A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

  Luka exhaled another plume of smoke and watched Miss Sharpe watching him. Her expression spoke of reluctant fascination, of excitement constrained, of growing devotion. But her eyes told the truth as they studied him for weakness. Perhaps she did find him intriguing, even thrilling—no, he reminded himself, that was the conclusion she wanted him to draw—but she saw him as a threat.

  Luka merely smiled back, his expression friendly but his eyes hard and unmoving. Either they would come to an accord or they would not.

  After a time, Miss Sharpe took a deep breath and said, “I am not certain what to make of you, Mister Luka. I do not know if you are trustworthy, but I daresay you are a very bad man to cross.”

  It was flattery, but her tone was what Luka noticed first. It was less sincere and more honest, a subtle distinction that made a world of difference. It was meant to pander to his ego, but this time she meant it as well.

  “I suspect the same is true of you, Miss Sharpe,” Luka replied. “You strike me as a very bad enemy for a man to have.”

  Miss Sharpe smiled at him and said, “Perhaps.”

  The fact that she admitted even that much was a good sign. Progress, at least. She had realized that he was not some gangster to be puffed up by a fantasy of her supposed helplessness.

  Luka exhaled another puff of smoke and leaned forward.

  “Let us speak plainly, Miss Sharpe,” he said. “I think you will agree that we can either be of great benefit to one another or of great detriment. And I think neither of us is so foolish as to think the other a pawn rather than a queen.”

  “That may be the truth of things, Mister Luka,” Miss Sharpe said. “But what of it?”

  She watched him carefully and smiled a little. She seemed almost to enjoy being free from her usual pretense of charm and flattery, though it could well be yet another layer of deception. Luka would only know that in time.

  “I think, Miss Sharpe,” Luka said, “that you and I should endeavor to be friends.”

  “Friends, Mister Luka?” Miss Sharpe asked. Her lips spoke of interest, her eyes of suspicion.

  “I shall keep to my business,” Luka said, “and you shall keep to yours. But we shall endeavor to foster goodwill between us. It will spare us both a great deal of trouble.”

  Miss Sharpe considered this for a time, resting her chin on her hand. In the silence Luka blew smoke rings and watched them gently drift across the room until they faded away into nothing. It helped him to avoid the temptation to study Miss Sharpe’s expertly painted lips, which were very distracting.

  He had found the most dangerous person in the neighborhood, and she was not Jones.

  Presently, he noticed Miss Sharpe studying him, gazing at him with interest rather than her previous measured suspicion. Luka looked back at her, and she quickly looked away. A smile slowly spread across Miss Sharpe’s lips.

  “That sounds like a very prudent suggestion, Mister Luka,” she said. She looked at him again and slowly raised an eyebrow, taken by some thought or other. “Perhaps,” she continued, “as a sign of our new friendship, you might join me in a glass of wine?”

  “Nothing would please me more, Miss Sharpe,” Luka said. “Provided it is not English.”

  Chapter Ten

  Friedrich left the clinic in high spirits. He rather enjoyed conversation with Doctor Constantine. It was always nice to meet another man of science, and Constantine in particular had a sort of wise eccentricity to him. He did not recoil from the mad fantasies of innovation like so many doctors Friedrich had encountered. Constantine, for all his unassuming appearance, was not a man tainted by the ignorance of tradition—whatever he might mistakenly believe about the nonexistence of radiant matter!

  No, Friedrich thought to himself, as he caught a hansom cab on Bethnal Green Road. No, Constantine is rather that sort of man one can talk to about the looming frontiers of science without fearing a chastisement for treading upon the domain of God.

  And it was a good thing too. Friedrich had grown rather tired of having bearded old men treat him like an untutored amateur or a dilettante, as if his title precluded him from being a man of science as well!

  “To the London Hospital, please,” he said to the cabby.

  His English was good but he still spoke with an accent, something that he was taking pains to erase. He grew irritated as he caught the cabby looking at him suspiciously for a moment before answering:

  “Right you are, sir.”

