Jane had been given a letter of introduction by a friend, the actor George Eames. At the time, Jane thought that she might like to write for the stage, and George had suggested she speak to Runciman about perhaps working with him on some small thing. This had never happened (after reading her first attempt, Runciman had informed her that she had no ear for dialogue), but she had spent a delightful couple of weeks there filling in for a property mistress who had gone and gotten herself staked.
“As we walk up the stairs, please take note of the plaster moldings,” Enid said, bringing Jane back to the present.
She followed Walter up the stairs, her fingertips tracing the lines of the brass handrail. How strange, she thought, that she’d forgotten such an unusual period in her life. Of course, if she were human, then not so much time would have gone by since, allowing her to forget. But when your life had no end, there were always new memories piling on top of the old ones and eventually burying them. How much had she forgotten? How many old friends? How many shared moments?
She looked at Walter, walking ahead of her, and suddenly she wanted to grab hold of him and not let go. What if I forget him? she wondered. What if a hundred years after his death I have to see a photograph of him to remember him?
They had taken almost no photographs on the trip, and none of them together. Jane had to stop herself from grabbing Walter and dragging him outside so that some passerby could take their picture. She needed something besides memories—something tangible that she could hold and look at, so that when her memories faded this part of her life wouldn’t just disappear.
When they reached the mezzanine Enid led them through one of the numerous arched doorways and into the interior of the theater. There it opened up, revealing the three horseshoe-shaped galleries rising above the stalls. The seats were upholstered in a deep red velvet that matched the color of the walls and carpets, and the bountiful plasterwork was gilded. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, the thousands of crystals radiating light.
“The theater enjoys protected status,” Enid said. “Thanks in no small part, I might add, to my work on the board of Creative Scotland. As such, nothing here may be changed, and any improvements made to things such as lighting and the sound system must be done without interfering with the architecture.”
“I have to say, I’m impressed,” Walter whispered to Jane. “Do you know how much red tape we would have to untangle to get something like this done in the States?”
“It looks just like it did back then,” Jane said, only half listening.
“Have you seen pictures?” Walter asked her.
“What?” said Jane. “Oh. Yes, I have. I forget where. In a magazine, possibly, or a book. I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Take a look at this.”
The voice was Brodie Pittman’s. He was looking at a series of photographs hung on one of the walls. Several other people were looking as well, among them Genevieve and Sam. Jane and Walter went over to join them.
“Looks just like her, doesn’t it?” Brodie said, pointing to one of the pictures.
Genevieve turned and looked at Jane. “A younger, thinner her, perhaps,” she said.
“Jane,” said Brodie, beckoning her closer. “Look what Suzu here found.”
Jane walked to the wall and looked. Brodie indicated a photograph showing the cast and crew of He Thinks He’ll Keep Her. She saw Argyll and Maisie sitting in chairs on either side of Wurrick, who was standing on a lettuce box so as to appear taller. Around them were other faces, most of which Jane didn’t recognize. And then, peering out from between the actor playing the father of Maisie’s character and the woman who had designed the hats for the show, she saw her own face. Despite the obvious age of the photograph, she looked exactly as she did now.
“Uncanny,” Brodie said. “She could be your twin sister.”
Walter put his face up to the photo. “She even has the same dimple you have,” he said to Jane. “And if I didn’t know better I’d swear I’ve seen you wearing that same necklace.”
He had seen her wearing the necklace. It had been a gift to Jane from her sister Cassie, and it was one of Jane’s most treasured possessions. She’d almost worn it today, in fact. Now she was glad she’d decided not to. The situation was already more than she wanted to deal with.
“I suppose she does resemble me a bit,” she said, trying not to sound too convinced.
“What do you mean a bit?” said Brodie. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you just stepped out of that photo there. Look, you’re making the same face she is right now.”
Jane rearranged her expression before anyone had a chance to verify Brodie’s remark. They were all staring at her anyway. Miriam, holding Lilith, looked as if she was holding her breath.
