Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter

by Nancy Atherton

  “Me, too.” Bill sighed wistfully. “It’s barely seven o’clock, and we’re already talking about going to bed. We must be getting old.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said, “as long as we get old together.”

  “That’s the plan,” said Bill, sounding more cheerful.

  “There is one thing you should know, though.” I turned away from the kitchen door and lowered my voice. “We have to buy Annelise a new car.”

  There was a long pause before Bill asked resignedly, “What happened to Annelise’s car, Lori? You didn’t drive it into a ditch by any chance, did you?”

  “No, I did not drive it into a ditch,” I responded indignantly. I’d driven my car into a ditch once, and even though I’d been the innocent victim of an ice-covered road and a sharp bend, my husband had always chosen to believe that my bad driving had caused the accident. “I don’t make a habit of driving cars into ditches, Bill.”

  “What happened to Annelise’s car, Lori?” he asked again.

  “Potholes,” I replied. “I hit some really nasty potholes while I was driving it this afternoon. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “They must have been nasty if we have to replace the car,” Bill observed. “Where were you driving?”

  “Near Mr. Malvern’s farm,” I said, as truthfully as I could. “I went down a lane I’d never explored before, and suddenly I was surrounded by potholes. The car made some really strange noises when I finally got it out of there. It’ll probably cost less to replace than to repair.” I heaved a remorseful sigh. “I’m sorry, Bill. If I’d known how bad the lane would be, I wouldn’t have driven up it.”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Annelise’s car has reached its sell-by date anyway. I was planning to replace it, as a wedding present. I’m sure she won’t mind getting it a few months early.”

  “You are the nicest man on earth,” I said fondly.

  “I am, aren’t I?” Bill marveled. He paused, as if he were contemplating the awe-inspiring magnitude of his niceness, then chuckled softly and asked, “What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?”

  “Kit and I are going to see a historic house,” I said, hoping that Bill wouldn’t ask which one. “It’ll give him another excuse to get away from the stables and me another whack at convincing him to marry Nell.”

  “Good luck,” said Bill.

  “Luck,” I observed loftily, “will have nothing to do with it. Matchmaking is a finely honed skill.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes, and by the time we rang off, the last vestiges of atavistic terror had left me. The dishwasher was humming, my sons were making dinosaur noises in the living room, and my husband was casting aspersions on my driving. Everything was back to normal. What had seemed eerily believable in the flickering firelight at Hilltop Farm seemed utterly ludicrous in my well-lit and well-lived-in cottage.

  “If I’m going to worry about something,” I murmured, “I’ll worry about something real—like finding a car that doesn’t sound as if I’ve dropped a box of wrenches under the hood.”

  Bill’s offer to buy Annelise a new car was nothing short of princely, but it didn’t solve my immediate transportation problem. Annelise needed the Range Rover to ferry the twins hither and yon, and however tempting it was to use Nell’s rich young suitors as my personal chauffeurs, I didn’t want to be dependent on their goodwill. I needed a set of wheels of my own.

  I picked up the telephone and called Mr. Barlow. The local handyman enjoyed tinkering with cars and usually had a few fixer-uppers parked behind his cottage. As soon as I explained my situation to him, he offered to loan me a Morris Mini he’d just finished repairing. I knew that Bill would rib me endlessly when he found out what I was driving, because the car I’d put into a ditch had also been a Morris Mini, but it seemed a small price to pay for mobility.

  “That’d be great, Mr. Barlow,” I said. “Do you think you could drop it off at Anscombe Manor tomorrow? I can get a lift there from Annelise in the morning—she’ll be taking the twins to the stables for their Saturday trail ride—but I’ll need the Mini later on, when I’m ready to come home.”

  “No problem,” said Mr. Barlow. “Where have you been keeping yourself, Lori?” he went on conversationally. “Haven’t seen you in the village for ages.”

  “I was at the Guy Fawkes Day committee meeting yesterday,” I said, taken aback.

  “Were you?” he said. “You must have been keeping your head down—a wise thing to do when Peggy Taxman’s in charge. Did you stay for tea and buns afterwards?”

