The Pemberley Vampire Hunters

by Huw Thomas

  He passed the hours by watching the activities of the stable yard (fantastically distorted by the rain-streaked bullseye panes of his window), and by inspecting the list of times that the innkeeper had given him.

  Coaches from the Gravesend Road called regularly through the afternoon and well into the evening. This was all as Bingley had expected, but it came as a surprise to see that the first coach of the following day would arrive before dawn. If Bingley were to meet it, he would perforce be rising rather earlier than usual, and it was with regret that he enquired to learn which servants would be awake to prepare for the day’s business, and engaged one of them to knock on his door on the morrow.

  In this manner he spent the hours until late evening, when the last coach had come and gone. His appetite returned, and since the tap room was now deserted and cheerless, instead of dining there he ordered a fire made in his room and requested that a platter and a bottle be brought up. This being done he sat down next to the window, poured himself a glass of wine, and pondered as he ate.

  Afterward, he made ready for bed.

  And that was all he truly remembered of the rest of the night, for the next thing he knew, the servant he had engaged to rouse him was leaning over his bed and shaking him by the shoulder.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir,” the man said, “but I could not wake you otherwise for all my knocking …”

  It was only through the application of a remarkable amount of willpower that Bingley was able to compel himself from the dream he had been having — and once freed, he promptly forgot it.

  “… and as you were most insistent that you must meet the first post coach without fail …”

  “So I was, and I thank you for persevering.”

  Bingley sat up in bed as the servant departed. He glanced at the scrubbed pine table near the window, where the platter and bottle from his supper still stood. His wineglass was not on the table, but rested instead on the chair next to the bed.

  He had a vague notion that he had arranged it so for his night-cap, to help him sleep. After that, his memory was as blank as a fresh sheet of parchment.

  As he clothed himself, he noticed an old injury just inside his left elbow, and struggled to recollect when it could have happened. No matter; the wound was mostly healed now. A more pressing concern was how light-headed his abbreviated slumber had left him. He did his best to remedy this by splashing cold water on his face, and then made his way downstairs to the tap room.

  The weather continued unseasonably wet, and Bingley still felt tired as well as a little chilled. A fire had been kindled in the grate, small as yet but full of promise. He tucked himself into a wooden armchair, stretched his boots out toward the warmth, called for strong coffee, and promised himself that even if he were to close his eyes, it would only be for the briefest moment.

  As he drifted, the previous night returned…

  … fragrant steam rose from the beef pudding set before him.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?” the young maid had asked.

  “No, thank you,” he had replied. “I shall manage very well on my own now.”

  The girl bobbed a quick curtsy and hurried off. He sat down to his meal, which was perfectly to his taste and served with an excellent claret.

  The room was warm and his bed close at hand whenever he should choose to tumble into it, making him grateful (for once in his life) that he was not Darcy. How horrible it must have been, riding all day through the driving rain, stopping only to change horses and perhaps to snatch a hurried bite of food and a swallow of ale.

  Had Darcy reached Ramsgate this evening? Very likely, for he was the most determined man Bingley ever knew.

  Perhaps he had already found his young sister. This led Bingley to wonder exactly what Miss Darcy could have been doing in Ramsgate. Plainly, there was something untoward about it, otherwise Darcy would not have acted with such resolution when he received Miss de Bourgh’s letter … and that raised yet another question, for why should that young lady have sent such a message in the first place?

  Bingley shook his head to clear it of all such conundrums; the prospect of rising early on the morrow was much on his mind, and he had no desire to lie awake dwelling on unsolvable riddles. Instead, having swallowed the last morsel of beef pudding and poured the last of the claret, he decided to give himself the time he needed to set his mind at ease, and so made ready to turn in early.

  The room was as cramped and as meanly furnished as Darcy had predicted. Bingley positioned the chair to serve as a makeshift side table for his candlestick and wineglass.