“Jane,” Walter said, sounding very serious, “is there something you want to tell me?”
“No!” Jane blurted. “I’ve never seen that woman before in my life. I have no idea who she is.”
“According to the notation on the back of the photo, her name is Beatrice Crump,” Genevieve said, peering at a notice posted beside the photo.
“That’s not right,” said Jane. “Beatrice Crump is the woman on her right. The man on the left is Grandstand Dalrymple.” Too late she realized her mistake.
“She’s right,” Enid said. “That is Dalrymple. He made his name here starring in the Scottish play. But how in the world would you know the name of the costumer?”
“Oh, you know,” Jane replied, trying to think. “She’s very famous.”
“No,” said Edith. “She isn’t. In fact, Beatrice Crump died not long after this photo was taken, and I’m fairly certain nobody ever thought of her again. The only reason I was able to identify her at all was through a mention in Wurrick Ogg Runciman’s journal. Look here.”
Enid pointed to another frame. Inside of this one was a page from Runciman’s journal. Jane recognized the handwriting.
“This is from an entry about the production of He Thinks He’ll Keep Her,” Enid explained. “Read for yourself.”
Jane’s eyes scanned the pages. Although the ink had faded, the words were still legible.
Tuesday, 07 October 1873
The play is doing well. Sold out or near every night this week. One foul review in the Scotsman but that’s to be expected given Pearle’s dislike of anything that isn’t Marlowe or Skivens. I’ve half a mind to put an end to the bastard, but A & M say it’s not worth the bother as he’d probably come back as something worse and the devil you know, etc., etc.
One bit of trouble. Beatrice Crump has left us. A victim of the needle, I’m afraid. Why any of them listen to Ratcliffe I don’t know, as it’s clear to me he’s a hunter. We’ve a plan to rid ourselves of him and are waiting for the time.
Beatrice will be sorely missed. She was a lovely girl and made lovely hats.
Tucked into the corner of the frame was a small photograph of Beatrice Crump. She was smiling, and someone had added pink to her cheeks with watercolors. Looking at it, Jane remembered the girl’s soft voice and unassuming manner. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen, she thought.
At first she wondered why she couldn’t remember the girl’s death, but then she realized that the photograph had been taken in September, right before the show’s opening. She had left Edinburgh not long after. Beatrice must have died sometime between then and October 7.
“The needle Runciman refers to was of course morphine,” Enid said. “Morphine addiction was common at the turn of the century, particularly among theater folk. It was not unusual for certain unsavory elements to prey on those with a taste for the drug. This Ratcliffe was apparently one of them, a hunter of weak and impressionable young women, no doubt, of whom Beatrice Crump was one.”
That’s not right, Jane thought. Beatrice was a vampire. Morphine would have no effect on her.
Suddenly she remembered. She hadn’t left Edinburgh, she’d been sent away for her
own safety. Someone—a hunter—had been killing vampires, and it was decided that because she was so young she would be most vulnerable. At the time she hadn’t really understood, but now she did. The needle wasn’t a simple syringe, it was Crispin’s Needle. This Ratcliffe was indeed a hunter—a vampire hunter. And apparently he had been convincing vampires that he could save their souls. But really he was murdering them, Jane realized.
“You must have seen this letter and photo somewhere,” Walter said, bringing her back to the moment. “In a book, maybe?”
“It’s possible,” said Enid. “It has been reprinted in one book about the theater. But it’s rather obscure. I don’t know where someone such as yourself would have come across it.”
“Jane owns a bookstore,” Walter said.
“Yes,” Jane said. “I believe I remember now. A customer—the drama teacher at the university—special-ordered a book and it was in there. How odd that the name stuck in my head. I guess because it’s such an unusual one.” She laughed lightly, hoping her deception would pass muster.
“It isn’t really,” said Enid. “Crump is actually quite common.”
