The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Deveau murmured, “Not now, sir. They’ll tear us to ribbons. Trust me on this, I know them well.”

  “Who is the Cain here?” shouted the Pross, looking around. “Who has so wickedly slain his brother?”

  I was at a loss for an answer, but happily fate intruded. The delicate Miss Manette, who stood next to her, suddenly fainted. This set the Pross off again. She vented a loud scream of distress for her charge and swooped to aid her, calling for water, and a cold cloth and a dozen other remedies that are necessary when a lady collapses. Oliver started forward, but I grabbed his arm and signed for him to wait.

  “Why?”

  “A moment, you’ll see.”

  Pross took charge like Caesar, sending servants hither and yon, and commanding that several of the maids lift her companion and bear her up to their room instantly. She bellowed fit to captain a whole fleet of ships herself, ordering the roughest of the sailors aside.

  “Make-way-make-way for my poor ladybird!” she shouted, pushing men twice her size from her path. Bless me if they did not move quick as spit.

  “Now!” I said, and urged Oliver forward.

  He caught my intent. “I am a doctor! Let me through!”

  Next I nudged Deveau, who allowed himself to be swept along in the general exodus. I trusted that Percy could look after himself, as bright lads have an instinct to place themselves where that want to be no matter what obstacles may stand between.

  As I hoped, the confusion of the moment served to protect us, and in a short time we were up the stairs and in Miss Manette’s room, along with a dozen others caught up in our parade. The Pross spied Oliver and dragged him over to see to the young lady, then shooed the excess gapers out the door. That would have included myself, Deveau, and Percy, but her charge abruptly wakened from her swoon and gently requested a cessation of further row.

  The Pross was decidedly full of opposing feelings about this turn, but was finally persuaded to back down. She regarded us with suspicion, but when asked by the girl, who swore it would fully restore her, left the room to fetch a pot of tea. Oliver was told—ordered, rather—to act as chaperon, the Pross trusting that as a prospective doctor, he was a sober, responsible sort. How little did she know.

  Once the door was shut, Miss Manette favored us with a small smile. “Please forgive her. Her heart is in the right place.

  “Of course, mademoiselle,” said Deveau, with a bow. “Are you unharmed by your misadventure?”

  “I am very well, monsieur. But you should know that it was a sham.”

  “Indeed?”

  We regarded her with increased interest.

  She continued: “It is true that I did faint earlier this evening, but not again in the coffee-room just now. My earlier event gave me the idea for it, though. Mr. Barrett seemed in need of help, and it was the only thing I could think of to do. I knew my dear friend would make a great fuss, and that it might change the situation, but it grieves me to have troubled her so.”

  “Mademoiselle’s conclusion was correct,” I said. “I am most deeply in your debt for the timely rescue.” Now was I able to execute a proper bow, including a little flourish with my smallsword, which was still in hand. “And please do not trouble yourself about Miss Pross’s feelings. It’s quite obvious that she enjoys making a fuss. You have provided her with considerable happiness.”

  “Before she returns, please, sir, will you tell us what you know? If there is a murderer under this roof, then it is our duty to catch him.”

  “I would be glad to tell all, but I know little. The darkness and weather hid his face from me as perfectly as any mask.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I know, but I was trying to distract that crowd from doing harm to M. Deveau. His innocence was certainly plain to me, since he was the only dry-shod man in the room, but they weren’t of a mind to hear sense.”

  “I believe,” said Deveau, “That one of them was of a mind to falsely blame me for the crime and thus escape. I also believe that Master Percy holds the proof of it in his palm, do you not, young sir?”

  Percy, who had slipped in unnoticed, now stepped forth. Again he opened his hand. I stared at the small red flower there, as did the rest.

  “That’s proof?” asked Oliver. “Bless me, but I don’t see it.”

  “The hats,” I said, with sudden inspiration. “This flower fell from one of the captains’ hats in their scuffle tonight. I remember Percy saved it.”

