The London Vampire Panic

by Michael Romkey

  Whore or not, Mary had gone to her grave as a Catholic. Her hands were folded over her abdomen, in them a crucifix and chain. I wondered how a vampire would deal with that upon awakening. I imagined the monster wouldn't be able to get out of the ground fast enough.

  Dr. Van Helsing came forward with a wooden stake and his mallet, the chief weapons of his arsenal in the battle against the undead.

  "If what you say about vampires is true, how can she stand lying there in what passes for sunlight on a January day, a crucifix in her dead hands?" Professor Cotswold asked.

  "As I said before, the transformation is not always instantaneous," Dr. Van Helsing replied crossly. "The cold weather slows the process. Even as snakes and reptiles become sluggish when the chill winds blow."

  "A reptile? I thought she was a vampire," Cotswold said.

  "Please!" Reverend Clarkson said, squeezing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. "This is trying enough without your insufferable sniping."

  Cotswold kept his mouth shut for once and stared at the ground, chastened.

  "Let's get this finished," Lord Shaftbury said. "We have five more to go and do not need to see how long a job we can make of it. We will all catch our own deaths in this cold."

  The old priest turned away as the vampire hunter positioned the stake over Mary O'Connor's breast. I moved a step closer to watch the face for some sign of reaction that would prove a spark of supernatural life existed in the corpse. Cotswold moved silently forward with me, intent upon the same purpose.

  Dr. Van Helsing brought down the maul with a swift, powerful stroke that took me by surprise. The breast seemed to repeal the stake, but then I realized the woman was frozen solid as a clod. He brought the maul down a second time and made a start of it. It was hard going, like trying to force a knife into frozen beefsteak. When the stake was halfway into Mary O'Connor's breast, the vampire hunter had to stop to remove his overcoat and wipe the sweat off of his brow. He glanced around at us, but no one offered to help with the job.

  "That will do it," Dr. Van Helsing puffed when the job was finally finished, throwing the hammer aside and leaning forward, hands on his knees to recover. "She'll do no harm now." He gulped several deep breaths. "We've saved her soul, Reverend Clarkson."

  The expression on the priest's face had nothing to do with relief.

  "All right, men, let's wrap this up," Palmer said, in a hurry to move on.

  One man shut the coffin lid. He had to force it down against the stake, which stuck up too high, finally succeeding in closing the box by forcing the corpse onto its side. He held the coffin closed while another copper pounded the nails back in. They wrestled the box back into the ground, dropping it with an unceremonious thud, and took up their shovels.

  "One moment, please," Reverend Clarkson said. He had a red Book of Common Prayer in his hands, a gloved finger marking a place in the pages. "We cannot put this poor girl back into the ground without prayer."

  "She has had the funeral rites read once, Reverend," Lord Shaftbury said, stamping his frozen feet.

  "And she has been exhumed, and violated, and now she is about to be buried a second time."

  "She was a Catholic," Shaftbury said, as if that would make a difference to the Church of England priest. I have never objected to Catholics myself, but Shaftbury was a bit of a snob.

  "We are all children of God," Reverend Clarkson said, opening the prayer book, "even this poor woman."

  "Then perhaps it would be wise for some of us to go ahead and begin the next exhumation while you finish up here, Reverend."

  "You and you," Palmer said, pointing to two of the policemen. "You two stay and handle the spade work. When you're finished, bring Reverend Clarkson along to our next stop."

  I turned away as Reverend Clarkson began to read the funeral rite, anxious to get under a rug in my carriage and warm up a little.

  "I am the Resurrection and I am the Life, says the Lord. Whoever has faith in me shall have life, even though he die…"

  Clarkson barely caught up with us by the time we left Eliza Cole. The girl—child, in fact—had not yet been buried. We found her stacked in a shed with two score of other dead, awaiting a thaw so they could be buried communally in a pauper's grave.