Jane ignored the slight. Something more pressing was on her mind. “What happened to Argyll and Maisie?” she asked, her voice tight.
“Peploe and Longmuir?” said Enid, her tone suggesting that Jane was being far too familiar with these greats of the theater. “That’s a tragic story. Two years after the success of He Thinks He’ll Keep Her Longmuir too succumbed to morphine addiction. Peploe’s end was even more tragic. He died onstage during a performance of The Black Bird Sings. Someone substituted a real knife for the prop knife during the climactic fight scene, and he was stabbed through the heart by his best friend, Cecil Baggs-Cowper.”
I bet I know who substituted the knife, Jane thought. Ratcliffe. Bloody vampire hunter.
She looked over at Miriam, whose smug expression showed Jane that she was thinking the same thing, although with the opposite reaction. Jane wanted very much to bite her at that moment, but there was too much to think about. Also, of course, it would likely alarm Walter. But she would talk to Miriam later. She had questions, and she was fairly certain that Miriam had answers.
“We still don’t know who Jane’s look-alike is,” Brodie said, bringing things back to the matter at hand.
“Probably just some tart,” Enid said dismissively. “Shall we move on? There are far more interesting things to see than these old photos.”
As the group walked away, Jane took a glance back at the photo of herself, then at Runciman’s journal. Not to me, she thought, a thousand questions swirling in her head.
Chapter 16
Saturday: Edinburgh
The steam rising from the haggis brought with it the scent of oatmeal, onions, and meat. It was not unlike the smell that came from the can when Jane fed her cat, Tom, his dinner. Ben, who had insisted on ordering the haggis, now looked a wee bit discomfited.
“On second thought, maybe this isn’t kosher,” he said.
Lucy poked a fork into the haggis and held it to Ben’s mouth. “Just try it, you big baby,” she said.
Ben shut his eyes and opened his mouth. Lucy fed him the bite of haggis, then watched him chew. His expression changed from one of apprehension to guarded relief and finally to enjoyment. He took the fork from Lucy and attacked the haggis with gusto.
“Isn’t he just the cutest thing?” Lucy said. “My little Jewish William Wallace.”
“Next year in Edinburgh!” Ben said, raising his glass of whiskey.
“I’m so getting you a kilt tomorrow,” said Lucy, kissing him.
Jane laughed. Seeing Lucy and Ben so happy together made her happy. She wondered when they would be getting married. It seemed inevitable. They were perfect for each other.
She looked at Walter, seated next to her. He too was laughing at Lucy’s remark. Jane reached over and rubbed his neck. “Do you want one too, dear?”
Walter cocked his head. “There is a Fletcher tartan,” he said. “My father had a tie made from it. Do you remember that, Mom?”
“No,” Miriam said. She stood up. “I need to use the restroom.”
Jane, who had been waiting all evening for an opportunity to speak to Miriam, stood as well. “I’ll go with you,” she said.
Miriam eyed her warily. “I think I can manage this on my own,” she said.
“Just walk,” Jane said sternly under her breath. She took hold of Miriam’s upper arm and steered her away from the table.
“Unhand me!” Miriam snarled.
Jane let go and pushed open the ladies’ room door. Miriam went inside and whirled around as Jane entered behind her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said.
“Tell me about Ratcliffe,” said Jane, crossing her arms over her chest and fixing Miriam with a hard stare.
Miriam turned and looked at her face in the mirror over the bathroom’s lone sink. She smirked as she fixed her hair. “I wondered when this would come up.”
“He was no dope peddler,” Jane said. “We both know that.”
Miriam turned. “Well, aren’t you clever?” she said. “No, he most certainly was not. Peter Ratcliffe was one of the most successful demon hunters of all time. He’s a legend.”
“Demon hunter,” Jane said, rolling her eyes. “He killed vampires.”
Miriam shrugged. “That’s what they assumed your kind were back then,” she said. “And I’m not entirely sure they weren’t right.”