  When all was ready, he undressed, washed, and climbed into bed. It was only when he was about to snuff out his candle that he noticed the young lady, daintily perched upon the edge of the pine table he had so recently vacated.

  Curiously, Bingley felt no serious alarm at this charming apparition; his most pressing concern was that the sheets and blankets seemed suddenly inadequate to the task of covering his body — for a night shirt was not among those requisites he had purchased earlier in the day.

  His response was no more violent than it would have been had Louisa or Caroline entered his chamber before he was fully dressed, which is to say that he was not entirely at ease with the situation, but neither was he angry or afraid.

  He had not the slightest inkling of his visitor’s identity. It must be a dream, he decided. Surely the rich food and heavy wine had sent him off to sleep before he even realised it.

  He tried to make out the girl’s features. He was in no doubt that she was very pretty, even though her face was obscured by a halo of golden-bright hair that dazzled his sight. Of course, that was plainly impossible. It made no sense at all. Further evidence, he thought, that he had already fallen asleep.

  “You were wondering about your friend, Fitzwilliam Darcy,” she said. “He has reached his destination and secured his prize. His need for you to keep guard is ended, though if you continue, you might meet a most interesting person on the morrow.”

  “Are you the messenger?”

  “I am a messenger,” she replied, “but perhaps not in the way you expect.”

  As she regarded him, her smile broadened; and with more fascination than fear he saw two prominent canines set in sharp relief to the rest of her even, white teeth.

  He was almost surprised to find himself so composed, and began to wonder at his own bravery.

  Perhaps there was no fear when a vampyre came to its victim. Perhaps Miss de Bourgh had accompanied her captors willingly to their graveyard lair; perhaps poor Miss Wickham had abandoned her warm bed under no more compulsion than her abductor’s will.

  Or perhaps it was because there is no need to fear, in dreams.

  “I promise you this is no dream,” she said. “Can you not guess why you and I have come to the same inn, on the same evening?”

  “It can only be because I have drawn you to me, through my own dark knowledge and evil imaginings.”

  She laughed. “Charles Bingley, for you to lay claim to evil imaginings is like the sunniest April morning pretending to be midnight. If it were as you say, then my stepsister would be here to embrace you, instead of myself.”

  “But Mr Hurst emphatically told me—”

  “The doctor’s understanding of my kind is somewhat accurate, but hardly comprehensive. Darkness draws darkness. Knowledge in a well-regulated mind rather creates light.”

  “Yet I have seen it with my own eyes,” Bingley said. “Those who learned of these matters, were soon drawn into them.”

  “A strong light may cast troubling shadows, and so the effect can be the same. But a heart that embraces the shadows while remaining true to itself and filled with honest love … well, can we not agree that this might prove to be a sovereign remedy?”

  Bingley considered what she had said, which (given his naturally optimistic nature) seemed eminently sensible. Then he reflected again on the events at Pemberley and asked, “Miss de Bourgh and Miss Wickham … were
their hearts not filled with love?”

  “The remedy is more efficacious, perhaps,” the young lady said archly, “if the love is requited. It will be best if you can manage to remember this as more than a dream.”

  “But this is a dream” he said. “It must be.”

  “I have already given you my promise that it is not. I mean you no harm, Charles Bingley. I wish only to help you and your friends, and perhaps to be helped in turn.”

  Bingley nodded. “What do you ask of me?”

  “I am so very hungry,” she said. “Indeed, I am quite ravenous. Would you be so kind …?”

  Bingley awoke with a start to find that his untouched coffee had grown cold on the table next to him, and that several newly-arrived travellers had crowded into the tap room. Despite all his good intentions, he had nodded off next to the warmth of the fire.

  This had the makings of a disaster. The coach had evidently come in while he slept. What if Miss Darcy had been aboard? By now, she might have been taken into a private room, or perhaps even spirited away to some more genteel establishment. A young lady of quality would certainly not keep company in the inn’s public tap room.