  Friedrich settled back in his seat and took a drink from the flask of brandy he carried in his coat pocket. He felt very strongly that if a man had nothing better to do, he ought to have a drink and thereby stimulate himself to do something useful, like thinking. No doubt Mother would not approve of the habit, but that was mothers really. Nothing to be done about it.

  Mother. That thought reminded him of the other matter. Mother and her impossible youth and fitness. Over a decade and a half his senior, and yet she still looked no older than he did. That was not simply good breeding. And the way that she had evaded his questions about it, almost guilty at giving him no good answer.…

  There is something to it, he thought, clenching his hand into a fist. There must be.

  And why not? Mother was a doctor, a scientist, and no doubt a very good one. Like son, like mother. Friedrich often felt the need to remind himself that he was a medical genius—or at least he would prove to be, given half the chance. And surely, that had been inherited from someone! Why shouldn’t Mother have successfully escaped the bounds of life and uncovered some remedy for aging? And if she refused to give him her secret, then Friedrich would simply have to find it himself. Nothing could be simpler.

  Friedrich took another drink and looked out at the poverty of the East End as the cab approached Whitechapel Road. It was all rather tragic. And quite dangerous, apparently, though Friedrich seldom had difficulty walking about in disreputable neighborhoods at night. It had been the same in both New York and Paris. Something to do with his height, no doubt.

  Still, he could scarcely fathom why Thorndyke would have established himself in such a place. “A new sanatorium,” he had said. By the looks of things, he was hoping to welcome a very different sort of clientele than at his Vermont establishment. But Friedrich had come seeking Thorndyke’s professional opinion on the matter of Mother, and it certainly wouldn’t do to question the man out of hand.

  Outside the London Hospital, Friedrich alighted and paid his fare. Standing there, looking as little out of place as he could manage—rather difficult as he had chosen to wear what he regarded to be a rather smart suit of blue and green—he examined the directions that Thorndyke had given him. By cab to the hospital via Whitechapel Road, then so many blocks along, then turn right, then two blocks further.…

  “Like something from a dime novel,” he muttered to himself, but he set off along the road as Thorndyke’s note instructed.

  It was not long before he caught the attention of the local wildlife. He had scarcely gone two blocks before a pack of urchins accosted him, reaching up at him and crying out loudly, “Sir! Sir! Give us a penny! Please!”

  Well, Friedrich thought, no harm in a little charity.

  He pulled some coins out of his pocket and handed the children a shilling each. He was still becoming accustomed to English money, but that seemed a suitable amount under the circumstances.

  Extricating himself from the urchins, Friedrich hurried along on his way. A look at his watch told him that he was already rather late. The chat with Constantine had run longer than expected, but it was well worth it. Indeed, he had half a mind to invite Constantine to collaborate with him on his Great Work. Still, out of courtesy he would have to tell Thorndyke first, but how could the man possibly object?

  Friedrich paused on the street corner and looked up at his destination. It could hardly be anything else. There, across from him, he saw a great building of soot-stained brick surrounded by a wall. It looked to be a warehouse or perhaps a factory, though Frie
drich very much doubted that it served that capacity currently.

  He crossed the street and approached the set of large double-doors that seemed to offer the only way in or out of the premises. For the moment he paused, feeling a little awkward knocking on a warehouse door in such a place. He had expected something a little more, well, bourgeois. Then, head held high, he raised his walking stick and gave the door a couple of good knocks.

  It took a few moments, but presently a smaller door set into one of the large ones opened, and a grumpy, scruffy man with greasy hair and a beard stuck his head out. He looked Friedrich up and down and barked, rather loudly:

  “We don’t want any!”

  The man made to close the door, but Friedrich quickly blocked its closure with his walking stick and smiled patiently.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “but I believe that there has been a mistake. I am Doctor von Fuchsburg.”

  “So?” the man asked, still shoving on the door to close it. Either he had not noticed the stick, or he thought he could snap it in two with enough of a push. Either seemed rather far-fetched to Friedrich.

  “I am expected,” Friedrich said. “Doctor Thorndyke is expecting me.”

  “Whatcher name again?” the man asked.

  “Von Fuchsburg,” Friedrich said, very slowly and directly.

  Honestly, it was all nothing short of nonsense and rather insulting at that.