“I’ll have you know that several of the demons he killed were my friends,” Jane said, baring her teeth.
“Yes,” said Miriam. “I gathered by your reaction to seeing the photograph.”
“Runciman knew what he was,” Jane said. “Why didn’t he just kill Ratcliffe?”
Miriam laughed. “That’s the best part,” she said. “He didn’t kill him because he couldn’t be killed.” She paused for dramatic effect, but Jane guessed what she was going to say and beat her to it.
“Because Ratcliffe was a vampire,” she said. “Of course. Now it makes sense. And this needle Runciman wrote about—I assume he means Crispin’s Needle.”
“Crispin’s Needle is a myth,” said Miriam. “Ratcliffe invented it to trick vampires into killing themselves. He told them it would free their souls or some such nonsense, but all it did was send them back to hell.”
“He could hardly send them back when they didn’t come from there in the first place,” Jane said. “All he did was murder them.”
“They murdered themselves,” Miriam argued. “He just convinced them to do it.”
“That’s despicable,” said Jane.
“It’s ingenious,” Miriam countered. Then she added, “If it was real, would you use it?”
Jane was surprised by the question. Of course, she had been asking herself the same thing ever since Gosebourne had first told her about the Needle, but she never expected to be having this conversation with Walter’s mother. And she wasn’t sure how to respond. She really didn’t want Miriam to know what her thoughts were on the matter. She did, however, want to know what Miriam was thinking.
“Would it make a difference to you if I did?” she said.
Miriam looked at her, saying nothing, and Jane understood that she was having the same reservations about revealing her hand. Now Jane really did wonder whether it would make any difference to Miriam if she could become mortal again. Would her having been a vampire still be a reason for Miriam to hate her? Or would that all be left in the past if Jane could once more be human? She waited for Miriam to say something.
“It’s a foolish question,” Miriam said when she finally answered. “Crispin’s Needle was an invention of Ratcliffe’s mind.”
Jane thought about arguing. If Ratcliffe had invented the story about Crispin’s Needle, how did that explain the windows in the Church of St. Apollonia? Or had Ratcliffe somehow known about the windows and used them as inspiration for his story? It seemed Miriam di
dn’t know about the windows, so probably she didn’t know any more about the story than Jane did. Besides, there was no use in arguing with Miriam. Jane understood that in their own way they were declaring a truce, at least as far as discussing their feelings about Jane’s soul, or lack thereof.
“What happened to him?” Jane asked, changing course.
Miriam’s mouth tightened. “He was killed,” she said. “Betrayed. By a woman.”
“I like where this is going,” said Jane. “Tell me more.”
“He was weak,” Miriam said. “He fell in love with a fallen woman. He turned her.”
Jane gasped, feigning horror. “That’s against the rules!” she said.
Miriam frowned. “Don’t be disrespectful,” she snapped. “The woman seduced him. And when she had what she wanted, she staked him.”
“I like this woman,” Jane said. “And what became of her?”
“The hunters found her and took care of her,” Miriam said. “It took a couple of decades, but eventually Eloise Babineaux was sent back to—was sent to hell.”
“Eloise Babineaux?” Jane said, trying not to let her excitement betray her. “What an unusual name.”
“It’s a whore’s name,” said Miriam. “For a filthy whore.”
“Now, now,” Jane said. “Let’s not go calling people names.” She hesitated a moment. “And what became of this needle that Ratcliffe used to kill his victims?”
“I told you, they killed themselves,” said Miriam. “Anyway, I don’t know what became of it. It was just a piece of iron. I imagine it didn’t look much different from any other spike you would use to stake a vampire. Honestly, even a tent peg would do in a pinch.”
“Oh, I bet you know all about that,” Jane said. “Horrible old woman.”
“I’m younger than you, missy,” said Miriam.
“Yes, but you look much older,” Jane said, looking at her reflection in the mirror and smiling sweetly.
Jane Vows Vengeance jb-3 Page 14
