Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  Elizabeth shook her head. “That’s no reason to kill a man. Besides, such an action would have been a sudden and reckless thing. The clearing out of the flat and this letter indicates planning. Also, if Ridley could be induced to write such a letter in the first place to make mischief, then it’s likely he wasn’t as heavily influenced into good behavior as you thought. He may have possessed the sort of will to be able to resist better than any of the others you’ve dealt with before.”

  Oliver cleared his throat. “You’re not planning to take this to the authorities, are you?”

  I blanched. “God’s death, man, and get myself clapped in irons on the spot?”

  “I just wanted to be sure,” he said, unoffended by my strong reaction. “Well, then, what are we to do?”

  “Try to find out who did kill him, while avoiding all connection to the crime.”

  “That may be a bit difficult.”

  “I’m well aware of it.”

  A glum silence settled upon us until Elizabeth threw it off.

  “You forget the attack made upon you at Mandy Winkle’s and those men who chased you from Ridley’s earlier.”

  “I’ve not forgotten; I just haven’t wanted to think about it,” I muttered.

  “It’s time you did. Certainly the two are linked.”

  “Then please enlighten me how,” said Oliver.

  “Let us suppose they saw Jonathan going in and out of Ridley’s flat on that first visit this evening, and gave chase for the sport of it. Then when they went up to see Ridley themselves, they may have had a falling out, forced him to write the letter to put the blame on Jonathan and killed—no, that doesn’t work, or why should they try to murder Jonathan in his bath later? They need only wait for the body and the letter to be found and laugh themselves sick while the law took its course.”

  My gaze lifted from the floor. “You almost have it.”

  “What, then?”

  “All right, assume they saw me go in and come out, gave chase and went back to see their friend—then discover Ridley’s already dead.”

  “Oh, hell,” Oliver whispered.

  “They wouldn’t need to search the body for any letter, but naturally conclude I’d just cut his throat. They have a quick talk among themselves over Ridley’s brandy, and decide to come after me in a fit of revenge. One of ’em sets himself to watch our house, finds out we’re at Mandy’s, and the next thing you know I’m being hauled from the bath like a drowned rat. None of that could have been planned by the murderer; he couldn’t have known I’d come calling that evening. He’d meant for the body to be found in a day or so and me to get the blame, which is as it turned out, but not in the way he’d expected.”

  “But if Ridley was already dead when you called, how could you go into the flat and not notice a dead body? You found him quick enough the second time.”

  “The second time I stayed long enough to draw a single breath of air. The scent of blood led me to the body. I must not have breathed at all the first time—busy listening, y’see, and the place was empty-quiet. I was there and gone in but a matter of seconds.”

  He sat back to digest this.

  Elizabeth, more used to the eccentricities of my condition, found it easier to take in. “Good God, if that’s true . . . to think Ridley was lying there dead all that time . . . ugh. I wonder when he was killed, anyway?”

  “Perhaps just before sunset or a little after,” I said.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “The curtain in the bedroom was open and the only candle I found was out in the sitting room. The killer would have had light enough to do his work until the sun went down. He cleans the place of other paper, shoves the letter into Ridley’s pocket, and when it’s dark enough to hide his face and form he goes off to wait for Ridley’s friends to come over for a visit so they will find the body, not knowing how things would really turn out. They see me leaving the place and assume without reading the accusation in the letter that I’d done it.”

  “But he gets what he wants; Ridley’s dead and you’re blamed.”

  “Only by the Mohocks, and for the moment they think I’m dead.”

  “Until they learn better and make a second try,” said Oliver. “Thank heaven you found that letter or the magistrate’s men would be hammering on our door any minute now to take us away.”

  “Ridley knew his killer,” Elizabeth said, again breaking the short silence that followed as we counted our blessings. “Who of his friends could do such a thing?”

  “Any one of ’em, as far as I’m concerned,” Oliver grumbled. “The letter was to go to that pasty-faced gull who was his second at the duel. His name’s Litton. He’s not too smart, but loyal as a lapdog to Ridley. If you want the names of Ridley’s other friends—such as they are—you need only go to Litton to get them.”

  “I have to,” I said. “You know where he lives?”

  “No, but I can find out—unless he’s been murdered in his bed as well.”

  “Not likely, or why write a letter to him? He’s needed to raise a hue and cry against me.”

  “What about Arthur Tyne?” asked Elizabeth, looking at each of us and getting an answer from neither. “He was Ridley’s cousin and closest friend, close enough to be willing to help him murder Edmond and Jonathan. Where’s he gotten to in this?”

  I spread my hands and shrugged. “For all I know he might have been the one who shot me.”

  “For all you know he may have cut Ridley’s throat himself.”

  “I doubt that, though stranger things have happened,” said Oliver, shaking his head. He turned his gaze on me. “Weren’t you going to talk with him as well?”

  “It can wait until tomorrow night. I’m too unsettled for further rambles.”

  “Then perhaps I should have a turn.”

  “No, you should not!”

  “The idea!” exclaimed Elizabeth.

