Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter

by Nancy Atherton

  “Excuse me,” I said. “May I use the restroom?”

  “Of course,” said Charlotte. “It’s at the opposite end of the corridor from the staircase, on the right.”

  “Please don’t wait for me,” I told her, getting to my feet. “I may be a while.”

  “Take your time, dear,” she said.

  I could feel Kit’s suspicious gaze follow me out of the room, but I chose to ignore it. After closing the door behind me and making sure that I had the corridor to myself, I took off my slippers and held them in one hand while I hiked up my kimono with the other. Then I ran full-tilt for the lavatory. I planned to use it as speedily as nature would allow, because I also planned to make a small excursion before I returned to the music room.

  If Kit was unhappy about being left alone with our inquisitive hostess, he had only himself to blame. Since he refused to stay overnight at Aldercot Hall and since I refused to stay overnight there without him, I had no choice but to make the most of today’s visit. If I didn’t dash up to the attic right then, I reasoned, I might never have another chance.

  “I won’t break down the door, Dimity,” I muttered. “But I can’t leave Aldercot Hall without trying the handle.”

  Fifteen

  Charlotte DuCaral might not be the monster I’d imagined her to be, but I hadn’t yet given up on her mysteriously missing brother. I had to find out if she was hiding the young master behind the attic’s boarded windows, and in order to do that, I had to go to the attic.

  Although my day pack—with its specialized contents—was inaccessible in the kitchen, I wasn’t wholly unprepared to deal with a potentially violent pseudovampire on my own. Before I left the lavatory, I pulled Lizzie Black’s rowanberry necklace from beneath my kimono and let it fall in plain sight upon my breast. Wearing the necklace might not be as effective as threatening the young master with a stake, but I figured that if push came to shove, it would buy me enough time to escape the attic with all my veins intact.

  “It doesn’t matter whether I believe in it or not,” I said, my voice echoing from the lavatory’s tiled walls, “as long as he does.”

  My feet were absolutely freezing by the time I left the lavatory, but they warmed up when I sprinted back down the corridor. I slowed my pace as I approached the music room, tiptoed stealthily past the door, then took off again at full speed, hoping to reach the attic before Mr. Bellamy returned to retrieve the tea trolley. I didn’t think Charlotte would notice my absence. She seemed far more interested in Kit than she was in me.

  I paused at the end of the corridor to listen for the telltale squeaking of Mr. Bellamy’s leather shoes, but I heard only the distant drumming of rain on the porch’s roof. Reassured, I darted onto the staircase, wincing as my feet came into contact with the frigid marble.

  Again I paused, this time to peer upward. Since I didn’t have a flashlight, I was relieved to see a weak golden glow above me in the otherwise impenetrable gloom. I remembered the wall sconce that had guided our steps in the entrance hall and guessed that Mr. Bellamy left a handful of sconces on at all times, like night-lights, to illuminate the stairs. After all, I told myself, Miss Charlotte would want to visit the attic, as would poor deluded Jacqueline, though for very different reasons.

  My impulse was to take the stairs two at a time, but the lighting was so poor that I forced myself to climb at a measured pace. I didn’t want to risk falling, not only because I might hurt myself but because I might drop the slippers. If anything would end my private tour of Aldercot Hall prematurely, it would be the sound of those ridiculous pointy heels clattering down the stairs.

  The marble staircase ended at the third-floor landing, where, as I had predicted, a wall sconce like the one in the entrance hall glimmered faintly in the darkness. I was at a loss as to where to turn next until I caught sight of another sconce shedding a soft pool of light halfway down the corridor on my left.

  I sprinted to the pool of light and cautiously opened the doors nearest it. The first three opened onto empty, echoing chambers that might once have been used as bedrooms.

  “Why hang blackout drapes in empty rooms?” I muttered as I closed the third door. Then I shivered as the answer came to me.

  Since the bedrooms, like the entrance hall, contained no carpeting or upholstery, the drapes hadn’t been hung to protect precious fabrics from the sun’s harmful rays. Blackout drapes had been hung throughout Aldercot Hall in order to protect someone who couldn’t bear the touch of sunlight on his skin because he lived his life as though he were a vampire. It was the only rational explanation.

