by Jess Faraday
“Pardon me,” I said, though by that time, he was too far away to hear.
“Never mind him, sir,” called a voice from inside. “Do come in, please.”
The clerk was a tall, slender man in late middle age. Deep lines around his eyes and mouth betrayed that age, though his skin was smooth and seemed to glow. He wore his thick, silver hair in a youthful and slightly rakish cut. His clothing, all black, was exquisitely cut and fashioned from fine wool and silk, and his silver-rimmed round spectacles struck me as a prop.
As I approached, his pale eyes raked over me unabashedly, like a lion trying to decide if a visitor is company or lunch.
“Good evening,” he said, holding my gaze for longer than most men might, probing, evaluating. A cautious hunger flickered behind those gray eyes, and to my surprise I didn’t find it at all unwelcome.
“Good evening,” I said, shaking my head clear. “What a pleasant surprise to find your shop open. I worried you’d be closed.”
“How fortunate that we only open after dark.”
“That’s a unique business strategy,” I said.
“We’re a unique business.”
“Is that so?”
He gestured to the shelves that lined the walls, his long, shiny, carefully-maintained fingernails catching the gaslight. “Vincent Peters, at your service. We have the most complete collection of esoteric literature in all of London. Possibly in Europe. Please, have a look around.”
Tall shelves held an enticing array of books—different sizes, thicknesses, and languages shelved together in a manner that appeared haphazard, but more likely followed some system known only to the proprietor. A gas sconce on each wall cast the shop in dim light that invited closer examination. A locked glass-fronted cabinet took up most of the wall behind the counter. No doubt the true treasures were there—in plain view, but accessible only to those whom the proprietor deemed worthy. I narrowed my eyes, scanning the shelves for Semen Sanguis.
“Actually,” I said, “I’m interested in one book in particular. Only it’s quite rare. There are only thirteen copies in existence.”
Something in his expression sharpened. I felt a probing sensation. Ridiculous, I know, but it almost seemed as if someone were lifting the cover of my mind and having a peek inside. When Peters spoke again, he did so carefully. “We do specialize in the rare and antiquarian. If we don’t have it, it’s possible that it’s passed through here at some point. I can certainly check our records. Do you have a title?”
“Semen Sanguis. It’s—”
“I know the book,” he interrupted, the warmth leaving his voice. “Or, I should say, I know of it. And from what I know of it, you’d have better luck raiding the pornographers’ shops on Holywell Street. Constable. We don’t peddle obscenity here.”
He delivered the words like a slap. More of a slap, though, was the idea that he’d divined my occupation just by looking at me. Or had he actually read my thoughts somehow?
“You misunderstand, Mr. Peters. I’m not looking for obscenity.”
His left eyebrow slowly, sardonically rose, and I had the unsettling feeling that he knew that I had, in fact, been prowling St. Sebastian’s looking for obscenity not twenty-four hours before.
I said, “You’ve seen the book. You know what’s in it?”
“That doesn’t mean it’s passed through my shop. That particular volume is rare, and it is exceedingly valuable, but not so valuable that I’d risk spending two of my remaining years in jail for its sake. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Why, is it closing time?”
A spark lit in his eye and his mouth tightened wryly. He caught my gaze and held it. I felt that probing sensation again, and, apparently amused by what he’d found there, he crossed his arms over his chest and said, smugly, “If you’re not looking for obscenity, Constable, what are you looking for?”
There was a challenge in his voice, an edge of mockery, but also an invitation. And for the first time since leaving Scotland, I found myself receptive to the idea. He was an attractive man, but more to the point, had a predatory charisma that was drawing me like a fly toward a glistening web. What was I looking for? A lot more than than I’d thought, apparently.
“Have you an interest, perhaps, in blood-magic? The title of the book, Semen Sanguis, means—”
“‘The Blood is the Life,’” I finished. “It’s Tertullian. ‘The Blood of the Martyrs is the Life of the Church.’”
His lips spread in a leonine smile. “A constable who reads Latin. Fascinating.”
