Quincey Morris, Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  My face fell. She'd hit the bulls-eye, and I said as much. "I will see him as soon as may be. I don't like the idea of his misery either, but I wanted a chance to settle in and think how best to approach him."

  "There's nothing to think about, you just go."

  "Miss Bertrice, no one in the world admires your directness more than I, but this situation needs a little more subtlety. I don't want to walk into his study like some ghost and scare him out of his wits."

  "Then let me go in first and prepare him."

  I started to object, then caught myself. "You might have something there. Maybe I could write out a message for you to give to him."

  "Anything to speed you along. When are you going?"

  "Tomorrow night—if he's still at Ring."

  "I'm sure he will be. Since he and Dr. Seward came back from their hunting trip, he can't be budged. Last I was there he spent most of his time in his room. Seward comes often to see him, else I should be worried that Arthur might give himself a fit of brain fever. Between losing Father, Lucy, and you in so short a space of time . . ."

  "Yes, Miss Bertrice, I understand." No more delays, I thought. "He's been carrying a burden, three of them. I want to lighten the load by one, I hope."

  "So do I. Unlike me, he's not had work or other distractions to help ease his grief. What family that is at Ring is of no help. They're all too old or too distant from him to be able to truly give comfort. God knows I've urged him time and again to come stay in town to give himself a change. He just puts on a ghastly thin smile and says he'll think about it. You speak of a ghost, I think he's turning into one."

  I made surrendering motions. "All right, you're preaching to the choir. I'll go tomorrow for sure."

  She seemed about to argue that, then relaxed into a smile. "There I am again. When I feel strongly about something I get like an overwound clock: ticking along too loud and fast to hear anything. Forgive me, Mr. Quincey. I shall be much better after I've had a bite of food."

  "Let's see to it, then."

  We entered another vast room where long tables groaning with victuals of every description had been set up. A small army of servants tended to the needs of the hungry. I was not among them and felt my belly turn over at the stench.

  "Are you all right?" she asked. "You look very green all of a sudden."

  "I . . . think I had a bad—uh—biscuit with my tea this afternoon. The butter must have gone rancid."

  "You put butter on your biscuits?"

  I'd forgotten about the Yankee-British language barrier. She thought I was talking about cookies. "Toast, then. You go ahead, and I'll take in the sights."

  "You'll not mind?"

  I did very much mind being deprived of her company. But if I stayed with her I'd be talking, and that meant breathing in the cooked-food stink. It was very irritating. "There seems plenty to look at. Maybe Mr. Price will be kind enough to give me a tour."

  Her gaze darted longingly toward the tables. "All right, if you're sure."

  One thing I have learned in my travels is never get between artists and food. I bowed her into the room and retreated.

  Wyndon Price wasn't difficult to find, not wearing that get-up. He seemed strangely comfortable in it, causing me to wonder just how artistic he might be.

  "Mr. Quinn!" he said, laying a friendly hand on my arm. "Lost her already?"

  "She's busy filling up a hollow leg."

  "Yes, trodding the boards is famishing work. How long have you known her?"

  "I'm more of a friend of the family. Business connections. Could have knocked me over with a feather seeing her tonight doing that show."

  "Ah, but did you really like the Ring Player's feminine twist on the Melancholy Prince?"

  "Very much, once I got used to things. I don't think even Mr. Irving could have done a better job than Miss Bertrice."

  "Dear heavens! Don't speak too loudly. I think that odious manager of his might be lurking about. If you see a big, bearded Irishman stalking the halls give him a wide berth."

  "Sounds as though you have a story there, too, sir."

  "Not much of one. I was in Irving's company for a month. Thank God it wasn't any longer. Between Henry Irving playing the generous perfectionist tyrant and Mama Stoker's maniacal fussiness I was quite put out. I'm in theater to enjoy myself, but for them it's an obsession. It got quite boring for me, really. Much too serious."

  I wasn't too surprised to hear he was an actor. "Are you doing something more to your satisfaction now?"