  We then had to explain to Miss Manette the business about red flowers being used as a sign by certain ship captains wishing to conduct private business. We did not specify what that business might be.

  “Still don’t see it,” Oliver repeated.

  “The hats,” I repeated in turn. “Talmadge and Shellhorse were still open for trade. They had red flowers in their hats.”

  “So?”

  Percy said, “ Captain Talmadge lost his flower in the fight. I have it here. But he found another. Made from red paper. I saw it when we were in the coffee-room.”

  The significance was unknown to Oliver, for he had not noticed what sort of flower was worn by each captain. He’d not dealt with them, after all. “So Talmadge murdered Keech over a paper flower?”

  “I haven’t a clue as to why he murdered,” I said, “only that he took Keech’s paper bloom.”

  “Or his hat,” suggested Deveau. “Much more likely.”

  “Ah.” That did make more sense. “They each lost their hats in the fight outside, and then he grabbed the wrong one. I remember the man who fled seemed to stumble. He might have been picking it up instead, and I mistook his movement.”

  “Indeed, but a man cannot be charged on anything so feeble as that. There must be stronger proof.”

  “Well-a-day, then we shall just have to find some.”

  Miss Pross returned, armed with tea, bread, and jam, and decided that our presence was no longer required. Even Oliver was summarily turned out, though he raised no objection. The only disappointed face belonged to Miss Manette, who would not hear what I had in mind to resolve matters.

  Since Oliver had lodged here before, I asked what he knew of the servant’s stairs in the building.

  “I suppose there must be some, there always are, but bless me if I know where to find ’em.”

  “Come, sir,” said Deveau, “I learned to navigate most of the harbors on both sides of the channel by the age of twelve; I’m sure together we can find the back stairs here. What then, Mr. Barrett?”

  “We find the servant’s entry to the parlor where poor Keech is and slip in there.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “To find his hat.”

  I explained—after the four of us, with young Percy eagerly in the lead, found the stairs—that it wasn’t enough to point out the detail of the flowers to the authorities, but we had to be certain that Talmadge didn’t find a paper bloom elsewhere. In a few moments we quietly entered the dim parlor where the dead captain lay stretched upon a long table. We lighted more candles to better see. His muddied shoes were visible beyond the hem of the tablecloth shroud, but the rest of his large form was carefully covered. Most important, someone had placed his hat on his chest. Sad relic it was, battered, damp, and also muddy.

  Picking it up, I examined it for a maker’s mark, but found none.

  “Now what?” asked Oliver.

  “Nothing pleasant. We see if it fits his head.”

  He wanted none of that, but saw the sense. With somber respect he drew back the table cloth enough to expose as little as necessary. Master Percy stood a little closer to M. Deveau, but maintained a man’s stout bearing through the course. While Oliver lifted Keech’s head, I attempted to fit the hat to it. The article kept falling off.

  “That settles it,” said Oliver, wiping his bloodied fingers on one end of the cloth. “Not his bonnet, to be sure.”

  “But it may be argued that the damage to his skull altered the shape of it,” Deveau pointed out.

>   “Not unless it had been thoroughly crushed—like a boiled egg that’s been stepped on. I’ll take an oath that that’s not what happened here. ’Tis true he has a fearful and fatal wounding, but the greater portion of the bony structure is intact, and so his own hat would still fit. Unless he preferred a loosely fitted one.”

  “A ship’s captain with a loose hat?” questioned Deveau. “Never. He would have it snug to his head or lose it in the wind. Look at his forehead. The line is still there that marks where I was accustomed to wearing it. I saw Mr. Barrett bring the other hat well over that line, therefore it does not belong to Keech. But we still have a problem of proof. Talmadge could claim that in the confusion of carrying the body inside that he got his hat mixed with Keech’s. Forgive me, but in light of the strong feelings running between my shared countries, it is more likely his word will be believed over mine. I am but half-English, and he is an Englishman bred and born.”

