THE LONDON VAMPIRE PANIC
By
Michael Romkey
* * *
Prologue
Annie Howard
THE WIND IS blowing off the Channel, a January gale cold as a workhouse, bending back the bare trees, scouring dead leaves from the hiding places where they lie rotting.
From the window seat in my lady's room, I watch a single carriage's progress up the street. The horse shakes his head against the reins, angry at having been led from his stall on such a day. He arches his neck and strains against the traces like a demon in harness, plumes of smoke exploding from his nostrils with each snorted breath. I cannot see the passengers. The carriage windows are closed tight, the curtains drawn against the cold. The driver has heaped a mountain of rugs about him to keep from freezing. He wears a scarf wound so high around his head that he could be a Muslim lifted from Persia by some spell and dropped onto this ice-blasted London street.
Despite the cold, I would be outside in a flash, if I could, but I cannot leave this house. Such are the rules governing my life, if one can call it a proper life—and I don't suppose one can.
The door across the street opens. A man comes out and pulls it quickly closed, as if he is in a very great hurry. It is the Carlsons' butler. He is a Scot, I think, although I no longer remember his name. He draws the snapping cloak more tightly about him and leans into the storm. The wind pushes back, standing him up. For a moment it seems he will blow away like a discarded newspaper, tumbling to the end of the street, catching finally on the iron fence that surrounds the Earl of Stemple's house, squeezing through the black forged bars, flying on toward Hyde Park, the heath, and whatever else is beyond, driven all the way to the Atlantic by this heartless wind.
Invisible forces surround us. We mostly ignore them, while we are alive.
The storm would be the end of me if I could go out, which must be part of the reason I am bound to this house. There was never much to poor Annie Howard, and now I am as insubstantial as the whiff of smoke that rises from an extinguished candle. This tempest would blast me into nothingness with its kiss, and I would no longer haunt this house. The cook would not glimpse a shadow going up the stairs in the dark. The peculiar scent of soap would not rise mysteriously in the parlor on certain evenings. Soft footsteps would be heard no more in the hall outside the child's room. And the rocking chair beside his bed would not move gently back and forth in the middle of the night, as if of its own accord, unless some living soul were seated in it.
This wind!
I used to love the feel of the wind. On my free days last summer I would go for long walks and take off my hat to better feel the sun against my face and the wind playing in my hair. Sometimes I went as far as Hyde Park, if I had a friend. (A girl, of course, one of the other servants from Mayfair.) I remember one time sitting beside the Serpentine when a raven's feather, blue-black and shiny, came floating down out of the sky and practically landed in my lap! Once I watched a tiny spider laboring in the grass, patiently building a silver web to catch the dew. There were two boys in a rowboat that afternoon. They raised their straw hats and waved. We ran nearly all the way home, laughing inside with the secret joy.
There are so many things you do not have the opportunity to do and know when you die young. I never had a beau. I never was in love. I regretted this very much at first, but now the disappointment has faded. Time passes and things that once mattered no longer seem important.
I was fortunate to find a position at Moore House, a girl without family, who possessed little more than the tortoise-shell comb I won for being the first in my form to learn the catechism. When I came here, this big house overpowered me. I sometimes got lost: There were so many rooms, all richly appointed, with ornate moldings and wood paneling. The furniture was exquisitely carved and inlaid, and I polished it until the air smelled of warm beeswax. The oil paintings on the walls, turned dark with age, showed men and women from long ago—people with stern looks and strange, antique clothing. The portraits frightened me a little bit, to be completely honest. But the chandeliers! They glittered at night like constellations of diamonds on fire in the sky. When I was alone, I used to stand and stare up at them. The chandelier in the entry hall was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
I hardly notice these things now, and they give me no pleasure. I am losing interest in the world and its people. Sometimes I sit and listen to their conversations, but the words have become difficult for me to make out, a soft, drowsy muttering that seems spoken in a language I have mostly forgotten. I have trouble remembering all their names—except for the child. I will always remember him, and adore him. He is my special one, my golden boy, my beloved Andrew. Nothing could change that, not even my death.
He is the reason I linger between two worlds. I do not know how I can protect him, but I cannot continue on my way until the danger has passed. Who understands this better than I, who watched over the boy and happily gave him everything?
I wonder what became of my body. I hope it was buried in a nice place, where grass will grow in spring. I picture myself going to my rest in my Sunday dress, with the tortoiseshell comb holding my hair up. It is pleasant to think of myself sleeping peacefully in the ground, even with my grave covered with a blanket of black earth. In spring the sun will return, the soft rain will fall, and the grass will grow. There is a time for all things, and a season, and when our time has passed and our work here is complete, we move on to God.
Soon, perhaps, when I no longer have to fear for the boy.
I close my eyes and think of the wind brushing across the frozen dirt on my grave as it once played in my hair. The cold no longer bothers me. I am beyond the cold now.
