Quincey Morris, Vampire

by P. N. Elrod

  "Be easy? I'm embarrassed as hell. I was positively ranting; don't know how I shall face either of them. They must have thought I was right off my head. No wonder they put me away."

  "Now, I can't believe that Jack Seward would agree to having you trussed up like a turkey and locked in with the loonies."

  "Neither can I, but he's taken Van Helsing's side for this."

  "Not any more. He and I had a long talk on the ride over here. He knows all about me, now, same as you."

  "Really? How did he react?"

  "A sight surprised at first, but he got used to it. When I left here to go to ground for the day, you were in a room upstairs and Jack was trying his best to bring the professor around on me. It all seemed safe enough, but I suppose the old buzzard never listened. He's got this place locked up like a fort with crosses all over the windows."

  "What?"

  "Just as I said. There's a cross painted on every piece of glass in this whole pile."

  "But how did you get in?"

  I gave him a look. "We went all over that the other night."

  "I meant past the locks."

  "Oh. That little disappearing trick of mine is mighty handy. A shut door is nothing to me."

  "Well, I'm damned."

  "I think not. I wonder now if Van Helsing didn't serve Jack the same as you, only kept him closer to hand."

  He sat up. "Something's afoot! We must find him!"

  "I'll find him. You rest up, and I'll bring him here."

  His eyes flashed fire. "I'll do no such thing! I'm not staying in this hellhole a moment longer!"

  I made a hushing gesture lest he bring the professor down on us. "Very well, old partner. We've been in tighter spots than—" I broke off, thinking I'd heard something. The sound—a voice—came again. Someone frantically shouting Art's name. It was from one of the other cells farther along the hall. My knees turned to jelly for just an instant, then I snapped around to the near-forgotten student. "Where is she?" I roared.

  He flinched at the force of it, as though I'd struck him.

  I grabbed his keys and tore my way to her, heart in my throat.

  "Arthur! Are you there? Arthur, come help me!"

  Following her voice, I found the right door and fumbled to get the right key in the lock. There was a flap over the window grid, but I didn't waste time with it. Instead I managed to fling the door open. This padded chamber was pitch black.

  Bertrice shot from its horror like a bullet, nearly knocking me over when we collided.

  "Quincey? Oh, God!" Her face crumpled, and she threw her arms around me.

  "It's me, little girl. Don't you worry." I held her shaking body close and snug.

  I'd wondered if anything could ever daunt her, but heaven forbid that it should become a reality. Being locked up in a padded cell in a lunatic asylum had done just that, though. She fought down a sob or three. I kept her wrapped up until the worst of it passed.

  "It's all right," I told her, stroking her hair. It smelled of her spice scent. "We'll get you out of here."

  "Yes, yes, but I heard Arthur. Take me to him."

  There was no need. Arthur had recovered enough to shamble toward us. He looked like I felt, aghast and outraged. "Bertie, dear God! What—how—?"

  I released her to go to him. They clung together a long while, seeming to take strength from each other. He eventually looked over her shoulder at me, his face grim and eyes cold. "I will kill that bastard for this," he stated.

  No need to gainsay him, I was ready to do the same.

  Bertrice pushed away. "You will not! Not until I've had my turn!"

  He twitched a smile. "Whatever you want, Bertie."

  We three walked back to the alcove where the student was starting to look too alert for my peace of mind. Without reinforcement or further orders they can wake up all on their own. I told him to resume whatever he had been doing and to forget about us. He obligingly went back to his studies, ignoring our presence.

  Art and Bertrice, of course, could not ignore what I'd just done. Questions rose on their faces, but I put a finger to my lips, and motioned for us to leave. We shuffled toward the demarcation door; I unlocked it with the keys I'd kept, ushering us through.

  "What was that?" Art demanded.

  "Just something I can do," I said. "It's like hypnosis, only stronger."

  "But how can—oh, bother, later. We'll work it out later. Bertie, how in God's name did you come to be here?"