  “I just want to help. Why should Jonathan do all the work?”

  “You’ll have work aplenty tomorrow finding where this Litton is without getting caught at it.”

  “Without getting caught?”

  “You’ll have to pretend not to know anything about Ridley’s death,” she said. “We all do.”

  “Yes, I suppose that would be rather odd if I—”

  “Odd? It could be fatal, dear Cousin. Promise me you won’t risk yourself in any way.”

  Well, Oliver was as soft as a down pillow when it came to Elizabeth, so he readily gave his word to use the utmost caution in his inquiry. “Tell you what, I can call on Brinsley Bolyn. He knows everyone and can keep his mouth shut when he has to. All I need do is get him started about that duel and let him run with it. He’ll probably blurt out the address of Litton and all his relatives without my even asking.”

  That satisfied Elizabeth, but I saw another problem arising. “That letter was meant to bring harm to both of us, Coz. I may be out of the way of injury for now, but you could be next.”

  “Or any one of us, for that matter,” he added with a glance to Elizabeth.

  “Therefore, I propose you move your household to someplace safer until we understand exactly what—”

  “Move? You think the danger is that great?”

  “Certainly I do, and until I learn better, it’s wise to expect the worst, is it not?”

  “But we’re in the heart of London.”

  “So were Ridley’s lodgings.”

  “Well, his was hardly a decent neighborhood—”

  “And you think his killer or killers incapable of traveling to this one?”

  I tapped the spot on my chest where the pistol ball went in. “Here was I delivered ample proof that they know exactly how to get around the city.”

  He sucked in his lower lip and nodded.

  “We have to think in terms of safety
and are in need of a fortress. I can think of none more formidable than Fonteyn House.”

  “Surely not!”

  “It’s removed from the city, has more servants to keep an eye on things and has a good high wall with a gate.”

  “May I remind you that none of those things prevented Ridley and Arthur from invading the place.”

  “But that was during the funeral when the gate was open and no one was expecting trouble. Things will be different this time. It won’t be forever, just a night or two until I can sort this business out.”

  “You’re really serious that we should go?”

  “So much so that I’ll send Richard and Mrs. Howard off there alone to keep him safe.”

  That was enough to stir Elizabeth to a decision. “Then my mind’s made up. That child will have my company, if no one else’s.”

  Thus did she decide for Oliver, who immediately fell in with the idea. “We can start packing a few things tonight.”

  “Not too much,” I advised. “I think we should be as deceptive as possible so this place looks like we’re all still at home and nothing is amiss. Load any cases you might want to take into the coach while it’s still in the coach house. When you leave, it should be separately and by different routes. Elizabeth, Richard and Mrs. Howard can take themselves away in the coach at some time in the morning as if going on another shopping expedition. You can take your horse, pretending to go on your usual round of calls. The servants can leave by ones and twos throughout the day—”

  “But what about you?” he asked. “You’ll be helpless in the cellar all that time.”

  “I’m well hidden, and it’s not likely for anyone to look there, anyway. I should be safe—the Mohocks think I’m dead, so why should they look for me? Besides, they’re not likely to put themselves in jeopardy by breaking into the house in broad daylight.”

  “How do you know?” he muttered.

  “I don’t, but it’s an acceptable risk. More than acceptable.”

  “I’m not easy in my mind for you to be completely unguarded,” said Elizabeth. “What if we ask Jericho to stay until you wake? That way he can answer the door and put off callers. It will make the house appear more occupied.”

  I was most reluctant to put Jericho in the way of any peril. “Only if he is made fully aware of the danger and has one of the larger footmen for company. Jamie will do. He’s as big as a house and can redeem himself for talking to strangers. Once I’m up for the night, then off they go.”

  Oliver was sucking his lip again. “But could you not just leave for Fonteyn House tonight and save them the trouble?”

  “I could, but I plan to be here tomorrow evening to keep watch.”

  “Alone?” Oliver looked ready to offer serious argument on that point.

  I gently waved him down. “Yes, alone, and I’ve an excellent reason for it, if you but hear me out.”

  He worked his mouth. “If I do that, then you’re sure to talk me into something I won’t like.”

  “Only if you let me.”

  “I won’t, then.”

  But in the end, he did just that.

  * * *

  When I awoke the next night it was to a disturbing near-silence, the sort that would have otherwise given me alarm had I not expected it. I was aware of mice going about their business, the scratch of a tree limb brushing against the walls outside and the tiny creak of my own bones in their sockets, but nothing else. Rising from my pallet on the bags of earth, I traveled invisibly up through the empty floors as usual to my room, reforming just in front of Jericho, who had been waiting for me. He was long used to these appearances from thin air, and without batting an eye in my direction finished shaking out the clean linen he’d picked for me to wear.

  “Evening, Jericho, how went the day?”

  “Tolerably well, sir,” he answered. “Everyone left for Fonteyn House without incident, except for some objections from Master Richard when he understood where he was being taken.”

  “What? He didn’t want to go back there?”

