Lucian had to be close to seventy, Olivia in her sixties. And yet from the look of the photograph, they had not aged a single day in four decades.
I got out my magnifying glass straightaway and inspected the photo closely, thinking I had to be mistaking some other couple for my "old" friends. I then went rummaging about my private archives, flipping through the scrapbooks and photo albums until I managed to locate a picture of Olivia and several of Lucian. But there was no mistake. The couple in Paris was Lucian and Olivia.
I made some discreet inquiries after that. The resulting letters sit before me on my desk. Lucian, Olivia, and Andrew have not been home to Lucian's ancestral castle in many years. They have become avid world travelers, I learned, their life an endless series of cruises and treks to distant lands. I am told Andrew has grown up to be a fine gentleman. After Oxford, where he took firsts in all of his exams, he went off to the Far East. He has not been home to Britain in years.
I have no proof of it, but I think that Lucian and Olivia must have somehow learned of my inquiries, quiet as they were. One day, not long after I'd received the last of the letters reporting that Lucian and the others had vanished into the world, I woke up possessing the stunningly clear memory of the events reported in the previous section of this memoir.
I will not attempt to explain how I knew something that was impossible for me to know, something that must surely strike you, dear reader, as a hallucination. I will only say that the recollection—for that is what it seems to be—is far too detailed to be the product of senile dementia. I can only think that Lucian must have confided to me at Collingsworth, and that either he or Olivia were able to make me "forget." I am unable to explain why the buried memory has only now come to the front of my mind. Perhaps Lucian, realizing I had discovered the truth by independent means, freed the lost fragment, wanting me to understand, at least in my final days, what happened when we were all together that weekend in the country.
There can be no doubt what Cotswold called the "epidemic" was linked to Moore House. From there it probably extended back to Hungary, where Olivia and Andrew had lived for a time. Though I do not know for certain, it is logical to assume that the boy was the start of all the trouble in London. As a child, Andrew would have been incapable of understanding the consequences of his actions. Whether he was personally responsible for any of the deaths—although perhaps he had something to do with the demise of Annie Howard, their servant—I rather much doubt. Instead, I suspect he unwittingly spread the condition to others, who had as much trouble controlling their impulses as the wretched creature that Cotswold beheaded in the cellar of the Vicarage to keep it from killing us all.
I can only assume, judging from their appearances in the photograph, that Lucian and Olivia are, for want of a less hysterical term, vampires. And Andrew, too. Of course, I do not believe Lucian or any of the others is capable of wantonly killing people by draining them of their blood. An English gentleman would not stoop to so foul an act. And since I have heard no more accounts of vampires killing people, I presume there are other quiet, nonlethal ways to accommodate their needs. Perhaps the condition is, as Cotswold believed, a medical condition that can be controlled with careful maintenance.
Yet there is one mystery remaining: Shaftbury.
As I recall, it was Lucian who asked Shaftbury to go for a ride the afternoon of the fatal accident. Shaftbury was a reptilian character, and I always doubted he was truly a gentleman. One can easily imagine the disagreement, with Lucian taking Lady Olivia's side as her protector, against Shaftbury, who wanted to possess the powers of a vampire for himself. Perhaps Shaftbury lashed out at him with his riding crop. Lucian, the best of horsemen, would have easily parried the blow, resulting in Shaftbury taking the unlucky fall that cost him his life.
I am certain Lucian did not murder Shaftbury to protect Olivia—though if not for the timely accident, who can say how things might have turned out? Lord Shaftbury would have made the very worst of vampires.
I have arranged to have these papers locked away by my solicitor until the next century. By then, even Lucian and Olivia will be beyond caring if the world learns the truth about the London Vampire Panic. My other secrets will be burned. There is no point in leaving behind personal correspondence to embarrass surviving husbands and children. I have kept so many letters, written out in delicate feminine hands, tied with ribbons, some still bearing faint traces of perfume. I have so many; burning them all will take days!
My story is ended, but not my life. I may be a hoary old man without much time left, but I am not beyond enjoying certain pleasures. My new Irish cook is not unmindful of the graces a concupiscent and attentive young girl can bestow on an aged man of the world.
And now I put down my pen, its long labor concluded, to wander off toward the kitchen wing. Although the craving comes to me less often than it did when I was a young rake, I still often have an appetite for a delicious slice of peach pie.
The London Vampire Panic Page 25