  "Quincey and Dr. Seward telegrammed me that you'd taken seriously ill, and I came as soon as I could. Thank heaven you're all right. You are, aren't you? You look awful."

  "I suppose I do—but you're not surprised Quincey's alive?"

  "Um, our paths crossed in London a few days ago . . . he told me everything, Arthur."

  Already pale, he blanched even more. "H-how much of everything?"

  "All of it. Including what that bastard Van Helsing put you through in regard to poor Lucy."

  "Oh, I say!" Art stared at me.

  I shrugged. "Not settling for anything less, she deserved to hear all. Besides, she'd already figured out about my change. I had to make a clean breast of it. Your sister's a real Sherlock Holmes."

  "Loveday Brooke," she corrected.

  "Who?" asked Art.

  "Never mind."

  "But how is it you even guessed about Quincey? How could you have heard of vampires?"

  "Really, Arthur, one hears everything in London, you know that. Is there someplace else we may talk? I'm cold."

  We tried doors, taking over an empty examining room that had a fire laid and ready for morning rounds. I put match to the kindling and stood back as they crowded close to warm themselves.

  "I'd murder for some tea," Bertrice muttered.

  The brandy bottle had found its way into my pocket, and I offered that instead. She had no complaint for the substitution.

  It took us a short while to get ourselves caught up on each other. I explained how Art and I had come to be here, then Bertrice had her turn. She'd sent several telegrams asking Seward for information on Art's condition, but received no replies.

  "So when I could get away I took the early train and hired a trap to bring me here. When I arrived that Dutch professor greeted me. He was polite, but I don't think he liked my walking clothes. He tried to put me off, saying Arthur was too ill for visitors, even family."

  "Wrong thing to say to you," muttered Art, shaking his head.

  I agreed. "Art would have been confined to the lunatic wing by then. Van Helsing could not let you know that."

  "I'd suspected something was wrong," she said. "His odd behavior confirmed it. Then all the servants were starting to leave, which was very strange. When I asked to see Dr. Seward I was told he'd been called away on an emergency case. Now I've not been on stage for very long, but I know a false performance when I see it. He'd have been booed from auditions for that reading, but I pretended to accept his lie, and said I'd wait. He didn't much like that, but I put on my `high lady' act—you know the one, where I impersonate Aunt Honoria—and there wasn't a thing he could do to budge me."

  I chuckled. "I'd have paid good money to have seen his face."

  "It was beyond price. As we were at an impasse and stuck with each other, he seemed to try to make the best of it. He did readily answer my questions about you, Arthur, and appeared to be honestly worried, but he refused to let me even look in. Then I made a mistake. I asked if your collapse might have had anything to do with Lucy."

  Art shrank in on himself a little. "Why on earth did you do that?"

  "Because sitting there, pretending to be oh-so-civilized, I was quietly losing my temper with him. He was insufferably high-handed. My brother is ill and this stranger is keeping me at bay like I'm some invading army. And after what Quincey told me about him I was ready to believe the worst had happened." She snorted. "Had I but known the worst was yet to come."

  "What did he do?"

  She sighed. "He rang for
tea, my great weakness. I think it was a ploy to shut me up. I had begun to ask questions about Lucy that he would not answer. I asked why there were crosses painted all over and about the garlic smell, pressing him. He got very red about those, I must say, and I pressed even more. I suppose I can thank chivalry that he didn't knock me down then and there. He hides it well, but he has a very ugly temper, especially toward anyone who disagrees with him. If I'd been a man we'd have been brawling like drunken Irishmen on the consulting room rug. He certainly looked ready to explode. Then he wanted to know how I'd come by my knowledge, so it was my turn to play the sphinx. When the last servant brought in the the tea cart I think by then the professor had made up his mind I was a dangerous liability."

  That, or guessed that she'd had contact with me. Anyone I'd spoken to would be suspect in Van Helsing's imaginings. God help us all if he found out about our intimate liaison. Happily, Bertrice had on a high, concealing collar.