I ignored his condescension. Tertullian, the brilliant, sarcastic, simultaneously cynical and optimistic theologian had been a favorite of my father’s, and later of mine. I didn’t read Latin, but I was familiar with Tertullian’s words.
I said, “What I don’t understand is, what the saying has to do with the contents of that book.”
His smile widened. “There are those who believe that blood has a spiritual power. A life force. Which is why blood sacrifice is the highest of all tributes. You’re familiar, of course, with the story of Cain and Abel.” I’d always thought that Cain had gotten the short end of that particular stick, and I said so. “Perhaps,” Peters allowed. “Or perhaps his vegetable offering wasn’t quite up to snuff. But either way, Abel’s blood sacrifice—that was what God found pleasing.”
“Shouldn’t God have considered their labors equally?” I had a few words to say about Mary and Martha as well, but that was another argument for another time.
He laughed. “Constable, I sense there’s more to you than meets the eye, and that intrigues me. I run a small philosophical discussion group. It’s meeting tonight at eleven o’clock. I can give you the address, if you’d like. That is, if it isn’t past your bedtime.”
I fingered the receipt in my pocket. Had Semen Sanguis passed through this shop, and somehow it had found its way to Chief Superintendent Masterson? Perhaps, but perhaps not. Besides, I wanted to attend that discussion. I’d always fancied taking part in some sort of intellectual salon, but the Met wasn’t exactly bristling with them. And it didn’t hurt that Vincent Peters was a very attractive man, physically as well as intellectually.
“As it happens,” I said, “I’m a bit of a night owl.”
He gave a self-satisfied chuckle then took out a slip of paper. He wrote out an address then held the paper just out of reach, so that I had to lean against the counter to take it. From that distance, I was treated to a tantalizing combination of smells—a spicy cologne, expensive tobacco, and male. He held my eyes as I plucked the paper from his hand. My pulse pounded.
He said, his voice a combination of velvet and gravel, “I’ll look forward to seeing you. But do pass on the garlic next time.”
•••
Vincent Peters lived in a white brick terraced home in St. John’s Wood. Not many shop owners lived in this section of town—unless, of course, the shop was a hobby, and the real money had come down through generations. Given the man’s clothing, manners, and eccentricity—to say nothing of the affectation of only opening the shop after dark—this made sense. I rapped the brass knocker, expecting, perhaps some doleful East European butler. Instead, Peters answered the door himself.
“Good evening. Again.” He was still dressed in black, but these appeared to be his at-home clothes. They were no less well made, and looked even more expensive than the ones he’d been wearing when we met. “Won’t you come inside, Constable?”
“Please,” I said. “I’m off duty.”
“Oh? What shall I call you, then?”
“My name is Pearce. Simon Pearce.”
He smiled. “I’m Vincent. Please, Simon, come through to the library.”
The library was larger than the flat where I’d grown up. Shelves reached toward a precipitously high ceiling, with rolling metal ladders at intervals along the walls. A large, flat table stood off to one side, as if it had been moved for the circle of chairs near the center.
Three men
had arrived before me. With Vincent and myself, our little group came to five. I couldn’t help noticing that the other men were all close to my age—between twenty-three and twenty-eight—and very good looking. To a man they were fashionably dressed, though the quality of their clothing suggested a range of economic levels. And, indeed, when Vincent introduced us, that turned out to be the case. There was a librarian at the English Public Library, a low-level clerical assistant in some department of city government, and the hollow-eyed man who had nearly run me down coming out of the Emporium. The latter, Rupert Sudworth, stank of old money and held some governmental post that involved finance. When I inquired further, he assured me it would be a waste of time to elaborate, as I’d probably not understand. As for Vincent himself, the location of his house and the sumptuousness of his furnishings suggested a large inheritance. I was the only police representative in attendance—a fact that Vincent omitted during the introductions. And I couldn’t blame him, given what I came to suspect was, or had recently been, the relationship between him and Sudworth.