Even though I am dead, I begin to dream…
* * *
PART I
Front Papers
* * *
1
Letter to a Consulting Historian
February 15,2000
Penelope Newton-Medwick
M.A., D.Phil., Professor and Tutor of History
Balliol College
Broad Street
Oxford, Oxfordshire OX13BJ
Dear Dr. Newton-Medwick,
Enclosed is the Dr. Posthumous Blackley memoir I spoke to you about on the telephone. The history and its related documents have been kept in our office's vaults since Dr. Blackley's death in 1920. The file was opened this past January, in accordance with Dr. Blackley's instructions that his papers remain sealed until the year 2000.
Dr. Blackley was evidently a person of some standing in Victorian and Edwardian times. The image of him arising from the memoir is that of a candid—indeed, unusually so—observer unafraid to confess his own weaknesses and foibles.
I leave it to you, Professor Newton-Medwick, to determine whether this is an authentic account, an elaborate hoax, or the product of a clever but unsound mind. If there is enough evidence in the record to indicate the disturbing things Dr. Blackley has to say are true, we shall have to determine how best to proceed.
Keep this information in the strictest confidentiality. I do not wish to ignite a second London vampire panic. I also do not want to embarrass the royal family. They have troubles enough on their own without us adding to the balance.
I can only provide a few details about Dr. Blackley beyond what you will read in his history. He was a prominent London physician, well-born and wealthy, a lifelong bachelor who died in 1920 at age eighty. He left his estate to the child of an unmarried Irish serving girl who was in his employ at the time of his death. The implication is that Dr. Blackley fathered the boy in the final years of his life. The child—his name was Posthumous O'Connor—died piloting a Spitfire during the Battle of Britai
n, leaving no relatives. Therefore, Amberfield & Porter, executor of Dr. Blackley's estate, retains sole ownership and authority over Dr. Blackley's history.
I am including a check for one thousand pounds as your retainer. Please do not hesitate to contact me if I can be of any assistance, or if it is necessary to secure additional funds for research. I am most anxious to learn your conclusions at the earliest possible date.
I remain most sincerely yours,
Lygeia Wickersham,
Q.C. Amberfield & Porter
50 Bishopsgate
London EC2N4AJ
* * *
2
A Note to the Future
Beloved Reader,
It is sometime in the new millennium if you are reading this, which means your devoted author has been dead eighty years, give or take a few odd turns of the calendar. Pray do not waste time mourning the handful of coffin dust that was once the devilishly handsome Dr. Posthumous Blackley. I have had as full a life as it is possible for any man to live. For eight delicious decades I have sampled pleasures both high and low, and now I find myself exhausted and quite ready to die. I have not the least desire to live beyond my time, or to pursue the fountain of eternal youth that has only recently been made known to me.
After reading this memoir, and the related documents I have gone to a certain degree of trouble and expense to collect, you will understand why I ordered it kept under lock and key for the better part of a century. Moreover, perhaps the passage of time will improve the brilliance of my observations and incisiveness of my insights, the way a bottle of fine Napoleon matures to golden mellowness as it ages in a darkened chateau cellar. It has fallen to you, mysterious reader, to uncork the bottle and drain it to the lees. I give you fair warning: This brandy was not made for the faint of heart. I advise you to sip it a little at a time to prevent yourself from being overwhelmed. If you do that, I promise the experience will prove satisfactory.
You have me at a disadvantage.
You will soon know a very great deal about me, while I can only imagine you holding these pages, eighty years into the future, eighty years after my death, puzzling over my account of so many strange and troubling events. Such is the unequal nature of the intercourse between a writer and his reader, communing across the centuries.
Since I cannot know your identity, I will think of you as I would like you to be—a lovely young lady, certainly far better company for an aged roué than a barrister with an overdeveloped sense of his own importance and a perfectly tied cravat.
I imagine myself sitting beside you now, breathing in the perfume lingering about your neck and hair. I see the intelligence in your eyes, and evidence of a sparkling wit and lively spirit. I watch the gentle rise and fall of your breast as you read. Your lips are slightly pursed, an expression of indulgence belying your genuine curiosity about the secrets I have to tell. And oh, dear girl, what secrets I have to tell!
You experience a twinge of guilty pleasure.
There is something delicious about a secret, is there not? Anything concealed invariably has the scent of scandal about it. Illicit, dishonest, disgraceful, immoral behavior—they are always so delicious to hear about. And yet that is not the ultimate purpose of this memoir. You will indeed find herein gossip from the loquacious companion of princes and kings, but my deeper intent is to leave behind a history of something terrible to serve as a kind of warning to future generations—and to you personally, my dear!
When you start to feel afraid, try to remember it is better to understand the way things really are, even if it means being frightened, than it is to remain ignorant of the danger while maintaining a naive sense of safety.
But do read on, dear reader. Certainly, it is already too late for you to stop!
Your obedient servant,
Posthumous Blackley
* * *
PART II
The Physician
* * *
3
Die Fledermaus
I REMEMBER THE first time I heard the word vampire, though the term's meaning was not immediately obvious to your devoted narrator.