  “He was simply reluctant to leave without the carpet.”

  “Carpet?”

  “The one you bought for his playroom. It seems he’s rather fond of playing rough and tumble over it and insisted his recreation would be seriously limited if he had to leave it behind.”

  “Well-a-day! Think of that!” I was absurdly pleased with myself.

  “He insisted it accompany him for his stay.”

  “Tell me everything he said, every single word.” Since I would be bereft of our regular hour of play tonight, this second-hand accounting of my son’s activities would have to do for now. Jericho was well used to this, too, for I always asked him to provide me with all the details of Richard’s day, at least for those times when their paths intersected. Jericho didn’t mind, for while he spoke at length of domestic things, I would then sit still long enough for him to give me a proper shave.

  “Miss Elizabeth’s new spinet arrived,” he said. “It was just as well young Jamie and I were here to take charge of the delivery The makers sent along a man to see that it was in perfect tune, a rather abrupt Frenchman, but he knew his business.”

  “You mean it’s not likely he was a spy for the Mohocks?”

  “No, sir. All he had mind for was the spinet. He played very well. I complimented him in his own language, which surprised him, and after that he was somewhat less abrupt in manner. He let it be known that he was a teacher of music for diverse instruments, as well as dance and deportment and should anyone here be desirous of lessons he was available for hire.”

  “A French musician hanging about the place? That’s just the sort of diversion Elizabeth needs, I’m sure. Handsome fellow, was he?”

  He knew I was joking and raised both eyebrows in agreeable response. “Passable, I’m sure, though I cannot pretend to be an accurate judge of male comeliness. However, I was thinking you would wish rather to hire him as an instructor for Master Richard.”

  “I’d have to meet him first. Isn’t it a bit early for that? No, I suppose not. Elizabeth’s offered to teach Richard the spinet, but suppose he wants to play a fiddle instead? He could learn French at the same time. Well-a-day, but look at me, I’m talking myself into hiring the man already. I’ll look into it later; this other business at hand wants clearing up first. What else happened today? Any news on Ridley?”

  Jericho had been apprised in full of my wretched discovery the night before, though if we three had said nothing to him, I’m sure he’d have heard about it anyway. Oliver was right about the man’s uncanny ability to know all that was going on.

  “There was a notice in one of the papers of the incident, sir. You may read for yourself.” He gave me the germane sheet, and I squinted at the tiny print.

  “Doesn’t say much. After the hue and cry, it only identifies him as Thomas Ridley, and says his throat was horribly cut under mysterious circumstances. You’d think they’d have more details. There’s not even a speculation on who might be responsible.”

  “Upon consideration, that lack is in our favor.”

  “You’re right of course, but still. . . .”

  “I would venture to guess that the murderer may be experiencing the same sort of frustration as yourself.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Looking at this article, he might expect to read that you’d been taken into custody because of an implicating letter found in Mr. Ridley’s clothing.”

  “Yes, I see it. He’s probably grinding his teeth wondering what’s gone wrong.”

  “Unless he’s learned from Mr. Ridley’s Mohock friends that you were killed by them. Or so they believe. The papers had no mention of your misfortune.”

  “I should say not. A scion of Fonteyn House shot in a brothel? Unthinkable! They’ll assume the family closed ranks with Mandy Winkle to hush it
up for the time being. I daresay this Mohock tribe will be frightfully confounded when I start showing my face around.”

  “One might hope as much, sir, but please tread carefully. Miss Elizabeth and Dr. Oliver are most concerned for your safety.”

  “No more concerned than I am myself. You can tell ’em I’ll be extremely careful. Anything else on this?” I gestured with the paper.

  “Only that his death is the talk of London society. There were several callers today. Some of Miss Elizabeth’s new friends were disappointed that she was not in, and doubly disappointed to know you were unavailable as well.”

  “Marriage-minded females with their mothers?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s from that damned duel. I should have let Ridley kill me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “A few gentlemen to see Dr. Oliver came by before he left, and I had opportunity to entertain their servants and learn the news from them.”

  “Which was?”

  “Little more than what was in the paper. The general opinion they held, which for the most part was the same as their masters, is that Mr. Ridley, in light of the life he led, made such an ending inevitable. Speculation on the culprit ranged from it being one of his Mohock cronies to a jealous husband, to a cheated procurer.”

  “Doesn’t want for variety. Wonder which, if any, is the correct choice? Did Oliver offer an opinion as well?”

  “The doctor thought it best to pretend total ignorance of the issue and let his visitors do the talking; thus did he learn all there was to know. He was pleased about the ploy and asked me to mention it to you.”

  “Then you can pass my admiration for his wit on to him in turn.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “Did he find out where Mr. Litton keeps himself when he’s not playing the second at duels?”

  Jericho drew a scrap of paper from his pocket and gave it over. “Here are the directions as they were given to him by Mr. Bolyn.”

  “That’s hardly a half-mile from here. You can tell Oliver this will be my second stop on my evening rounds; I’m calling on Arthur Tyne first—and yes, I will be careful.”