  “No,” I said. “I had to get home.”

  “Well, don’t be in such a hurry to leave next time,” Mr. Barlow scolded. “I miss our little chats. I’ll drop the Mini off at Anscombe Manor by noon tomorrow.”

  I thanked him, said good night, and hung up. I was bemused by his comment regarding our little chats. I didn’t think it had been “ages” since he and I had enjoyed a tête-à-tête, but perhaps it had seemed like ages to him. He was, after all, an old man living on his own. I made a mental note to visit him soon, then turned to the next item on the evening’s agenda.

  I called Annelise into the kitchen, to give her the bad news as well as the good news about her car. She accepted both calmly—Annelise was preternaturally unflappable—but when I described the exact location of the potholes, she folded her arms and surveyed me disapprovingly.

  “Why were you going to Lizzie Black’s?” she asked.

  “Who’s Lizzie Black?” I responded artlessly.

  “She’s a crackbrained old crone who believes in all sorts of outlandish nonsense,” Annelise replied, “and she lives at the end of the lane you say you were exploring. Did someone in the village tell you about her?” She raised an eyebrow. “Did someone in Finch tell you to ask Lizzie Black about vampires?”

  “Why would I ask anyone about vampires?” I said with a tolerant smile.

  “Because you’ve been looking for reasons to fret about Rob and Will ever since they started school,” she replied. “If it’s not chlorine gas, it’s measles. After what they told us the other night, I’m willing to bet my wedding dress that you’ve worked yourself into a lather about Rendor, the Destroyer of Souls.”

  “I haven’t worked myself into a—” I began, but Annelise silenced me with an impatient cluck.

  “Let me tell you about Lizzie Black, Lori,” she said. “My youngest brother, Tony, bumped into her while she was collecting berries in the woods, and do you know what she told him?”

  “No,” I said.

  “She sat Tony down on a tree stump and told him all about the Butterfly Man,” said Annelise. “Sounds sweet, doesn’t it? Harmless?”

  “Butterflies don’t exactly fill me with terror,” I admitted.

  “Just wait.” Annelise’s voice took on a sugary, singsong quality, as if she were telling a fairy tale to a young child. “The Butterfly Man catches little children in his net and takes them to his dark house in the forest. When he gets them inside, he pins them to a board and drops camphor on their heads until they’re dead.” Annelise flung her hands into the air. “Tony was eight years old, Lori! He believed every word that mad old biddy said! It took us the longest time to figure out why he was afraid to leave the house, but when we did, Mum went up to Hilltop Farm to have a word with Lizzie. And do you know what Lizzie told Mum?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Lizzie told my mother that she’d better watch out for the Butterfly Man or he’d pin her to one of his boards!” Annelise shook her head. “Lizzie’s barking, Lori, daft as a brush, and she enjoys frightening gullible people. You shouldn’t get mixed up with her.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I have one for you, too. The twins may have embroidered their story the other night, but I have reason to believe that they saw someone in the woods on Sunday. Kit and I reexamined the ground today and found footprints up there.”

  Annelise’s eyebrows rose.

  “Kit
’s putting the stable hands on high alert,” I went on, “and I’d like you to keep a close watch on the boys while you’re at Anscombe Manor tomorrow. Not that you don’t always keep an eye on them, but—”

  “I won’t let Will and Rob out of my sight,” Annelise stated firmly. She would have said more, but a shuddering yawn interrupted her.

  “Why don’t you turn in?” I suggested. “I’ll take the boys upstairs and get them settled.”

  “All right,” she said, suppressing another yawn. “I don’t know why I’m so tired. It must be the weather.”

  “It’s dreary enough to make anyone tired,” I agreed.

  Annelise went up to her room and I went to the living room to round up the twins. As I shepherded them upstairs, I kept thinking about Lizzie Black and the Butterfly Man. I couldn’t imagine why Aunt Dimity had encouraged me to pay attention to someone who was so clearly out of touch with reality. Perhaps, I thought, Lizzie had misplaced a few marbles since Aunt Dimity had known her.