  “As am I,” said Oliver. “And I’m ashamed to call him countryman, but you are not without allies. Cousin Jonathan and I will vouch for you, and certainly Sir Algernon will have a great influence in the matter.”

  “That will certainly serve to keep me from the hangman, but how to bring the guilty to justice?”

  “We find out why Talmadge would want to do for the fellow.”

  Deveau made a throwing-away gesture. “Many of these captains are honorable men, but there are some who resent the success of others and are always ready to remove the competition. I would hazard to say that Talmadge took exception to Keech’s winning this night and acted upon it. I would think with Keech out of the way, he would approach you later on with an offer to sell you spirits.”

  “Grim way to conduct a trade,” I put in. “He said that he remembered you from when you were a lad.”

  “I do not recall. I think he was not a captain, for I knew all their names. One had to, but back then he could have been a first mate, perhaps.”

  “Sir!” cried Percy, who had been examining the hat close by the light of the candles. “See what I have found!”

  We gathered near. There was a much weathered ribbon on the outside running between the brim and the crown, and Percy had peeled it back. Within was a store of small reddish flowers.

  “I sometimes hide things in my hat this way,” said the lad. “I wondered if it might be the same for him, and so it is.”

  Oliver thumped a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “So it is. That’s brilliant of you, young sir. As soon as your father returns—”

  “ ’E’ll ’ave other things on ’is mind, I’m thinkin’.”

  As one, we turned to behold the depressing visage of Captain Talmadge, who, with a muddy hat in hand, stood blocking the doorway that opened to the main hall. Crowded behind him were several of his men. They were grinning—a singularly alarming sight. Deveau quietly put Percy behind him, and I sensed him marshaling for immediate action against this threat. However, Talmadge drew a pistol from his coat and aimed it at him.

  “There’ll be no mischief from you, Frenchie. “Ever-un keep shut and quiet as little mice an’ we’ll finish up ’ere an’ be gone an’ no ’arm done, eh?”

  “What do you want?” asked Deveau.

  “I’ll thank ye to return me ’at, then we’ll be off. You fine gennelmen’ll keep shut or it’ll go ’ard on the lad.”

  Percy had slipped a little off to better see, and his young eyes went wide as Talmadge swung the pistol in his direction.

  Deveau kept his voice steady. “You harm that boy and there will be no safe port for you anywhere.”

  “The world’s a wide place. Come now an’ show sense. Ol’ Keech ’n me ’ad a quarrel, an’ I won the day. None of it’s yer concern, so we’ll just be off after I gets me rightful property. An’ to make sure you behaves while we leaves, the lad’s coming along ’til we’re clear. ‘Less ’e’d perfers ter see the world. We’re short a ship’s boy and this ’un looks a likely sort. . .” His gaze shifted suddenly to me. “You be droppin’ that blade, Mr. Barrett, or you’ll ’ave innercent blood on your soul.”

  I froze. I’d been easing to one side, hoping to lunge with my sword and disarm him. Deveau shifted ever so slightly, and I feared he would charge the lot of them, collecting a pistol ball for his effort. Perhaps if I offered them a substantial bribe and got their attention on me. . .

  Percy made a strong snapping motion with his wrist, sending the hat spinning right into Talmadge’s face. It was a fine distraction, but the man pulled the trigger on his pistol. There was a flat crack, strangely muffled.

  Providence had smiled on us; the damned thing had misfired. Talmadge’s threat was without force, and before he could react to his change of fortune, Deveau leaped upon him like a tiger. I thrust my blade at the nearest of the henchmen, wounding his arm. He yelled and fled along with two others, which was most gratifying.

  Oliver’s blood was also up, for he roared like a savage and charged one of the men who topped him in size by a good half foot. Nonetheless, he won his contest, for Percy dropped low and curled himself tight behind the man’s legs. When Oliver slammed into him, the wretch went tumbling over this unexpected obstacle. By the time he caught his wind, his captain was also on the floor, knocked insensible by Deveau’s good right fist.