  In spite of this, Bingley could not help glancing at each person present, only to discover that there was one among the travellers who seemed familiar: a tall and dark-haired young gentleman whose visage contained every appearance of pleasantry, though marred this early morning by a tired and defeated air.

  Bingley had to rack his brains before he recognised this individual: it was none other than Mr Wickham, whose portrait was displayed amongst a certain group of miniatures over a mantle-piece at Pemberley.

  Everything came together in an instant: Darcy’s letter had been a warning that his sister was in danger; Mr Wickham was the culprit. Had Miss Darcy’s person been secured already? Or was Mr Wickham holding her nearby?

  He rose and pushed his way to the door of the tap room and then outside, where he swept his gaze around the sodden stable yard. The place was deserted, nor was the young lady inside the conveyance. He reached into his coat pocket and felt the reassuring rustle of the letter of attorney within. If confrontation became necessary, he was legally empowered to act.

  It was very much to be hoped that it would not come to that. Bingley recalled Mr Wickham’s look of dejection, and took heart. Could it not be that the scoundrel appeared downcast because he had failed? In that case, Miss Darcy would be safely in the company of her brother, perhaps even travelling back from Ramsgate with him at this very instant.

  If things were otherwise — if she had somehow fallen into the power of Mr Wickham — then the only needful thing was to wait. The abductor could not know that he was observed, and must perforce bring his prize back to the coach, in order to proceed with whatever plan he had in mind.

  As Bingley considered precisely what that scheme might entail, he became aware of his hands closing into fists as his memory strayed back to certain long-ago boxing matches. His easy-going nature had made him many school friends at Rugby, but also a few hot-headed foes among the more bullying sort. In learning to deal with this, Bingley had become one of the most feared pugilists in his year. He had no doubt that he would make a very fine example of Mr Wickham, if such a course proved necessary.

  One thing only worried him. If he could have been certain of Miss Darcy’s safety, he would already have ordered his horse saddled in readiness to follow the coach. Thus would he have had the chance to discover Mr Wickham’s destination, perhaps even to spy out his haunts and habits.

  As things were, he could do nothing except to watch as the coach (bearing Mr Wickham as well as some other gentlemen, but no females of any description) trundled away toward London.

  An hour later, a messenger arrived post-haste from Ramsgate, bringing the news that Miss Darcy was safe, and that she and her brother expected to reach Dartford early in the afternoon. Bingley paid the man and thanked him for delivering this note so promptly (for his horse was lathered and he himself was out of breath) while silently cursing that for all this speed, the news had still arrived too late to allow further investigation into the intentions and activities of the mysterious Mr Wickham.

  *

  Bingley engaged a comfortable private parlour and arranged for a fine luncheon to be laid out there, for he anticipated that Darcy would have had little either of rest or food for the past two days. Miss Darcy, too, would surely prefer a period of comfort and seclusion after the ordeal of travelling by public coach.

  Upon the siblings’ timely arrival, he whisked them away from the hurly-burly of the main part of the inn and into the prepared sanctuary, bidding them to be seated and to help themselves.

  Darcy took his place and set to with a good appetite, but his sister was very subdued (even accounting for her usual reticence) so that she accepted but little onto her plate, and ate even less. As for Bingley, he felt unusually hungry after his restless night, and so made such a hearty meal that it was only Miss Darcy’s reserve that spared him the need of ordering more.

  As they were finishing, a servant came with word that the conveyance he had ordered had arrived from London; and so they were free at last to depart. Bingley settled his account with the innkeeper and collected his few possessions, and then back to London they went.

  They arrived at Cavendish Square in the late afternoon, and Bingley was most gratified to see how understanding Caroline was of Miss Darcy’s distress, and the particular solicitude with which she ushered her guest to the chamber prepared for her.