  “Oh,” the man said, quickly doffing his cap. “Yer late. Doctor Thorndyke’s expectin’ you.”

  The man quickly stepped back and allowed Friedrich to enter. Friedrich did so with a quiet sigh. This was not quite the welcome he had expected.

  Beyond the wall he saw a courtyard surrounded by the warehouse and a few smaller buildings. A couple of wagons sat unhitched beneath a corrugated iron roof against the wall on one side, facing the main warehouse and a small line of sheds. The man from the door led Friedrich across the yard at a brisk pace. A few other men in dirty clothes stood about the place smoking and talking. Friedrich felt their eyes following him as he passed them.

  Inside the warehouse, Friedrich finally saw a familiar face. Thorndyke stood just inside the door, speaking to a rather portly man dressed in a checked suit and a bowler hat. Thorndyke glanced toward the door, and his face lit up at the sight of Friedrich, who removed his hat and nodded in reply.

  “Baron von Fuchsburg!” Thorndyke exclaimed. “Wonderful, wonderful. A most delightful pleasure to have you here.” He quickly shooed away the man in the bowler with a simple, “Well sort it out, sort it out. Off with you.” Turning back to Friedrich, he said excitedly, “I was so very worried you would not arrive, Your Lordship.”

  “Apologies for my lateness,” Friedrich said. “Your directions were a little…complicated.”

  “It is for me to apologize,” Thorndyke said. He quickly smiled again. “But you are here now. That is the point of significance.”

  Friedrich looked around for an attendant to take his hat and stick. He quickly thought better of it and tucked his hat under his arm.

  “I must confess,” he said, “your sanatorium is not quite as I expected.” He looked at the bare brick walls that subdivided the sides of the warehouse into smaller rooms. “At all.”

  Thorndyke looked bewildered for a moment. Then he threw back his head and laughed heartily, which looked especially peculiar in conjunction with his beard and moustache.

  “Oh goodness, goodness, goodness!” he exclaimed. “This is not the sanatorium.”

  “It’s not?” Friedrich asked. “I had assumed—”

  “No, no, no,” Thorndyke said. “My English sanatorium is still being outfitted. It is down in.…” He paused and stroked his beard. “In Somserset, I think. I have a man handling it all for me. They’ve converted a country house to serve for it. The generous donation of another of my kind benefactors. And what is more—”

  Friedrich cleared his throat and quickly cut Thorndyke off with another question:

  “That is wonderful, but if that is the case, what is all this?”

  Thorndyke seemed confused for a moment, but he quickly rallied and replied, “Oh! My goodness me, of course, of course. No, this is not the sanatorium.”

  “I gathered,” Friedrich said.

  “This is my.…” Thorndyke shrugged. “Well, my charity house, I suppose.”

  “Charity house?” Friedrich asked, emphasizing each word in turn. He felt utterly bewildered.

  “Yes, yes,” Thorndyke said. “Come, let me show you.”

  Thorndyke led Friedrich to the nearest row of rooms and opened the door. Inside Friedrich saw what almost appeared to be a monastic cell. The room was small and very bare, furnished with only a wooden cot and a small writing table. A man with thinning hair and sunken eyes sat at the table eating what appeared to be a bowl full of oats and yoghurt, though it seemed such an absurd thing that Friedrich felt certain his eyes were playing tricks on him.

  “How are you, Mister Walsh?” Thorndyke asked. “Still troubled by that cough?”

  In reply, Walsh coughed loudly, turned his head, and spat something unpleasant into the corner. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he answered, “Oh, none too bad, Doctor. None too bad.”

  Thorndyke smiled and patted Walsh on the back, inducing another fit of coughing.

  “Very good, very good. Keep eating your yoghurt, there’s a good man,” Thorndyke said, closing the door again. He motioned for Friedrich to continue walking. “Normally the patients take their meals in the dining room in an adjacent building, but, alas, in his current condition Mister Walsh is forced to take his meals in his room. Though I have high hopes for his swift recovery.”

  “Thorndyke,” Friedrich said, clearing his throat, “I do believe that poor man has pneumonia.”