  The row brought a crowd, of course, and it was some while before everything was properly sorted out, even when Sir Algernon returned with the authorities. It was nigh on to midnight before the house was settled and the guilty and wounded marched away to be locked up.

  The landlord was guardedly pleased to have the trouble resolved, and stood us a round of brandies. It served to remind me that Oliver and I would now have to deal with Captain Shellhorse to complete our errand in Dover. I was not unduly put out by the prospect. Indeed, Oliver and I faced the likelihood of having many more brandies and invitations to tell the tale of this night’s events once we were back in Cambridge. If not for the ghastly demise of poor Captain Keech, we might have counted this as an excellent adventure to share with our friends.

  “That was dangerous business with the hat, though,” I said to Percy. We were again gathered before the fire in the coffee-room, along with most of the hotel. “He could have killed you but for the devil’s own luck that his pistol failed to fire.”

  Standing on a chair, young Percy flushed under the admiring scrutiny of the adults. It must have been a heady experience to him, for we had pledged that he was the hero of the hour for his actions, perilous though they were. “It was not luck, Mr. Barrett, only logical reasoning,” he said with much dignity.

  “Indeed? How so?”

  “It’s a shocking wet night out, sir. Captain Talmadge was soaked coming here, and more so when he was outside quarreling with Captain Keech, and again when he helped bring in the body. It struck me that the rain would have made his pistol very safe, so I—”

  “Brilliant,” said Oliver, and he called for a toast to Master Percy Blakeney’s—only now did I collect the family’s full name—very good health and wits, and suggested additional celebration was in order.

  The boy’s somber father even looked pleased, but gently reminded us that the hour was late and the morning would be early as it always must be for travelers. Deveau agreed with this, and Sir Algernon preceded them toward the door; Deveau and his charge close behind.

  Their progress was slowed by the number of well-wishers who patted the boy on the head or, in the case of ladies, bent to kiss his cheek. He squirmed a bit under that particular reward except when it came to Miss Manette. He seemed to rather like her and lingered long enough to collect a kiss on each side of his face and another on his forehead from her. He bowed low as any gentleman and professed himself to be at her service.

  Then Percy gave a little cry and tore back to the chair he and been standing upon, and from it retrieved a by now much crushed specimen of the flower that had been Talmadge’s downfall. The boy hurried to Deveau with his trophy of the hunt.

  “What the devil s
ort of weed is that, anyway?” Oliver called after him.

  Percy paused, at a momentary loss until Deveau stooped and whispered discreetly in his ear. “It is a scarlet pimpernel, sir!”

  “Deuced peculiar name for a plant,” muttered my cousin as they left. “Who’d have thought so little a thing could make such a thundering great mischief?”

  I clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, never again will that happen if we live to be a hundred. Come, good Coz, another brandy. Let us celebrate and be thankful for small favors.”

  * * * * * * *

  __________

  DRAWING DEAD

  Author’s Note: In 2008 I decided to self-publish an all new Jack Fleming story and offer it, along with some reprinted stories, as a signed, limited-edition collection from my website. But the intended 10K-word story, THE DEVIL YOU KNOW swelled into a full length novel! In the original version of TDYK I had a long scene where Jack takes on some card sharps on the train ride to New York, but concluded that it just didn’t fit into the rest of the book. I yanked it out, did some tweaks to make it more of a stand-alone, and here is the shiny new result.

  Chicago, March 1938

  Long journeys are as complicated for vampires—or at least this vampire—as they are for regular people. You have to figure out food, shelter, and hope your luggage arrives on time and in the right place. In my case I would be in the luggage, another complication. Since my change from normal human to blood-swilling creature of darkness I tended to avoid travel.

  Vampire. Yes. That’s how I spell it. Look it up in the dictionary, but don’t believe everything you read.

  I’m a bloodsucker, but I am polite about it. No leaping out of alleys or seducing damsels for me, not while the Union Stockyards has cattle pens. Before leaving town to see to my errand in New York, I’d stopped there and drink my fill, which would cover my needs for the next few nights.