It was a lively evening. The group discussed a German philosophical treatise I’d not read, but the conversation wasn’t difficult to follow. I’d read enough Swedenborg to make a few pithy contributions of my own, and they were received with laughter and claps on the back. The librarian and the assistant were warm and encouraging. The financier was a prick, but that wasn’t completely unexpected. As midnight approached and Vincent’s exquisite port loosened our tongues, Sudworth began to drop dark, cryptic remarks in my general direction. It was ridiculous and infantile, so I ignored him. Then finally, all too soon, the little group was breaking up, and it was time to go home.
“Simon,” Vincent said, as I set my chair back next to the table where it had come from. The librarian and the secretary had left. Sudworth was still lurking about as if he were waiting for me to leave as well. Vincent caught his eye. “Good night, Rupert,” he said pointedly. Sudworth scowled but made his way toward the door.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I said. “This was really enjoyable.”
“You’re quite a wit. You’ll make an excellent addition to our little club, that is, if we haven’t frightened you away.”
“Actually, I’ve been looking for something like this for a long time,” I said.
He chuckled. “Not many working-class philosophers at the Met, I take it?”
“If there are, I haven’t found them.”
“You’re welcome back any time. We meet every Thursday night.”
“Thank you.”
Briefly it occurred to me to mention the book again, and ask directly if it had passed through his shop. But the evening had been so perfect, in contrast to everything else in my life. I couldn’t bring myself to sully that perfection, not then, at least. Perhaps if further research made it unavoidable. Nodding toward my host, I turned to leave.
“Simon,” he said again. His voice was soft, and the simultaneous command and hunger in his tone stopped me in my tracks. I turned. My God, he was attractive—lean but fit, wrapped in clothes tailored to perfection, perfumed by expensive tobacco and cologne.
He crossed toward me with a predatory grace. Brushing his hand against the sleeve of my jacket, he pinched a bit of the fabric and rolled it between his fingers. Something in the texture of the unremarkable, second-hand wool must have amused him, for a smile flickered over his lips. When I made no attempt to pull away, he closed his fingers around my forearm and gently drew me toward him.
“This,” he said, circling a thumb over the skin on the inside of my wrist, “is a pulse point.” His smile widened as my pulse raced in response, visibly rising and falling beneath his touch. Again the delay, the opportunity to escape, should I have wanted to. Then he raised my wrist to his lips, murmuring, “I can feel your blood.”
“Semen sanguis.”
“Indeed.” His other arm closed around my waist, his lips now at my throat.
“And here. I can almost taste it.” He breathed in deeply, with obvious pleasure.
I’d never experienced anything so erotic in my entire life. The gentle, insistent suction in that spot behind my ear stood every nerve on end. My legs went weak, and he pushed me back against a wall of books and held me there. It was so different from those miserable five minutes in the churchyard. There was none of the joy that I’d experienced when Cal and I had made love, but joy wasn’t the point, and it didn’t have to be. The point right then was that for the first time in a very long while someone else was in charge. Someone else was assuming the burden of defining the experience. All I needed to do was stop thinking and give myself over to sensation.
We never made it to a different room. Impatient fingers fumbled with buttons and belts, tore at fabric, searched for tender skin. The entire encounter couldn’t have taken longer than fifteen minutes, but the intensity more than made up for it. Eventually I returned to my senses beside him, on my back on the Persian carpet, still mostly clothed.
“You needed that,” he observed, wiping a pearly drop from his chin. He was propped up on one elbow, a smile teasing at the edges of his lips. Normally I’d have offered to reciprocate, but he didn’t seem to mind.
“You have no idea.” I pushed myself up to a sitting position and stretched. “I should go. We’re lucky none of your staff walked in.”
“My staff tend the house during the day, but the nights belong to me. Still, they’ll be missing you at the section house.”
“I doubt it.”
“Oh?”
I felt a tingling on the crown of my head, then that strange sensation from the Emporium, as if someone were trying to pry off the top to peer inside. Vincent was regarding me intently, and suddenly I was desperate to be on my way. I quickly stood, buttoning my trousers as I rose.