  "Well," she continued, "I poured, and he distracted me with some nonsense about the windows, claiming he saw a bat flapping against them. It was still light out, so that was absurd, and I'm most embarrassed to admit that it was successful. He had to have slipped something into my cup when I turned to look. I suppose when one works with mad people one learns to be very sly, for I quite missed it. I thought he was trying to test my reaction to bats, perhaps use that as a means bring up the topic of vampires. He struck me as being very unsubtle, but my interpretation was off. I drank my tea and almost immediately realized what had really happened. My bones went all heavy, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. When I next became aware of anything it was my waking in the dark in that frightful padded room."

  "He will pay for that," said Art.

  "We'll nail his hide to the barn door," I promised.

  "It was alarming, but I am unharmed."

  Art fondly brushed back a strand from her hatless and rather tousled hair. "Oh, Bertie, no need to be brave, you were scared to death."

  She pursed her lips a moment, then finally nodded. "Yes, I was. I didn't know what he would do, and he could have done anything, commit me, make me disappear, slip more sleeping draughts into my food—if he even bothered to feed me!"

  "God! I shall strangle him."

  "Arthur, I'm fine now. I just had a few bad hours in a dark room. When I heard your shouting I knew things would be all right. I didn't expect Quincey, though I should have since I knew he might be here."

  "Yes, he's the hero for finding us."

  I shrugged. "Well, I didn't exactly expect to find either of you. Not in that part of the house. I just wanted to talk to one of the staff. . . ."

  They wouldn't hear any of it and elected me champion of the moment. Art thumped my back a couple times, and Bertrice kissed my cheek, which caused that pleasant humming between my ears to return full force. But now wasn't the time to give Art any hint that I was planning to marry his sister. After all, Bertrice had the right to hear it first.

  "We still have to find Jack," I reminded them, which dampened the celebration.

  "And have a few words with the professor," said Art. "Do you think he'll still be in the consulting room?"

  "It's a place to start."

  "No, Jack's study is the place to start," he insisted.

  "I've been there, it's deserted."

  "I must go, anyway. It's important."

  "We can try, but if we run into Van Helsing you two duck low and let me do the talking. My guess is he's hiding in wait somewhere for me to show. He's liable to go off like a hair-trigger, so I do all the parley."

  They allowed the sense of that, but Art led the way out. Bertrice lingered a few steps behind, long enough to take my hand and hold it tight. The brightness of her eyes warmed me better than any fire. "Quincey . . . I adored the roses."

  My abrupt flush of pleasure at this news was such that I broke into what must have been a wholly foolish grin. It was still fastened in place when we tiptoed into the hall, hand-in-hand. My heart was singing so loud I couldn't hear myself think. All was right with the world, or would be soon.

  We silently traversed the house, taking a side stairs to the upper floor, and managed to avoid running into anyone. That was a relief, for Van Helsing was absolutely serious in his game. To have gone to the horrendous risk of locking up Art and Bertrice and done who-knows-what to Jack smacked of desperation. I thought of my warning to Jack about not pushing the professor into a corner, but what to do when he created the corner himself?

  We passed the door to Van Helsing's room along the way. I paused and listened, then shook my head when it was clear no one was there. How simple for us had he been within. Pressing on to Jack's study, we eased inside and Art went straight to the desk. He rooted through one of the drawers for a set of keys then went to a tall oaken cabinet built into one wall and unlocked it. Propped at attention on individual brackets were the very Winchester repeating rifles I'd brought along on our Continental journey. They'd been well cared for, the barrels clean and oiled, the stocks buffed and shining.

  "I'd wondered where those had gotten to," I said, delighted.

  Art grinned. "I kept one as a remembrance and thought Jack should have the rest. I was afraid the professor might have armed himself. Thank goodness he did not. "You'll have them all back again, of course, and this as well." He drew out a box, opening it, but cried out in dismay upon finding it empty.

  "What is it?"

  "Your six-shooter was in here."

  So that's what had become of it. "Jack might have it in his room."

  "Never. He always keeps his firearms locked in this cabinet. With his patients he can't afford to be careless. Van Helsing must have taken it."

  "To use against me?"