  "Oh, just some this-and-that, and I sometimes take a part—you should see my Falstaff—and write reviews for the papers and magazines to keep heart and soul together. I was favorable to Bertrice's production, of course. And to her paintings, too. I didn't have to lie one bit, either. She's a lovely girl, very talented but full of thorns, if you know what I mean."

  "I'm not sure I do, sir."

  "Then you don't know her well at all."

  "I think I should like to, though."

  "Ah." Price favored me with a thoughtful look. "Be very careful, my boy."

  "In what way?"

  He glanced around and leaned in close, his tone low. "Well, I don't care to give away confidences, so I shall tell you a story instead. Once upon a time a handsome prince stole away a beautiful princess to Bohemia-land. There they lived for a time, where she blossomed into greater beauty that delighted all who met her. Jealous of her success, the selfish prince proceeded to cruelly break her loving heart into tiny little pieces, then smash those pieces into dust. The princess bravely threw him into the street, but was so scarred by his betrayal as to be cured of all thoughts of love forever."

  I frowned. "Who was this rascal?"

  "Long dead, thank God. He indulged in the pleasures of cocaine one time too many. No one mourned his passing. None of it was Bertie's fault. We're all entitled to fall in love with the wrong person once in a while. She's just determined never to repeat her mistake ever again, so it's made her rather prickly—especially to those gentlemen she finds attractive. She does not trust her own judgment. Oh, dear, now I've put you in a sour mood. Bertie will never forgive me."

  "No, sir, but I do have strong feelings against such scoundrels as abuse womenfolk. Miss Bertrice is a fine lady and anyone showing her disrespect will have to answer to me."

  "Providing they survive her response," he said. "She's a little thing, but quite able to take care of herself. Don't try protecting her unless she asks for help. Otherwise . . ." Price lifted his hand, palm up in a giving-away gesture. "And you need not mention my fairy tale to her, either. She hates having the past stirred up like mud in a pond. The future is something else again. She loves talking about possibilities. I think she has too many to choose from with all her talents; it keeps her from concentrating on any one thing."

  Just then a sparely built young man in an elaborate highlander's kilt lurched toward us. "Wyndon, where the devil have you been all night?" he demanded, but in a humorous manner.

  "Playing hostess, of course. Did you just wake up?"

  "I've been here for hours, I think." He favored me with a sharp look. "Who's the Frenchy? Why ain't he dressed up as Napoleon?"

  "Because he was not French, he was from Corsica," said Price, again referring to Bonaparte.

  The man thrust a hand at me, speaking slowly and loud. "Wel-come-to-Eng-land-sir."

  "Burce, don't play the fool this early in the evening. You'll give your guests the right impression. Let me present to you Mr. Quincey P. Quinn. He's a family friend of Bertie Wood. Mr. Quinn, this is Lord Eric Burce."

  "How-do, sir," he said, squinting with very startling blue eyes. He didn't look drunk to me.

  "How do you do?" I responded.

  "Very well, thank you. You squiring our Bertie around now?"

  Price answered for me. "Burce, don't be annoying."

  "Why not? It's my party, I can annoy whomever I please except the cook and wine steward."

  "Very well, that's rea
sonable."

  "Where is little Bertie, anyway?" Burce looked about, trying to spot her.

  "Feeding a hollow leg, I'm told."

  "Good, she wants fattening up. What about you?" He fixed a still-squinty eye on me. "You look in need of some food."

  "I'm fine, Lord Burce, thank you for asking. You sure know how to throw down a red carpet for your guests. This is one of the grandest parties I've been to in a very long while."

  He frowned at me, then at Price. "He's American, ain't he? That's no Corsican accent."

  Price rolled his eyes. "You need a keeper, Burce."

  "The devil I do."

  "I shall put an ad in the Times tomorrow, I swear."

  "Don't you be swearing. It ain't becoming in a lady." Burce then slapped a hand across Price's broad backside. Price mimed a jump and little scream, producing a laugh from those nearby. Burce hooked an arm around mine. "Come on, Yankee-Doodle, let's go look for Bertie. I want to see what she's wearing tonight."