  He did not press Darcy for any explanation as to what had befallen the young lady, for it seemed to him (from what he had already deduced) that the matter called for discretion rather than discussion — and Darcy appeared to be of the same opinion exactly, for he mentioned it not at all beyond offering his heartfelt thanks for Bingley’s assistance.

  “Please, do not mention it,” Bingley replied.

  “Well, the wait must have been tedious.”

  “On the contrary, it was rather interesting — both in dreams and in waking. I saw Mr Wickham at the inn, on the earliest coach of the day. Naturally, his presence was a great surprise and I regret that I was not in a position to follow him.”

  “His presence was not a surprise to me,” Darcy replied, “for Wickham was also in Ramsgate, for reasons we need not discuss now. It seems he departed in some haste.”

  “So you did not encounter him yourself?”

  “I strongly desired a meeting but he was forewarned, and declined to give me that opportunity.” Darcy paused. “It was perhaps better so.”

  “He did not seem to be in the best of spirits,” Bingley remarked. “In fact, I should say that Mr Wickham was as downcast a man as I have ever seen.”

  “I understand him to be in some material distress, for Mrs Younge accused me of denying my impoverished ‘friend’ the assistance he deserved. Also, some time ago I received a begging letter from the man himself.”

  “He has corresponded with you? Why did you not tell us?” Bingley demanded. “We could perhaps have set a trap and so laid the scoundrel by the heels.”

  “I tried to do so myself, but the address he gave was of a public house and the tavern keeper would not give him up.”

  Bingley was astonished by this revelation. “Was it not over-hasty, to visit the place alone?”

  “I judged it best to act swiftly before he had a chance to change his mind.”

  “So between the two of us, we have lost him twice.”

  Darcy shrugged. “While we should certainly be wise to guard ourselves against Mr Wickham, we must not forget the vampyre who controls him. There is our true enemy.”

  “The first step in finding the vampyre,” Bingley observed, “must surely be to find its servant.”

  “I agree that it would be desirable to know what he is up to.”

  “Yet we are as far from that goal, as we have ever been.”

  “It pains me to admit it,” Darcy said, “but I find myself un
able to match your eagerness. My next meeting with Mr Wickham, no matter how long delayed, must still be sooner than I desire.”

  XII

  Upon receiving her brother’s request to send the carriage to him at the coaching inn in Dartford — and bearing in mind Mr Darcy’s parting words, “I must go to Georgiana” — Caroline Bingley had quickly apprehended that the purpose of the conveyance must be to carry Miss Darcy back to London.

  She looked forward with pleasure to receiving the young lady at Cavendish Square, but also with a certain degree of trepidation, for she had never played the part of hostess before.

  Mr Darcy had often been a guest in the house, but this custom had started before Louisa’s marriage to Mr Hurst. By the time Caroline found herself in charge, she was as accustomed to Mr Darcy as he was to Cavendish Square, and all of them so comfortable together that it was much like having another member of the family to stay.

  By comparison, Miss Darcy was little more than an acquaintance. It pleased Caroline to think that the two of them had the beginnings of a friendship, but the younger girl had often been at school instead of at Pemberley when they visited. When she had been present, she had seldom had much of anything to say for herself.

  Also, there was a degree of reserve on Caroline’s part following from her desire to protect Miss Darcy from such knowledge as might imperil her.

  Apart from this lack of intimacy, there was also the uncomfortable suspicion that where a gentleman would likely be oblivious to any small thing in the household that went amiss, a young lady was sure to notice. Miss Darcy would, of course, be too reticent to mention anything, but it pained Caroline to imagine herself being judged and found wanting.

  Most uncomfortable of all, perhaps, was the expectation that it would fall to Caroline (unless the gentlemen were present) to enrich every piece of conversation beyond the bounds of “Yes” or “No”.

  Still, all that trouble would be worthwhile if the two of them could simply become friends. Perhaps Caroline’s tutelage, combined with the varied society and entertainments of London, might even help to bring the other girl out of herself a little.