  By half past eight, Annelise and the boys were in bed and asleep, and I was seated in the high-backed leather armchair before the fire in the study, with the blue journal open in my lap and Reginald nestled in the crook of my arm. Stanley had elected to spend the night with Will and Rob.

  “Aunt Dimity?” I said. “I went to Hilltop Farm. I met Lizzie Black.”

  Aunt Dimity’s fine copperplate curled instantly across the page. Would she speak with you?

  “Yes,” I said, “after I told her that I was your best friend’s daughter.”

  Your mother would be pleased to know that she’d smoothed the way for you. Did Lizzie tell you about the DuCarals?

  “She told me that they were Dracula’s cousins, Dimity.” I giggled. “If she read Bram Stoker’s novel, she must have mistaken it for history rather than fiction. According to her, the DuCarals drank the blood of orphaned housemaids until the supply dried up—so to speak. Now they live on deer’s blood. I guess good help really is hard to find these days.” I stifled a gurgle of laughter and tried to sound more sympathetic. “I’m sorry, Dimity. I know that Lizzie was your friend, but she’s become rather eccentric in her old age. Annelise called her a crackbrained old crone,” I added gently.

  Elderly women who live on their own are often ridiculed, Lori. Did you think her crackbrained?

  “No,” I admitted candidly. “When she talked about the way she lives, she sounded perfectly sane, if a bit fed up with the human race. And when she talked about the other stuff, about the bloodsucking DuCarals and the unmarked graves at Aldercot Hall, I sort of…got caught up in it. She’s a convincing storyteller, Dimity, and her farmhouse is…atmospheric. It was easy to fall under her spell. But once I got home, I snapped out of it and realized that she was spouting nonsense.”

  Bram Stoker was a convincing storyteller, too, because he did extensive research before writing his novel. He based his fictional Count Dracula on the historical figure of Vlad the Impaler, a Romanian ruler who lived in the fifteenth century.

  “Yes, but his Dracula was still fictional,” I pointed out. “Fictional characters don’t have cousins living in the Cotswolds.”

  I know they don’t, Lori. I’m merely suggesting that Lizzie’s story, like Mr. Stoker’s, may contain a kernel of truth. Why are the DuCarals associated with bizarre tales of unnatural monsters and unmarked graves? Why do they keep their neighbors at bay? Why are they so reluctant to welcome visitors? Are they perhaps hiding something—or someone—at Aldercot Hall?

  A shiver slithered down my spine like a slowly melting ice cube. I stiffened in my chair and tightened my grip on the blue journal as I asked, “What do you mean?”

  I don’t wish to upset you.

  “Too late,” I said. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, I’m already upset. So tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Very well. I’m thinking of the man who shot you. His family knew that he was a murderous madman, but instead of turning him in to the proper authorities, they shielded him, protected him, locked him away in a private institution from which he ultimately escaped. What if a similar scenario is being played out at Aldercot Hall?

  I lifted my eyes from the curving lines of royal-blue ink and stared into the fire uneasily. Aunt Dimity’s thoughts corresponded almost too closely with my own. I’d already suggested to Kit that the footprints and the scrap of crimson silk we’d found on Emma’s Hill might have been left there by a man with a vampire fixation. What if the man wasn’t a guest at Aldercot Hall but a member of the DuCaral family? What if the family knew that he was insane but kept him under lock and key in the hall instead of in an institution?

  “You could be right,” I said, looking down at the journal. “The DuCarals might be shielding a killer. Lizzie told me that someone was murdered at Aldercot Hall, not in the dim and distant past but forty years ago. She said the murder was never reported to the police.”

  I doubt that the DuCarals would report a murder that had been committed by one of their own. The crime would draw the family into the public eye and destroy their privacy forever.

  “So instead of calling the police and having Rendor carted away to an asylum, they put him under house arrest, buried the victim’s body in an unmarked grave, and isolated themselves completely from the rest of the world, to keep others from discovering what they were hiding behind closed doors—what they’re still hiding behind closed doors. Bloody hell, Dimity…” Tears of frustration pricked my eyes, but I blinked them away impatiently. “We’re not dealing with another Abaddon, are we? Does every wealthy family in England have a homicidal maniac locked in the attic?”

