by Nancy Warren
Oh he had no idea. I said, “I’m still having trouble accepting that she’s gone.”
He nodded. “Grief is a funny thing. Of course, you go through the stages of disbelief, denial, bargaining, and finally acceptance. But it’s not a smooth path.” He had no idea how right he was. I seemed to be stuck in denial. Or Gran was.
He glanced around. “This room seems very like her.”
“Yes.” Everything from the framed botanical prints to her collection of Victorian dolls with their china faces, her chintz furniture, and the knitting books and magazines in the book shelves proclaimed that this was her home.
“In my line of work I see a number of bereaved people. It’s the ones who keep moving forward with their own lives who do better. The grief and heartbreak don’t go, but those who recover fastest have something else to occupy their minds.”
I nodded. “Well, I’ve made one decision today. When I arrived here, I had planned to stay for a month or two. I was going to have a holiday, and help my grandmother in the shop. Today I decided that I’m going to reopen and run Cardinal Woolsey’s for at least another month or two while I make up my mind about the future.” I’d been toying with the idea, but seeing my grandmother, or what was left of her, had made my decision. I wasn’t going anywhere until I knew more.
He seemed pleased at my announcement. “That sounds like an excellent plan.”
“It feels good to make some kind of decision.” I glanced at the wall clock. “If I phone Dr. Weaver right away, he may even be able to see me today.”
He took the hint and rose. I stood as well, to see him out, and he held my gaze. His eyes were searching which immediately made me feel hot, as though he could see all the secrets I was trying to hide. “Is anything bothering you? I can be a good listener, you know.”
Once more I was conscious of a desire to cast myself onto his broad chest and tell him everything. He had a trustworthy face and nice eyes. I teetered on the brink. Nyx chose that moment to leap off the couch and pounce on my toes. “Ouch!” I cried, laughing as I scooped her up. “She’s practicing her mouse catching, I think.” The urge to blab passed. “No. There’s nothing bothering, particularly. I’m just sad about Gran.”
He reached out and patted Nyx, who flirted with him shamelessly, rolling her head so he could scratch under her chin and purring in ecstasy. “I’ll be on my way, but do keep in touch.”
I nodded. Two hours ago I would have been thrilled at the idea that this man wanted to stay in touch with me. Now that I was already hiding secrets from his all-too perceptive gaze, I wasn’t so sure.
As soon as he left, I called Dr. Weaver’s office. If anyone could help me figure out what was going on with Gran, whether she was alive, dead, or undead, presumably it would be the doctor who had last examined her.
The call was answered by a recorded message telling me that surgery hours were that evening from seven until ten. I assumed if the hours were advertised on the message, patients must be able to drop in, so I decided to go that evening at seven.
I suspected my brain was disordered by grief, but the vaguest possibility that there were, indeed, vampires who used the shop as their clubhouse, had me determined to protect myself as best I could. I didn’t have a stake on hand, but the shop carried wooden knitting needles and, under Nyx’s curious gaze, I took a paring knife and sharpened a couple of them.
For practice, I pretended to stab the hearts of the pretty Victorian dolls, who gazed at me reproachfully from round, blue painted eyes.
“What else?” I asked the cat, thinking the knitting needles weren’t very sturdy. I might be able to stake a doll, but someone the size of, say, Rafe Crosyer would need a vastly more substantial stake.
Not that I wanted to kill a vampire, only ward it off. I thought of what I knew of vampires, all of which had come from movies and books. I made a list of the things I needed, then dug through my grandmother’s cupboards until I found an empty jam jar with a lid.
I put on my coat and headed back to the grocer’s, where I bought two net bags filled with garlic. I would have bought strings of the stuff, but the grocer only carried little bags, each containing three large garlic bulbs. Perhaps I could tie them together with some wool and hang them around my neck.
At the top of Harrington, where it crossed New Inn Street was St. John’s church. It was made of gray stone and on one side featured a graveyard with headstones so old and weathered that no hint remained of who lay beneath. The jagged stones seemed like wagging fingers scolding me as I entered the cool church with the empty jam jar. A paper notice listed the hymns to be sung at the six o’clock evensong. Another reminded visitors that brass rubbings were not allowed.