  I allowed myself to be dragged off. Wyndon Price waved good-bye with a red lace fan.

  "Miss Bertrice called them her `walking clothes.' " I said to Lord Burce. "She didn't know it was a fancy dress party."

  "Humph. Hardly matters for her, then. I think she's in secret league with Oscar Wilde's tailor to produce those whatever-they-ares. You need some help, though. Here it is, just the thing." He'd spied a discarded black half-mask on a table and plucked it up, passing it to me. "There, put that on. You can be a gentleman burglar from France or Corsica or something."

  I readily accepted the gift and donned it. Perhaps Bertrice and Art moved in different society circles, but there was a small chance that a common acquaintance might be in this great crowd and someone would know me. With the mask, my beard, and the foreign cut of my evening clothes, I would be safe enough from instant recognition.

  "Now for some amusement." His destination for amusement proved to be a wine and spirits table where he supplied himself with a glass of whiskey large enough to see most men through a Siberian winter. "What will you have, Mr. Quinn?"

  To avoid an argument—and I knew I'd get one by refusing his hospitality—I accepted a glass of champagne.

  "I thought all you colonial types went in for bourbon," said Lord Burce.

  "It being a party, I thought to enjoy a little change." Actually, I did not want to waste a good bourbon since I'd not be able to imbibe. Though champagne had a kick that sneaked up on you, it had always tasted thin to me, like soda water, so it seemed less of a crime.

  "You know anyone here?"

  "Just yourself, Mr. Price, and Miss Bertrice."

  "Have to fix that." So saying, he immediately got the attention of several people in a nearby group and introduced me before moving on himself. As they all seemed as drunk as my host pretended to be, I knew they'd not remember much of the encounter. Contrariwise, I would not likely forget it.

  All manner of artistic devotees populated the floors, some in a most literal sense. A few of these were moved to more restful areas by the staff. Burce seemed to employ two strong fellows whose only duty was to carry off overly drunk guests.

  Those still standing had an endless supply of talk loosened up by their drinking. Their costumes ranged from being as elaborate as Price's to a modest half-mask like mine. The people wearing them were anything from utterly seedy to nose-in-the-air aristocracy. Not many of the latter, though. By some standards—such as Aunt Honoria's—this was one of those dens of iniquity that you always hear about but never can find when you want one. For someone like myself, it was as interesting as anyplace else I'd visited in the world, just folk of a like mind gathered to play. A few, I observed as another drunk was hauled off, might play very hard indeed.

  Judging that Bertrice had had enough time to eat her fill and go back for seconds I returned to the dining room. She was gone, but as she seemed to be pretty well-known, I asked around and finally tracked her to the billiards room, where a number of the men had retreated to enjoy their tobacco.

  The air was choked with pipe, cigar, and cigarette smoke, almost too thick for the electric light to penetrate. Despite this, a close game was going on, Bertrice against a fellow in a pirate costume. He'd pushed his eye patch back, and his crepe hair was askew. He made his shot, but the ball just missed the pocket. There was a general groan, then Bertrice stepped forward. She looked hard-pressed not to smirk.

  She lined herself up and shot with more success. In the space of two minutes she sank the remaining balls on the felt and collected not only applause, but some shillings.

  "Another game, Bertie," they called.

  "Another night, if you please, after you've aired out this room." She handed her cue to the next player and came to take my arm.

  "Mighty fine playing," I said as we strolled out.

  "I should hope so. I spent hours practicing with Arthur at Ring. How have you been faring, Mr. `Quinn'?"

  "I've met a lot of fine folks. There's a conversation to please everyone here. If you don't want politics, just turn around and someone's going on about religion. If that's not your taste, then it's books or plays or anything else."

  "You're enjoying yourself?"

  "I am. It's good to be back with normal people again."

  "Heavens. Where have you been that you consider this lot to be normal?"

  "France."

  Now I wasn't meaning to be funny, but she threw her head back in a full-throated laugh. No half measures for this lady, she put her entire self into it. A few of the women turned their heads, giving her a disapproving eye, but Bertrice didn't give a hang for their good opinion. I suppose after having dealt with a big bullfrog like Honoria these were no more than tadpoles.