  This time even I could not bear to watch as Dr. Van Helsing went about his grim work. I presumed little Eliza would not snarl and claw at the rumpled Hungarian as he pounded the stake into her frozen heart. I had seen evidence of the vampire's subtle violence on the autopsy table, but I had yet to witness anything to support the proposition that a person killed by a vampire could rise from the grave and sally forth like a succubus to suckle on the blood of the living. Perhaps Professor Cotswold's skepticism was not as ill-placed as the rest of us seemed to think.

  Reverend Clarkson said a hasty blessing over the girl and the other departed souls awaiting interment, and accompanied us to Miriam Agar's grave.

  As a brief aside, the next day I sent my porter to the cemetery with the money to see Eliza Cole's body decently and quickly put into the ground. I plead guilty to an unfortunate streak of sentimentality: I could not bear to think of the match girl stacked up like cordwood, only to be dumped into a common pit wearing nothing but a winding sheet.

  Miriam Agar was buried in a smallish Presbyterian cemetery. The autopsy on Miss Agar had been performed by a man named Glyndwr, an alcoholic Welshman. I know this because I later made my own inquiry to learn the pathologist's identity, and used my influence to have the butcher dismissed from his position. Glyndwr's handiwork was crude indeed. He had made no effort to clean up after himself. The interior of the wound, opened even farther than its original extent during the autopsy, was a gaping black cavern in the neck. She had been laid to rest in a hospital sheet, Glyndwr's incisions hastily sewn with coarse black thread in irregular stitches.

  On the ride to Highgate Cemetery, I availed myself quite liberally of the comforts of my flask, finishing off most of the pint. Lady Margaret Burke had been a good friend, and I was not keen to violate her grave or watch Dr. Van Helsing drive a shaft of splintering wood into the heart that once resonated with the Prince of Wales's affection. I did not allow myself to wonder what Bertie would think if he knew of our visitation to his lover's grave. A prince, one day a king, is not someone one wishes to have as an enemy.

  Margaret had been put to her final rest in the Burke family mausoleum. The sexton unlocked the doors. A marble plaque inscribed with the dates of her birth and death barred the way to the wall crypt in which her coffin was entombed.

  The sexton instructed the policemen on how to remove the bolts holding the slab in place without damaging it.

  "Mind you don't drop it," he warned. "It is monstrous heavy and will shatter if it falls."

  Palmer pushed the man to the door so we could begin.

  Two of the policemen braced the stone in place while the others removed the bolts. It nearly fell when it came free, but with Lucian's and my help we managed to get it on the floor in one piece. I thought of how Margaret's eyes used to dance with wicked delight and had to turn away. I could not force myself to stay and witness the deed.

  Annie Howard's final resting place was but a short walk away. Lady Olivia Moore had paid to have her servant buried in good style in a section of Highgate, where she would be surrounded for all eternity by her betters. Half drunk and more than half frozen, I numbly followed the others, leaning against a marble statue of a grievous angel as the others gathered silently around the grave. The strain of knowing what they'd done to Margaret, the exhaustion of being out in the cold all day, the cognac—all of these things slowed my mind to the point that it was nearly a minute before I realized that the earth heaped up around the grave was not the handiwork of the four stout policemen. Someone or something else was responsible for opening Annie Howard's grave. I walked stiffly forward and peered into the gaping hole in the frozen earth. The coffin was open. It was also empty. Annie Howard's body was inexplicably gone.
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br />   "We are too late," Dr. Van Helsing said. "She has made the change. Annie Howard has become a vampire."

  I looked at Cotswold, who seemed to be very surprised and very angry, all at the same time.

  "What now?" Lord Shaftbury asked. "Should we wait for her to return and destroy her then?"

  "There is no reason for us to remain here," the vampire hunter said. "She has abandoned this grave for another, taking a handful of dirt to put in whatever coffin she crawled into when the sun came up today. She has made a nest for herself somewhere in London. Perhaps she is with the vampire who transformed her into one of the undead. If she is alone, she will not remain so for long. Vampires beget vampires. That is why we must redouble our efforts and wipe them out before they gain more of a foothold in London."

  "But how can we find her?" Lucian asked.

  "That will be easy," Van Helsing said, looking at the young man as if he pitied his naivete. "We need only wait for the killing to continue."