Fortunately, the church was deserted at this time of day. My footsteps sounded like dropping pebbles as I headed across the flagstone floor to the baptismal font. I felt the figures in the stained glass windows frowning down at me as I dipped my jar into the font, glad there was no notice actually forbidding the taking of holy water.
I put two pounds into the donation box as a sop to my conscience and walked past the silent, empty wooden pews on my way out.
A tour group walked by and I longed to climb onto one of the huge tour buses that I knew were waiting down side streets to pick up their customers and drive them onto the next stop, Stratford-upon-Avon, Blenheim Palace, or Bicester Village for the shopping.
I didn’t come from a Catholic family, so I was short on crucifixes, also silver, since my jewelry tended to be of the costume variety, what little I had. So, when I turned into Harrington Street once more, I stopped at Pennyfarthing Antiques. A bell tinkled as I entered the dim shop, so cluttered with furniture, hanging lamps, standing lamps, chairs, footstools, paintings and china that I stood very still, letting my eyes become accustomed, before moving inside the shop. I’d been inside before, of course, but Mr. and Mrs. Wright, who owned Pennyfarthing, seemed more interested in buying new stock than selling what they had. Each time I visited, the shop was more crowded than the last.
I made my way around a bowfront cabinet absolutely crammed with china. It contained everything from Royal Doulton figurines of ladies in old-fashioned dresses, to salt and pepper shakers shaped like pigs, and porcelain animals in every possible breed of dog, horse, and even a badger. I spotted a black cat with green eyes that resembled Nyx.
I stepped over a dainty needlepoint footstool, thought how much Gran would have liked the china doll sitting on top of a Chippendale chair, threaded my way between an armoire and a bookcase filled with everything from children’s books to leather bound Latin primers, and finally emerged at the glass display cases near the sales counter at the back.
Inside, were trays of jewelry, watches, military medals, brooches, assorted crafting tools and small items that were valuable and easy to steal.
Mr. Wright had his back to me, and was polishing something, whistling as he worked.
“Mr. Wright?” I didn’t want to say his name too loud and frighten him.
He turned all the way around and I let out a shriek as the deadly-looking sword in his hand swung my way, light glinting off its razor-sharp blade. There was a sound like a bitten fingernail as the sword nicked the button on my coat.
Mr. Wright peered at me and then said, as though he hadn’t nearly run me through, “Why it’s Agnes’s granddaughter. How lovely to see you.” Then, obviously remembering the tragedy, said, “We were so sorry to lose your grandmother. She was a wonderful woman. Excellent neighbor.”
I thanked him, agreed that she was a wonderful woman and a most beloved grandmother. He seemed to have forgotten he was holding a deadly weapon and I stepped back, out of the immediate death zone. “That’s a nice sword.” And get it out of my face.
He didn’t take the hint and put it down, instead, he raised it, so we could both study it. “Nice example of a 1790s Prussian field sword.” The blade was about two feet long and narrow. “Look at this,” he said, pointing to a groove down the center of the blade
. “See how it’s channeled? That’s to make the blood flow out of the victim faster.”
“How interesting,” I said in a faint voice.
“We just got a new collection in. An estate sale. Come and look.” He brought me behind the counter to the table where he’d been working. There were several more swords and daggers lined up awaiting polishing.
“You’ll like this one, it’s American. An 1864 cavalry dress sword.”
“The carving’s pretty,” I said.
“That one’s the oldest,” he said, pointing to a much shorter weapon, a knife rather than a sword. “It’s a double-bladed dagger from the sixteenth century, I reckon. Lovely piece. Look at the way the cross-guard curves.” I assumed he was referring to the bendy thing at the bottom of the handle. I supposed the stabber would rest their grip on it and press hard as they pushed the dagger into the stabbee. At the end of the curve were round steel loops that I assumed were decorative. The handle was covered in leather that had darkened, presumably from the sweat and oil on the hands of those who’d wielded it.