  I sincerely doubt it, Lori. But the DuCarals might. I suggest that you find out. If history is repeating itself, the madman has found a way out of the attic.

  “Maybe Lizzie caught a glimpse of him in the woods, in his vampire regalia,” I said wonderingly. “Maybe he’s the kernel of truth in Lizzie’s story.”

  It’s possible.

  I wrinkled my nose, perplexed. “But the footprints led me and Kit to Aldercot Hall. Why would Rendor go back there if he knew his family would lock him up again?”

  Rendor may be slipping in and out of Aldercot Hall without his family’s knowledge.

  “That does it,” I declared, smacking my hand on the arm of the chair and nearly dropping Reginald on his snout. “I’m not having another lunatic stalk my sons. I’m calling the police right now.”

  You’re getting ahead of yourself, Lori. The police don’t respond to speculation, and speculation is all you have to offer them at the moment. We don’t know for certain that a murder ever took place at Aldercot Hall, or that the DuCarals are harboring a criminal, or that a disturbed member of the family is currently stalking Will and Rob. Unless you can substantiate your claims with hard evidence, the police won’t listen to a word you have to say. Given your recent history, one can hardly blame them.

  Although I’d said much the same thing to Kit when he’d suggested calling in the police, I was too angry to view the situation rationally.

  “What should I do, then?” I demanded. “Tear Aldercot Hall apart with my bare hands?”

  The destruction of private property would certainly attract the attention of the police, but not in a way you would find helpful. If you wish to conduct a successful investigation of the goings-on at Aldercot Hall, you must first calm down.

  It was sound advice. The DuCarals would undoubtedly set the dogs on me if I showed up on their doorstep breathing fire, so I relaxed my grip on the blue journal and rubbed my cheek against Reginald’s ears until the red mist before my eyes dissipated.

  “All right,” I said finally. “I’m calm.”

  You must remain so when you and Kit visit Aldercot Hall. While there, look for evidence that supports Lizzie’s story. See how many kernels of truth you can glean. There may be more than you expect.

  “But I should focus on the murder, shouldn’t I?” I asked.

  You should gather a
s much information about the DuCarals as you can. If a member of the family died accidentally, or of natural causes, and the family chose not to report it, there’s no reason for you to be unduly alarmed for your sons’ safety. If, on the other hand, a passing stranger was killed in a savage attack and the family chose to cover it up…

  “Then I’ll have something to take to the police,” I said grimly.

  Speak with the servants if you can, Lori. There’s no better source of information than a chatty servant.

  “I know how to handle chatty servants,” I said.

  Do you? Apart from an occasional committee meeting, you haven’t spent much time in Finch lately, honing your news-gathering skills. I’m afraid you may be losing your edge.

  “I’m not losing my edge,” I said, stung by Aunt Dimity’s lack of faith in me. “I’ve just been more interested in what the boys are doing at school than in what Peggy Taxman is doing with the greengrocer’s shop in Finch. Don’t worry, Dimity. I’ll get the skinny on the DuCarals.”

  Please remember, Lori, that the DuCarals are not fond of visitors. You must approach them with great delicacy. If you find it difficult to keep your temper in check, you must allow Kit to do the talking. His charm is irresistible.

  “Right,” I said. “And while Kit keeps them occupied, I’ll run upstairs and break into the attic.”

  I do hope you’re being facetious, Lori.

  “I am,” I said, with a wry smile. “I’ll be on my best behavior tomorrow, Dimity. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open and my mouth shut.”

  There’s a first time for everything, I suppose. I’ll be very interested to hear what you discover.

  “I’ll keep you informed,” I promised.

  I know you will. Run along to bed, now. You’ve had a busy day, and I suspect that tomorrow will be even busier.

  “Good night, Dimity,” I said.

  Good night, my dear.

  I waited until Aunt Dimity’s handwriting had vanished from the page, then closed the journal, but instead of returning it to its shelf, I gazed down at its blue cover reflectively.