  This seemed to surprise Thorndyke, but he gamely replied, “That may well be the case, Baron, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with plenty of rest, cold baths, and a steady diet of yoghurt.”

  “What?” Friedrich exclaimed. For a moment he was certain he had misunderstood the English words. “Thorndyke—”

  “Now then,” Thorndyke said, continuing his walk, “there are some two dozen patients here at any given time. All are admitted of their own accord, and they are free to come and go as they please so long as they are in their beds by nine o’clock.” He checked his watch and chuckled. “Which is swiftly approaching us.”

  “Why are they here?” Friedrich asked.

  Thorndyke looked surprised for a moment.

  “Why, to test new methods of wellness, of course,” he said, as if this was the only possible conclusion. “It is a charitable service, you see. I welcome in the poor and destitute from the street. I clothe them, feed them, give them shelter, and allow them to enjoy all the latest innovations in health.”

  “My God, you’re experimenting on these people?” Friedrich demanded, shocked. He hoped that he misunderstood Thorndyke’s words.

  “Experimenting? Oh, good Lord, no!” Thorndyke exclaimed. He quickly put a hand on Friedrich’s shoulder and turned toward him, expression very serious. “My goodness, nothing of the sort!”

  Thank God for that. Friedrich exhaled, deeply relieved.

  “I do apologize, Thorndyke,” he said. “You understand, my English.…”

  “Of course, Your Lordship, of course,” Thorndyke said. “Think nothing of it. Simple misunderstanding. No, no, these poor unfortunates are helping me to advance the science of wellness. Together, we are walking the frontiers of health, learning what methods work best and which are best avoided. When my new sanatorium opens, I shall be privileged to unveil the newest, best methods of preserving youth and vitality. Just imagine, Your Lordship: salt air Turkish baths, mastication, hot and cold vegetable baths, cold-weather exercise, yoghurt creams, sea bathing—”

  Friedrich raised an eyebrow and said, “There seems to be rather a lot of bathing going on at your new sanatorium, Thorndyke.”

  “Absolutely,” Thorndyke said
. “Baths and swimming are fundamental to health.”

  “As is yoghurt?” Friedrich asked.

  “As is yoghurt,” Thorndyke replied, smiling proudly. He clapped Friedrich on the arm. “I shall make a doctor of wellness of you yet, Baron.”

  “As you will recall, I am a doctor,” Friedrich said.

  Thorndyke looked at him in a skeptical manner that Friedrich did not at all appreciate.

  “Of course, Baron,” he said, in a tone that was polite, yet not very convincing of its sincerity. “Of course you are. Now, would you care to come down to my study for perhaps a little drink of something? I would very much like to discuss my work here in England and the ways that you might be able to assist me in advancing the science of wellness.”

  “Yes, why not,” Friedrich said, sighing a little. Talk about advancing the science of wellness meant that Thorndyke was about to ask him for more money…or worse, to invite him to the new sanatorium. Still, what else could be done? The pool of available medical men with whom to discuss the Great Work was scarcely more than a puddle of rainwater.

  He followed Thorndyke to the far end of the warehouse and down a set of stairs into the basement. The corridor they entered was both very clean and surprisingly well lit. It was almost pleasant, though more than a little bare. Perhaps Friedrich had underestimated the quality of Thorndyke’s charity house. It wasn’t a sanatorium, true, but it seemed far better than the accommodations most of the patients were likely to see during their lives.

  Thorndyke led him to a large office halfway along the building. Entering, Friedrich saw that it was far cozier than the rest of the warehouse. The walls had been paneled in wood to conceal the pipes of the gas lamps. There were rich carpeting, several shelves of books, upholstered chairs, a desk, and even a drinks cabinet. A door on the far wall led into some adjacent room, but Friedrich’s eyes were drawn first of all to a large portrait that hung on the wall behind the neatly organized desk. It was of Thorndyke and a slender—to be fair, “spindly”—woman of stern and matronly appearance, surrounded by almost a dozen children of various ages. All were dressed simply and sat or stood posed with the utmost discipline. From the faces it seemed to be a rather happy portrait, but there could be no doubt that they were all on their best behavior.