“It looks awfully sharp,” I said.
“Oh, yes, my dear, they’re beautifully sharp. The collector kept them in perfect order.”
As sharp as a vampire’s teeth, which reminded me of why I was here. “I’m looking for a sterling silver cross on a silver chain, if you have it. A nice big cross.”
“Yes, of course. They’re all in here. Let me get the key.” He had a collection of keys hanging from a belt loop and, as he fumbled through them, he was still holding the Prussian sword. A male voice said, “Dad, what are you doing, frightening away the customers?”
I turned and from behind a rack of antique clothing, emerged the Wright’s son, Peter. The layout of their shop was similar to Gran’s and Peter had obviously come from their flat. I wished he’d come five minutes earlier when his father really had frightened me.
There was a clatter like dropped spoons and then Mr. Wright got down on the floor to find his bunch of keys. Peter came up and took the sword from him, giving me a comical look of exaggerated horror. “I’ll finish up here, Dad. You go and help Mum upstairs.” He turned to me. “How can I help you?”
Peter was in his mid-forties and was in the army. His parents were very proud of him. His years in the desert had left his skin permanently darkened. He wore his hair short and his shirt and trousers were ironed as carefully as a dress uniform. He had two children and I seemed to recall there was trouble in the marriage. Or, maybe, he was divorced. Gran had told me, but I’d forgotten.
His father nodded and then, as his son took his place in front of the glass case, said, “You remember Lucy, from next door?”
“I’m not really from next door, but Agnes Bartlett was my grandmother. I’m visiting.”
Peter looked at me searchingly for a few seconds and then said, “I’d hardly have recognized you. You’re all grown up.” He looked at his dad and added, “And isn’t she a beauty?”
“That she is.”
“Oh, stop it, you two,” I said, laughing. But I was relieved that Peter had put the sword back on the table and had taken over from his father, who headed for the rack of antique clothing and the door to his home.
“I was sorry to hear about your grandmother,” Peter said, as he tried several keys for the cabinet until he found the right one.
“Thank you. I still can’t believe it.”
“Death’s like that. Even in a war zone, you never expect it.”
“Are you going back?”
“Oh, no. My parents need me. They’ve gone downhill since I was last here.” He shook his head. “The shop’s too much for them, now. What this shop needs, what they all need, is some new blood.”
There didn’t seem to be a tactful answer, so I made one of those sounds that could mean anything. Then I pushed the button that got the trays moving. I went through trays of old rings and brooches, charm bracelets, snuff boxes, pillboxes, watches, necklaces and earrings galore. Among the offerings were a few small silver crosses for little girls on dainty silver chains but that wasn’t what I wanted. When I explained that I was looking for something more substantial he said, “Wait a minute, I think there are some bigger items back here. Just a mo.”
When he disappeared, I looked in another cabinet that held watches, from gold pocket watches to cheap knock offs. When I finished browsing and raised my head, I noticed a business card sitting on top of the cabinet. Sidney Lafontaine.
Sidney Lafontaine who had a client interested in buying Cardinal Woolsey’s.
Had she been in Pennyfarthing’s as well? I’d assumed her buyer was interested in a knitting shop, but perhaps any shop on the street would do.
Peter returned with three thick silver chains of varying lengths, and two silver crosses. One of the crosses was about an inch tall and the other twice the size. I chose the larger of the crosses and the thickest of the chains.
After inspecting the Sterling mark on both items, I attached the cross to the chain. It was large enough that I could slip it over my head. I liked the heft of the piece. It cost two hundred pounds, which was quite a lot of money, but then the blood in my body was worth a lot to me, too. I intended to protect it.
“Let me just polish that up for you,” he said, “Get it nice and shiny.”