  Bertrice recovered and we roved through the rooms in a most pleasant way, her on my arm and giving greetings and introductions as needed.

  "Do you dance?" she asked, for there was now music drifting over the buzz of talk.

  The thought of dancing with her made me want to do handsprings. I could probably get away with such antics in this place and with my abilities, but it might scare her off. "A little waltzing and maybe a polka. It'd be my pure pleasure to squire you 'round the floor, Miss Bertrice."

  "Good enough, there's not a man in this whole house who's brave enough to dance with me."

  I chose not to ask her why, only laughed, taking it for a pleasantry.

  We found the ballroom, and wasn't it the most jim-dandy thing I'd ever seen with those electric lights turning it to bright day all over again. A whole string of them had been connected up to the crystal chandeliers, making them blaze like diamonds on fire. They were almost too bright, but I got used to it. The players obligingly started up a slow waltz as we walked in.

  She was perfect. I'd forgotten what a delight it was to have a pretty lady floating in my arms. Bertrice kept in step as though we'd practiced together for years. She seemed to truly relax just then; it wasn't something I could see, but I sure felt it.

  "Miss Bertrice, if you don't mind my asking, that fragrance you're wearing—is it from India?"

  She was surprised. "Yes, it is. However did you know?"

  "I remember the day Art bought it for you in a marketplace in Calcutta. It was hotter than Beelzebub's boots and so sultry you could dip the air with a soup spoon, but Art stood it out, arguing away with this merchant about the price. He wasn't sure what you'd like better, perfume or a shawl, so he got both."

  She laughed. "I have the shawl still. I draped it over the piano at my studio."

  "A red silk thing with tassels?"

  "Fringes. You've a remarkable memory."

  "It just stuck in my mind for some reason. At the time I thought Art must have a very special sister for him to put so much effort into all that bargaining."

  "Do you still think so?"

  "Indeed I do." I hoped that wasn't putting myself too far forward, too fast for her, but hang me if any other man could have been in my place and lied.

  "Ah," was all
she said for a time. "Even a sister who does what I do?"

  "That just makes you all the more interesting."

  "Ah." And she got quiet again for longer.

  I wondered if she might be working up to another attack of prickles. Time to head them off. "Speaking about Art . . ."

  "Yes, what time were you planning to be at Ring?"

  "Around eight."

  "Drat, can you not make it earlier? I'm going to be engaged at the music hall by then."

  "I'm afraid it's impossible." I was hoping she'd be busy. I had the idea that my return from the dead would be too much the terrific shock for Art and like that Frenchy barber, he'd need calming. Hypnotizing him while his sister looked on just didn't seem right. Besides, he and I would have a lot to talk about and over things that she didn't need to hear.

  "Very well, if it can't be helped," she said. "Then what message would you like me to take to him?"

  "None, though I very much appreciate the offer. I got to thinking that you're right, and it's best that I just go straight in and grab the bull by the horns. Art's a stout fellow, I'm sure he'll be able to handle it."

  "As am I, but I did want to see the look on his face."

  "I shall be pleased to give you a full description of events at any time of your choosing. Perhaps I might call on you again after one of your performances." There. Skittish and prickly as she was she could not find fault with that offering. Any decision to see me would be hers.

  "That would be lovely," she said.

  Hallelujah.

  "What about after you've visited Arthur?"

  Oh, but didn't my heart give a lift? Maybe she just wanted to hear about her brother, but the thought of seeing her so soon again set my head to buzzing. "Well, I can't rightly say how long we'll be. Once we get to jawing about things we could be all night."

  "Of course. The next evening then?"

  "I'd be delighted, Miss Bertrice. If you should have a change of plan, though, you may telegram me here." I paused our dance long enough to find a pencil and write the name of my hotel on the back of another calling card. There was a hope in me that she might return the favor so I'd have her address, but she only tucked the card away in a pocket. For the first time I noticed that she did not carry a reticule like most of the other ladies. There was a decided advantage to male costume.