  "You and I daresay anyone else who disagrees with him. He's quite capable of violence, Quincey. After the way he treated us . . ."

  "But—"

  "He may hesitate shooting me, but not you. I'll wager he's blessed each of the bullets. He once said they would kill a vampire in his coffin or something like that."

  I suppressed a shudder, remembering. Dracula had told me a different tale I was more inclined to believe, but it was cold comfort at present. The thought of that crazed Dutchman lurking downstairs . . .

  Art took out one of the Winchesters and began loading it from a box of cartridges.

  "Just what do you have in mind?" I asked, eyebrows rising.

  "Oh, not to worry, I won't wave it recklessly about; I only want it handy in case there's more trouble than we anticipate."

  "Art, you and I both know that whenever a man decides to heel himself with any kind of shooting iron, then he will meet up with trouble."

  "This is only insurance, a preventative. After what Van Helsing's done to us—"

  "I agree," said Bertrice. "The man should be locked up in one of those damnable cells. He'll not be one to go quietly."

  "You're right," I said. "But hear me on this, he's going to be more nervous than a ginger cat at a fox hunt. I don't want to give him an excuse to make either of you into a bull's-eye. Besides, wherever he is, I'm going in first. I will talk to him the same as I did that fellow down in the dungeon."

  "Hypnosis?" asked Art. "Such as what Van Helsing did with Mrs. Harker?"

  "A deal more effectual and a lot faster, I promise. Give me a few minutes and I'll have him on all fours baying at the moon if you want."

  "I'd rather dangle him by his heels from a cliff, preferably over a pit of crocodiles."

  "Using a very frayed rope," Bertrice chimed in.

  What a bloodthirsty family, but I could understand why and side with them. "Sounds fine to me, but let's think of Jack Seward. This place is only as good as his reputation. If there's any shooting here he couldn't get a job selling snake oil in a medicine show for the scandal."

  That made them stop and think. If there's one thing the English have a respect for, it is scandal. It's an entertaining thing to gossip about at a club or party, but only from a safe distance. Jack w
as practically kinfolk.

  "Very well." Art reluctantly unloaded the rifle and put it back. "Mustn't tempt fate. I should feel better with some sort of weapon, though. Jack has a cricket bat in that cupboard, I think."

  As he locked up, I tried the cupboard and found a very battered flattish paddle a couple of feet long that must have dated from Jack's university days. He and Art had taken me to a few cricket games, and I'd found it to be a surprisingly pleasing summer diversion. My friends had been kind enough not to disturb me while I caught up on my sleep.

  This time I took the lead. We made it to the lower landing of the main stairs without meeting anyone, but I heard some activity in Jack's consulting room just off the central entry hall. It was there he usually received patients or spoke with their families. If luck was with us, then Van Helsing would have taken it over.

  We eased slowly up to its closed door to listen. Whoever had been speaking was silent now. Even my keen ears heard nothing more than the vague suggestion of someone's presence. I leaned close to whisper to Art and Bertrice.

  "I'll go outside and have a look through the windows. Stay here until I'm back."

  They nodded agreement.

  I hurried through the entry. The front doors were locked, but proved to be no barrier as I dissolved into nothing to get outside.

  No orderlies stood guard this time, and just as well. I struck off to the left, ducking through an arched opening in a high hedge that enclosed Jack's private garden. It was bare now from winter, but showed signs of tending, the paved walk being swept of leaves. A table and chairs usually stood in the center, allowing him to enjoy his tea outside when the weather permitted. Those were stored away now, removing any cover I might have made of them as I approached the tall windows of the house.

  They were of the kind to open out like doors, locked now, each pane embellished with a white cross. I sniffed. Even from here the garlic smell was pronounced on the cold air. Jack would be weeks getting rid of it.

  The window curtains were drawn back. Once close enough I could see the whole of the room, though the crosses and reflections from the pale sky confused things. All was dim and dark. A single small candle illuminated the desk in the center. Seated behind it was Jack Seward. He was slumped forward, eyes shut as though asleep.