  The fourth door opened onto a flight of wooden stairs leading upward. In a house like Aldercot, wooden steps signaled behind-the-scenes rooms meant for servants rather than guests.

  “The attic,” I breathed, and the chill that gripped my heart had nothing to do with the unheated corridor. Will’s drawing had flashed into my mind unbidden, and I knew that if I closed my eyes, I would see the crimson tips of Rendor’s vicious fangs as clearly as if the drawing were in my hand. But I didn’t dare close my eyes.

  The feeling of dread that trickled through me was so unnerving that I might have had second thoughts about tackling the young master on my own if I hadn’t suddenly recalled Kit’s plan to fend off Henrietta with my slippers. I promptly placed one slipper on the floor of the corridor and gripped the other like a hammer, with the heel pointed away from me. I was pretty sure that no one had ever confronted Count Dracula armed with nothing more than a string of dried berries and a fluffy slipper, but they were the only weapons I had to hand, and I was fully prepared to use them.

  Emboldened, I lifted my kimono clear of my feet and started up the wooden stairs. No light fixture had been mounted in the staircase, but my eyes had become so accustomed to the darkness by then that the faint glow from the corridor was all I needed to see the vague outline of the door at the top of the steps.

  I held my breath as I crept closer to the door, afraid that the slightest sound would give me away. If a stair had creaked, I would have shrieked loudly enough to shatter windows in Finch, but fortunately the staircase was solidly built.

  The sense of dread that had chilled my heart at the bottom of the stairs became stronger with every upward step I took. I felt as if I were caught in a countdown to a terrible explosion from which there was no turning back. When I finally reached the door, it took every ounce of courage I possessed to release my kimono and place a cold and shaking hand upon the doorknob. I raised the feathered slipper, ready to strike, grasped the doorknob firmly, and discovered that it wouldn’t turn.

  I tried turning it in the other direction, with the same result. I placed the slipper on the top stair and wrapped both hands tightly around the doorknob, but no matter how I tugged and twisted, it refused to budge. After a few seconds of futile struggle, I groped furiously for my slipper, found it, and was on the verge of beating the doorknob into submission when I heard a sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

  A floorboard had creaked on the other side of the door. Someone was in the attic.

  I stood paralyzed with terror, expecting the young master to fling the door open at any moment and drag me into his den of iniquity, but nothing happened. The door didn’t open, the young master didn’t appear, and I wasn’t dragged anywhere.

  Slowly, with infinite care, I pressed my ear to the door, but although I listened with all my might, I heard nothing. I was beginning to think that I’d imagined the floorboard’s creak when the blood-chilling truth struck home: The young master had his ear pressed to the door, too. His face was mere inches from mine. If I put my nose to the keyhole, I would probably smell his rancid breath.

  My courage evaporated. I grabbed the hem of my kimono and fled. I ran down the wooden stairs, snatched my other slipper from the floor, and kept running until I reached the door to the music room, where I tucked the rowanberry necklace inside my kimono and shoved my feet into my slippers. It took a little longer t
o pull my heart out of my throat, but I eventually managed to calm down enough to present a relatively tranquil face to Kit and Charlotte.

  My tranquillity was short-lived, however, because the sight that met my eyes when I entered the music room sent my heart back into my throat. Kit appeared to be wiping a smear of blood from his lips, and Charlotte seemed to have drops of blood on her fingertips.

  “What are you eating?” I blurted, aghast.

  “Hello, Lori,” said Charlotte, turning her head to look at me. “It’s a treat from my nursery days.” She held up a dish of cookies that looked like little flying saucers leaking blood. “Jammy biscuits.”

  “They’re filled with Mrs. Harcourt’s homemade raspberry jam,” said Kit. “Delicious.”

  “If a bit messy,” said Charlotte, smiling down at her fingers.

  “Jam,” I repeated breathlessly. “Raspberry jam.”

  “Won’t you try one?” Charlotte asked.