  * * *

  9

  Moore House

  THE SITTING ROOM at Moore House was a place where two worlds collided. Atop a British background of heavy furniture, wainscoting, and draperies was a layer of Indian culture, tropical and exotic. The room was as filled with ferns as a jungle clearing, their drooping green arms partly concealing ancient statues of Krishna and the Buddha. Above the fireplace were displayed crossed elephant tusks, the ivory intricately carved with scenes from the Veda. An ornately carved teak chest with brass hinges served as a table in front of the sofa. The glass doors of a curio cabinet enclosed enough miniature bronze gods and goddesses to populate a Hindu heaven, all manner of lotus blossoms, knives, and skulls waving in their supernumerary arms.

  These were the relics of Sir Brendan's years in India. His first wife, Delia, had gotten him started collecting native statues. She died of fever, leaving her young husband with an infant daughter to care for, a baby who had grown into the lovely Lady Olivia Moore. In the parlor corner was a magnificent new grand piano. In my mind I saw Lady Moore at the opera, seated next to Franz Liszt. The grand piano was most likely hers. I wondered if Liszt had been to Moore House to play it—to play her. The possibility filled me with irrational jealousy.

  Our committee had repaired to Moore House to continue its infernal inquiries. There were concerns the vampire Annie Howard, so notoriously missing from her Highgate grave, might return to the house, seeking shelter or, in the service of some less benign motive, putting Lady Olivia and the household in jeopardy. Dr. Van Helsing also wanted to question the Magyar who served the family as nurse to Sir Brendan's son, Andrew.

  Though Cotswold remained immovably stubborn on the subject, I felt foolish for having doubted Dr. Van Helsing. His dark predictions had been proven true. At least two vampires—Annie and her "parent"—and maybe more, were roaming London, turning the city into a monstrous hunting ground for creatures possessed with an unholy thirst for blood.

  After a hot supper—and many cups of black coffee for me—we went to call on Lady Olivia, there being no time to waste. The butler admitted us to the sitting room. The committee was present that evening in full force: Lord Shaftbury, our leader; Captain Lucian; the Reverend Clarkson; C.I. Palmer; Professor Cotswold; Dr. Van Helsing; and myself.

  Sir Brendan and I had known one another when I was a young physician and he was still Brendan without the sir. He had been a-subaltern in the Foreign Service in those days, starting his career in Bombay. As for me, I had gone to India for my health. The husband of a woman I'd seduced wished to kill me with a dueling pistol. Since the cuckold was a crack shot, I decided my continued well-being was contingent upon a prolonged tour of the Subcontinent. I repaired to India to hunt tigers and visit its exotic brothels, meeting Brendan and the sadly virtuous Delia on my travels. By the time I returned to London, the offended party had moved his bride and his dueling weapons to Canada, never again to return, thank God.

  When Lady Olivia came into the room to greet the committee that night, it was as if the sun itself had been awakened to dispel the cold winter night. She floated into the center of the room as elegantly as any princess, and yet her eyes were modestly lowered, as if aware of the effect her body had—as perfectly proportioned as an idealized Greek statue—on the men attending her. She had the kind of radiance that would lead artists to forego commissions for the honor of painting her face. She had an aristocratic forehead, large eyes, delicious cherry lips, and translucent skin. Her long auburn tresses were swept up on her head. By gad, she was a stunner! Though she was still mourning her father and stepmother, black only made her appear even more elegant.

  The butler, Ballantine, was dispatched for the sherry decanter and glasses.

  "My condolences on the deaths of your father and his wife, Lady Moore," I said.

  "May we all say how shocked and sorry we were," Lord Shaftbury said. "It was a terrible crime and a distressing loss."

  "They are in a better place now," she said with a sad smile. "Do you have news of the people responsible?"

  "I am afraid we are here on other business," Shaftbury said.

  Olivia nodded, a little disappointed, then turned her attention on me.

  "You were a friend of my father's, Dr. Blackley."

  "I am honored he thought enough of me to tell you about our friendship. We were out in India together many years ago." I nearly told her about holding her when she was just a baby, but thought better of emphasizing to her the difference in our ages.