“Thank you, again, for a truly enjoyable evening,” I said, forcing a calm into my voice that I didn’t feel.
“Will I see you again?”
“Thursdays,” I said.
He didn’t get up to see me out, and part of me was glad. It was ludicrous to think he could actually read my thoughts, but I’d seen an acute sense of deductive reasoning used to similar effect. Either way, it was unnerving.
Outside on the streets, the fresh air brought me back to myself. The great clock struck three as I marched back toward the section house. A cool breeze unexpectedly swept down the street. It was beautiful. Everything was beautiful, suddenly, and I wondered what on Earth I’d been so upset about just a few moments before.
It was half-three when I arrived at the section house. Fitz was coming back from his shift at the same time. Our paths met at the front door. He nodded cordially, before stepping in front of me to enter. But he must have seen something in my expression, because as he passed, he stopped. “All right, mate?”
“You were right,” I said. My voice sounded strange to my ears, but a new energy thrummed inside me, and inappropriate laughter was welling up in my chest.
“About?”
“A good screw changes everything.” I did laugh then, and put a hand to my lips to keep it from happening again.
He frowned. “Should I ask?”
“Definitely not.”
He cocked an eyebrow then opened the door, motioning for me to enter before him. We wiped our boots on the brush mat and hung up our overcoats.
He said, “Only two more nights in the sergeant’s bad books, yeah? Can’t wait to be back on the streets with you. I know I called you a plonker, but Bailey’s two-and-a-half plonkers.”
I laughed again. “He is, isn’t he?”
Fitz narrowed his eyes. “Had a bit to drink, have you?”
“Yeah, s’pose I have.”
We continued down the hallway, past the common room, where someone other than myself had cleared up the mess from the night before. Fitz kept glancing at me, as if expecting to find something amiss. But nothing was amiss. In fact, I’d never felt better. My entire body felt charged, imbued with an energy that frightened m
e with its intensity. And I was suddenly so hungry. Not an ordinary kind of hunger, either. It was as if a new and yawning void had sprung open, and there wasn’t enough food in the world to fill it.
“Sorry, mate,” I said, turning into the doorway of the kitchen. “Missed my supper.”
He stopped and watched as I sliced out an entire loaf of bread, then proceeded to work my way through it, and a block of cheese that might have provided three days of sandwiches for my colleagues.
“Must have been quite a screw,” he said.
I nodded without looking up. My mouth was full, and my stomach had commandeered all executive functions. Eventually, Fitz slipped back into the hallway. A few minutes later the door to his room snapped shut. When there was nothing left to chuck down the void, I found my own bed and collapsed upon it, fully clothed, and did not stir for the next fourteen hours.
Sometimes, when your body and thoughts are dead to the world, this is when your mind does its best work. I woke steeped the thick, stupid torpor of too much sleep, but with the wheels of my mind whirring at top speed. It was a thought that had pulled me out of slumber, and a good thing, too, for I could easily have slept through until the next night.
The thought was this: every last one of Vincent’s guests last night had been city employees—as was Masterson, as was I. I sat straight up in bed. So what? And yet my mind had considered this fact significant enough to thrust me back into consciousness. Was Charles Wakefield, the father of the first victim of the Marylebone Vampire, also a city employee? And what the devil difference could the fact have made either way? I wasn’t sure. Still, something told me I needed to find out. I pulled on a uniform and headed to the station.
As luck would have it, the records clerk had left his usual ten minutes early, and his replacement was yet to arrive. I slipped into the records room unnoticed, just another uniform amid the change-of-shift bustle. I had three goals. First, I wanted to know whether Charlotte Wakefield’s father was a city employee. Also, I wanted to review my own notes from the other evening at the Masterson house. Finally, although I’d spent the entire walk from the station house trying to convince myself it was nothing, my thoughts kept coming back to the book I’d found in Masterson’s bookcase.