It was in the Royal Opera House, where I had repaired with friends to hear a production of Die Fledermaus. I have a vivid recollection of the exact moment I got my first inkling of the hidden world about to open up under my feet, dropping me into an abyss of darkness and uncertainty. Lady Gray leaned toward the Prince of Wales during the intermission, put her tiny white hand over his and whispered: "Surely you have heard the stories going around about the vampire?"
Her free hand was thrown across her bosom in an intimate gesture of protectiveness, and when she whispered the strange word—vampire—she gave herself a little squeeze. As a physician who has seen countless breasts of every size, shape, age, and quality of perfection, you must acknowledge that I know of what I speak when I say Lady Gray's breasts were extraordinary. Seeing her goose herself like that in public is what made me remember the moment—and the word.
Vampire: I remember thinking it had a Slavic sound to it. I confirmed my suspicion the next day when I looked it up in the dictionary. Yet a "vampire" was not, as I initially suspected, an exotic sex toy imported from Eastern Europe.
There were eight in our party. Bertie (As this is a personal memoir, I will speak of friends in familiar terms. No disrespect is intended.) was with Lady Gray, his favorite mistress at the time. I was with Mrs. Stensvad, whose husband, a Swedish diplomat, was diplomatic enough to pretend not to know that his wife and I were carrying on an affair. Ashley Duncan, the noted artist, had brought his wife. It might strike you as strange that Mrs. Duncan was in our little party, considering the mischief Bertie and I had got up to, but she could have cared less. Maude Duncan was a free-thinking American girl who did not give a whit for the usual conventions. A Guardsman with a Webley revolver in the pocket of his evening clothes, which he wore with obvious discomfort, sat bolt upright behind Bertie. It was his job to look after the Prince. Captain Lucian, the Prince's equerry, rounded out our little group. Lucian was mad for any sort of music. He had the annoying habit of stopping in the street to listen to Gypsy violinists or beggars making merry with a squeeze-box or penny whistle. I like music as much as the next person, but Lucian's appreciation for it bordered on a mania.
The opera was good enough, if you like Strauss. I found my mind wandering midway into the first act. People interest me more than music, and I often divert myself at the opera by studying the audience. I spotted that infamous fop, Oscar Wilde, seated on the main floor. He was wearing preposterous velvet breaches and patent leather shoes with little bows. Seated beside him was Lillie Langtry, who in 1880 was on the verge of becoming a famous actress. It was obvious to me that Miss Langtry would become the darling of millions. And it was equally obvious to me that Wilde was destined for disgrace. If there were a way to make money by judging casual acquaintances, I would be even wealthier than I already am!
Lord and Lady Shaftbury were there, seated nearby. Boxes in a horseshoe-shaped theatre radiate away from the royal enclosure, reflecting one's status accordingly. The closer one's seat is to the royal box, the higher the status. Lord Shaftbury glanced our way frequently, but not because the Prince of Wales was present. It was Lady Gray's eye he hoped to catch. She had been Shaftbury's mistress before Bertie stole her away. I was disinclined to feel charitable toward Shaftbury, the snappish prig, but I did feel a bit sorry for him that night. I could only imagine how I would feel if I had ceded my welcome in Lady Gray's bedchamber to Bertie. Poor Shaftbury. How could a lord compete with a prince for her tender affections?
Franz Liszt sat beside a ravishing young woman in a box on the other side of Shaftbury's. The brilliant pianist was as famous for his amorous exploits as for attacking the keyboard like a man possessed. Liszt was said to have bedded more women than any other man in Europe. Old and thin as a scarecrow, his long wild hair turned to gray, he continued to draw beauty like moths to his flickering old candle. How I envied the anci
ent devil!
"Who is that creature with Liszt?" I asked Lady Gray during the intermission.
She raised her opera glasses and looked nonchalantly past Lord Shaftbury, causing elation and then defeat to flicker across his face in quick succession. Captain Lucian leaned forward to learn the answer. The young woman had not escaped the Captain's sharp eye.
"That is the tragic Lady Olivia Moore," Lady Gray said. "You know the story?"
"Sir Brendan was a friend," I replied. "A very sad story indeed." As sad as his surviving daughter, Olivia, was lovely.
We stood as Bertie returned to the box, squinting down at the program through his pince-nez. "Die Fledermaus," he said, then translated the opera's title, "The Bat."
A little shudder went through Lady Gray. "The mere thought of bats terrifies me."
"Nonsense," Bertie said, giving her the look men give women when they think they're being foolish. "They're harmless enough creatures."
"Bats eat their weight in mosquitoes every night, I'm told," Mrs. Duncan said. "Think of all the pests they destroy."
Lady Gray looked down at the stage, shaking her head, unconvinced.
Bertie handed his program over his shoulder for the Guardsman to take. The houselights went down, and conversation in the theatre abruptly fell to an expectant hush. That was when Lady Gray turned toward Bertie, put one hand over his and the other over her breasts, and said in an excited whisper: "Surely you have heard the stories going around about the vampire?"
Music swelled to fill the darkened room.
"Hush, my dear," Bertie said, and pressed a finger to the bearded royal lips. "We do not want to be rude."
The London Vampire Panic Page 1