  "Father told me about the tiger you shot."

  "Oh, that," I said, remembering the beastly episode. "I assure you it was hardly as grand as it sounds."

  "You were very brave, he said."

  "To be perfectly honest, I was terrified." Which was the perfect truth. I had been terrified. "A tiger isn't afraid of a man with a powerful rifle, even if he's perched atop an elephant. A Bengal will go straight up the elephant to get at the man, if he puts his mind to it."

  "My father and Dr. Blackley volunteered to track down a man-eater that had been terrorizing the village near an estate where they had gone bird shooting," Lady Moore said, telling my story to the others, which was just as well, for I would never have told it. "The tiger had killed—how many natives was it, Dr. Blackley?"

  "Six," I said, remembering how my fear had grown each of the six times the beast crept into the village to drag away another screaming victim. Brendan and I were safe enough in our bedrooms at the local Maharaja's place, though I slept with a revolver under my pillow. It was a miracle I managed not to shoot myself while asleep—or one of the servants. Every time I heard some unidentified night sound, I was convinced it was the tiger, coming for me. I pointed the revolver at my houseboy so many times that he was terrified to come into my room and help me dress.

  "The villagers were in a state of complete terror," Lady Moore said. "No one was brave enough to kill the beast."

  "Oh, they were brave enough," I said, "they just didn't have the firepower. As for volunteering to do the deed, your father and I didn't have a choice but to kill the blighter. Everybody looked up to great white bwana to save them. Besides, it was either that or lie in bed every night, wondering if it would be our turn next to die."

  "Dr. Blackley shot the tiger between the eyes as the creature leapt at them."

  Pleasant as it was to have the others looking at me with admiration—which was due as much to Lady Olivia's clear admiration for me as the trumped-up story about my exploits—it was anything but enjoyable to remember the episode. When the tiger jumped out of the bamboo thicket, the muscles in my right hand reflexively contracted, firing the fatal shot. Hitting the beast was the dumbest kind of luck.

  "It was a lucky shot," I said with complete and utterly uncharacteristic honesty.

  Lady Olivia turned back toward Lord Shaftbury. "But if you are not here about my father, you must be here on account of Annie Howard."

  "You are as intelligent as you are lovely," Lord Shaftbury replied.

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nbsp; "You believe her death is connected with the vampire murders."

  Cotswold looked at me and raised an eyebrow, though I had no idea what was going through his head.

  "And what do you know about that, Lady Olivia?" Palmer asked.

  "Only what I have overheard the servants whisper. The vampire is almost the only thing the servants in Mayfair are talking about these days. I doubt I could find a maid in this part of London brave enough to attend to a simple errand after dark. Perhaps that is for the best, with a killer loose."

  I found myself nodding.

  "But a vampire—who except the uneducated could believe in such nonsense, gentlemen?" she said with a smile.

  "Then you do not believe a vampire is responsible for Annie Howard's death?" Cotswold asked, triumphant to have found another skeptic.

  Olivia started to laugh, but quickly covered her lovely mouth with a dainty hand. "I do apologize, Professor Cotswold. This is no laughing matter. But do I think a vampire killed poor Annie and the others? Stuff and nonsense. Surely you do not believe such creatures exist."

  "No, ma'am, I don't. But you saw the puncture wounds in Annie Howard's neck."

  Lady Moore's grief came to the surface for a moment. She looked down at the floor and took in an uneven breath, as women sometimes do just before they begin to cry. Lucian took a step toward her as if in comfort. By the look of him he was as taken by her as the rest of us. But Olivia did not lose her composure. When she looked up at us again, she had gathered together the formidable powers of her breeding.

  "I do not have an explanation for what happened to the poor girl. Still, it seems to me believing a vampire was responsible for her death is hardly the most likely explanation. Certainly creatures of the imagination—dragons and unicorns and other such fancies—have no real influence on the world in which we live."

  "The vampire is not a mythical creature, Your Ladyship," Dr. Van Helsing said. "I have seen evidence of his evil work in my homeland."