ Morgan reached across and took hold of his hand and stroked the soft skin. ‘My wife, Sibilia, could not bare to see me happy. Not in any way. That is why I could not trust Sibilia with Hugh. I would have gladly allowed him to become a Vampyre, but I thought that she would have tried to kill him.’

  ‘She said he will die,’ Jago answered.

  ‘And that is the reason why she has never done him harm. She wants me to see him die. To suffer with the skin disease, the blindness and then death. That is the way of those who stand in this world and the next. It will be your fate – if you don’t allow Strackan to take your blood.’