  I waited until my pulse slowed from a gallop to a walk, then crossed the room and sank weakly into my chair.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m not hungry. I don’t think Mrs. Harcourt’s sausages agreed with me.”

  “They can be a bit of a trial,” Charlotte said sympathetically. “I may be old-fashioned, but I find that Mrs. Harcourt is rather heavy-handed with the garlic.”

  A passion for garlic might explain Henrietta’s ruddy complexion as well as the absence of bite marks on her neck, I told myself.

  “May I offer you a cup of tea?” said Charlotte, setting the jammy biscuits aside. “It’s still hot.”

  “Yes, please,” I said fervently, hoping that a hot drink would chase off the chill I’d brought with me from my close encounter with the creature in the attic.

  Once I’d sipped enough tea to still my chattering teeth, I began to take an interest in the other items on the trolley. Apart from the bleeding biscuits, which I had no intention of ever trying as long as I lived, there were petits fours, brandy snaps, chocolate eclairs, ladyfingers, and Eccles cakes, but I concentrated on the crustless sandwiches, sampling the watercress, the smoked salmon, and the deviled egg in turn.

  “You seem to be feeling better,” Kit observed dryly.

  “Tea is a powerful restorative,” I said. “What did you two talk about while I was gone?”

  “Kit was telling me of the many difficulties you encountered during your most unfortunate walk,” said Charlotte. “You must have been relieved when he kept you from tumbling into the river.”

  “I was,” I said, realizing at once that Kit had been having a little fun at my expense while I’d been away, to repay me for leaving him with Charlotte.

  “And you must have been so very grateful when he caught the branch that was about to fall on you,” said Charlotte.

  “I was relieved and grateful,” I agreed, nodding earnestly.

  “And if he hadn’t pushed you to the ground when the lightning struck,” said Charlotte, “heaven knows what might have happened.”

  “It wouldn’t have been pretty,” I said.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” said Charlotte, “but I’m forced to agree with Kit. It was ill-advised of you to propose an outing in such inclement weather.”

  “Yes, it was incredibly stupid of me, wasn’t it?” I said. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “When Bellamy informed me of your unexpected arrival,” Charlotte went on, “I thought you might be the campers responsible for the column of smoke I saw rising above the hills yesterday.”

  I popped a last bite of smoked salmon into my mouth and waited for Kit to tell Charlotte how he’d put out the forest fire I’d started after he’d saved me from the river, the falling branch, and the lightning bolt, but she’d evidently hit upon a subject they hadn’t yet discussed, because he responded truthfully for a change.

  “No,” he said, “that wasn’t us. There’s a man camping in Gypsy Hollow, in a small caravan. Lori and I had lunch with him yesterday.”

  “He’s absolutely charming,” I said. “He’s spent most of his adult life in Australia, but he lived around here when he was younger. His name is Leo, and he was so kind to Kit and me, and so funny.” I looked at Kit and grinned. “Remember his story about the sheep shearing contest and the…” My voice trailed off when the expression on Kit’s face changed from one of amusement to one of deep concern.

  “Charlotte?” Kit asked. “Are you all right?”

  I looked at Charlotte. She looked as though she’d seen a ghost. Her mouth had fallen open, and she’d gone white to the lips. Although she blinked slowly, her breathing was too fast, and she swayed on the couch, as though she were going to faint. She looked so dazed that Kit and I both started forward with our arms outstretched to catch her before she hit the floor. When she managed to stay upright, we sat back, exchanging looks of utter bewilderment.

  “Charlotte?” Kit said again. “Would you like me to fetch Mr. Bellamy?”

  “I’m…I’m perfectly well,” she said, though there was a distinct tremor in her voice. “Lori? Did you say that the man’s name is…Leo?”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  “How old is he?” she asked.

  Kit and I looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Sixty?” I guessed. “Give or take a few years.”

  Charlotte pressed a trembling hand to her lips, rose from the couch, and walked stiffly to the fireplace. She stood in silence for a moment, staring down at the porcelain shepherd on the mantelshelf. Then she lifted the delicate figurine from the shelf and held it level with her eyes.