As he took up the polishing cloth and began to buff my new vampire deflector, I asked him if he knew Sidney Lafontaine. I put her card down in front of him. He glanced up from the polishing and said, “You mean the estate agent? Yeah. Nice lady. She’s got a client who’ll pay wack for the string of shops on Harrington. My parents are all for it. They’re ready to retire and the offer’s generous. Your grandmother was planning to sell too. Well, makes sense really, all the shopkeepers on the street are older than dirt.” He glanced up at me. “No offense.”
Once again I had that disconnect between what Gran had stated in her will and the letter to me and what people who’d known her recently were saying. Where was the truth?
Before Peter rang up my purchase, I asked if they had any crucifixes for sale. He glanced at me curiously but he was too polite, or too British, to pry. Perhaps he thought I was Catholic, possibly even lapsed, and in my grief over my grandmother had decided to renew my faith. I let him think whatever he wanted, and walked out the owner of a sturdy wooden crucifix about six inches tall made of dark wood. Peter had suggested it was Spanish or Portuguese. I didn’t care where it had come from so long as it did the job.
Back in the flat, I put together my anti-vamp kit in one of Gran’s baskets—garlic, a jar of holy water, the crucifix and the sharpened wooden knitting needles. It looked like the strangest picnic ever.
The silver cross I planned to wear every day. It would make me feel more secure. If there were vampires in the knitting shop, they could be anywhere in Oxford.
CHAPTER 8
Dr. Weaver’s surgery was located in a Victorian house near the old cholera graveyard on Walton Street. I rang to be let in, and walked down a short corridor into the very back of the building. There was a door with a small brass plaque that said, simply, Dr. Christopher Weaver, GP.
Inside, were several reclining chairs in a circle, much more deluxe than one usually finds in a doctor’s waiting room. It was currently empty. As the door shut behind me, a gentleman emerged from an adjoining room and he introduced himself as Dr. Weaver.
We seemed to be the only two in the waiting room. There was no receptionist and no patients that I could see. I’d already had a very unnerving day, so maybe I was overreacting, but I was conscious of an urge to turn and flee. However, I’d come here for answers to how my grandmother died and I was determined not to let a bad case of the heebie-jeebies stop me in my quest.
“I’m Lucy Swift,” I said. “Agnes Bartlett was my grandmother. I believe you signed her death certificate.”
“Ah, Lucy. I’m very sorry about your grandmother.” He was a small man, shorter than my own five feet six inches, and very dapper. He had a white b
eard trimmed close to his face, a large nose with so many broken blood vessels I suspected he drank, and brown eyes so dark it was like one huge pupil. He wore a white lab coat and beneath it I glimpsed a colorful red and navy waistcoat. “Please, come into my office.”
I glanced back at the door, but then I told myself I was being foolish. So he had no patients at this second and no staff. That didn’t make him sinister.
His office was ultramodern. A top-of-the-line computer was the only thing sitting on a white desk. Two leather chairs, also white, sat in front of the desk, and he settled himself behind it as he indicated I should have a seat in one of the visitors’ chairs.
I said, “I understand you were the doctor who treated my grandmother at the end.” He’d signed her death certificate, but somehow, having just seen my grandmother and spoken to her, the word death seemed inappropriate.
He nodded and touched a button on his computer. “I can either email you a copy of the MCCD, the Medical Certificate of Cause of Death, or print you out a copy if you’d like.”
“Thank you. I’d like a printed copy. I do have a few questions, though.”
“Of course.”
“When I last saw my grandmother, about six months ago, she was perfectly healthy. And, every time we’ve emailed or phoned each other, she’s been fine. So, I was very surprised to arrive in Oxford and discover that she was gone.”
He nodded, gravely, his eyes soft and his voice gentle as he replied. “Even when we’re prepared for these things, losing a loved one is a terrible shock. The truth is, your grandmother wasn’t well, and hadn’t been for some time. Congestive heart failure. I had seen her only a week before she died and at that time I encouraged her to be frank with her family about her condition. I didn’t think she would go so soon, but I warned her she didn’t have long. She was very much looking forward to your visit. I’m truly sorry she missed seeing you before she passed away.”