  “The man’s eyes,” she said, with her back to us. “Are they blue?”

  “Yes,” I replied, mystified.

  “Bright blue?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said again. “They twinkle.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she whispered. The nape of her neck flushed red, and she began to speak in jerky spurts, as though she were choked by a fury so intense that she could barely get the words out. “The nerve…show his face…after he…My father would have…Unforgivable…All these years…How dare he? How dare he?”

  Although I couldn’t see her face, I could hear her spittle sizzling on the grate and almost feel the waves of rage radiating from her. With a sudden, savage movement, she hurled the shepherd into the fire, where it shattered into a million tiny fragments. Kit and I goggled at her. In the space of a few minutes, Charlotte had undergone a transformation so complete that she was scarcely recognizable. We didn’t know what she might do next.

  “I’m going for Mr. Bellamy,” Kit said under his breath.

  “I’m coming with you,” I whispered back.

  We were halfway out of our chairs when the hall door opened and Mr. Bellamy returned, with our clean pullovers, shirts, socks, and trousers folded neatly in his arms. His gaze flitted from Charlotte, who was now muttering to herself nonstop, to the scattered slivers of shepherd that littered the hearth and finally came to rest on me and Kit.

  “Please, come with me,” he said to us, without betraying a flicker of emotion.

  I thought it was an excellent suggestion, but Kit hesitated.

  “Will your mistress be all right?” he asked.

  “Miss Charlotte is none of your concern, sir,” said Mr. Bellamy. “If you will come this way, please?”

  Mr. Bellamy followed us into the corridor, handed each of us our clothes, and ushered us into separate unfurnished rooms down the hall from the music room.

  “You will dress here,” he instructed us. “You will then meet me in the entrance hall, where I will be waiting with your boots, your packs, and your coats. Please do not dawdle.”

  If Kit and I had been in a quick-change contest, we would have tied for first place. In less than ten minutes, we were in the entrance hall, fully dressed and swapping our lovely robes for our rain jackets.

  “Mr. Bellamy,” Kit said as he shrugged the straps of his day pack into place, “please believe me when I tell you that whatever we
did to upset Miss Charlotte, we did inadvertently.”

  “I believe that the storm has slackened, sir.” Mr. Bellamy opened the front door. “Good day.”

  Kit and I pulled our hoods over our heads and stepped out onto the porch. The wind had let up, but the rain was still falling steadily. The river mist clung like cobwebs to the branches of the towering plane trees, and by the time we’d gone a few yards down the graveled drive, Aldercot Hall had become a mist-shrouded ghost. Kit paused for a last look at the stately mansion, then ducked his head self-consciously and turned his back on it.

  “Don’t look now,” he said, “but we’re being watched.”

  I looked, of course, and saw Charlotte gazing down at us from the music room.

  “Damn,” I muttered. “I wanted to visit the family cemetery, but I’m not going to do it with her watching us from on high.”

  “Why do you want to visit the cemetery?” Kit asked as we walked on.

  “To check some names and dates,” I replied. “We don’t know nearly enough about the DuCaral family.”

  “I don’t know anything at all.” Kit shook his head. “What happened back there?”

  I studied him for a moment, to make sure he wasn’t joking, then said, “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

  “Not to me,” he said.

  “Didn’t you listen to Henrietta?” I asked.

  “I was too busy watching her hands,” Kit replied.

  “In that case, I’ll summarize the main points for you,” I offered. “Father dies after a long illness. Mother dies of a stroke. Charlotte lives in a huge empty house. Big brother is persona non grata.”

  Kit waited for me to go on. When I didn’t, he said, “So?”

  “All right, then, I’ll spell it out for you,” I said, with the longsuffering sigh of an experienced gossipmonger teaching the basics to a neophyte. “Charlotte’s rotten older brother ran up gambling debts that drove both of his parents to their graves and forced Charlotte to sell almost everything she owned. When the family ran out of money, big brother legged it to Australia to escape the heavies that were after him. Now he’s come back to see if he can squeeze any more cash out of his sister.”