Those Who Hunt the Night(9)

The clutter in the bedroom was worse. Three giant armoires loomed over a bed that had obviously never been used for sleep; their doors sagged open under the press of gowns. Other dresses were heaped on the bed, a shining tangle of ruffles in which pearls gleamed like maggots in meat—yards of flounced organdy three generations out of date and narrow, high-waisted silks, older still and falling apart under the weight of their own beading as he gently lifted them from the shadowy disarray. Cosmetics and wigs, mostly of a particular shade of blonde, cluttered the dressing table, whose mirror frame bulged with cards, notes, bibelots, and bills; jewels trailed among the mess in prodigal clusters, like swollen and glittering fruit. Near the foot of the bed, Asher saw an old shoe, broad-toed, square-heeled, with paste gems gleaming on its huge buckle and ribbons faded to grayish ghosts of some former indigo beauty. Gold sovereigns strewed a corner of the dressing table under a layer of dust and powder. Picking one up, Asher saw that they bore the head of the unfortunate Farmer George.

“Did her beaux give her money?” he asked quietly. “Or was she in the habit of robbing them after they were dead?”

“Both, I expect,” Ysidro replied. “She never saved much. Hence her need to live in rooms—or in any case to rent them to store her things. But, of course, she could not risk sleeping here, with the possibility of her landlady entering to ask questions. And more questions would be asked, of course, if she shuttered the windows tightly enough to cut out all sunlight,”

“Hence Highgate,” Asher murmured, removing a dressmaker’s bill from the table and turning it over in his hands.

“The propensity of the vampires for sleeping among the dead,” Ysidro said, standing, arms folded, just within the connecting door, “stems not so much from our fondness for corpses—though I have been told many vampires in theso-called Gothic ages considered it no more than proper—but from the fact that the tombs would be undisturbed by day. And by night, of course, interference would not matter.”

“On the contrary, in fact,” Asher remarked. “Must have played hob with the Resurrection trade.” He was systematically removing all the cards, all the notes, and all the invitations that he could find from the mirror frame and dressing table, shoving them into an old-fashioned beaded reticule for examination later at leisure. “And I presume your money comes from investments?”

“That is not something which concerns you.”

He flipped open a drawer. The reek of old powder and decaying paper rose to his nostrils like the choke of dust. The drawer was crammed with a chowchow of bills, most of them yellow and cracking with age, letters still shoved into embossed envelopes which bore illegible handwritten franks instead of postage marks or stamps, and little wads of notes issued by banks long collapsed. “It concerns me how I’ll get money to pursue my investigations.”

Ysidro regarded him for a moment from beneath lowered eyelids, as if guessing that reimbursement was, in fact, the least of Asher’s concerns. Then he turned away and began picking up and discarding the dozens of reticules of various ages, styles, and states of decomposition that lay among the anarchy of the bed or drooped from drawers of kerchiefs and underclothes. He opened them, plucking forth small wads of bank notes or emptying glittering streams of gold or silver onto the dressing table carelessly, as if the very touch of the money disgusted him.

A true hidalgo of the Reconquista, Asher thought, amused again and interested to see that three and a half centuries among a nation of shopkeepers hadn’t changed him.

“Will that suffice?”

Asher sorted through the money, discarding anything more than twenty years old, except for one George III gold piece he pocketed as a souvenir. “For now,” he said. “Since Lotta was the fourth victim, it isn’t tremendously likely the killer started his investigations with her, but there might be something in all this paper—the name of a recent victim, an address, something. I’ll want to see the rooms of the others—Calvaire, King, and Hammersmith—and I’ll want to talk to these ‘friends’ of King’s you spoke of…”

“No.”

“As you wish,” Asher said tartly, straightening up and flipping shut the drawer. “Then don’t expect me to find your killer.”

“You will find the killer,” Ysidro retorted, his voice now deadly soft, “and you will find him quickly, ere he kills again. Else it will be the worse for you and for your lady. What you seek to know has nothing to do with your investigation.”

“Neither you nor I has any idea what has to do with my investigation until we see it.” Anger stirred in Asher again, not, as before, anger with the vampires, but the frustration he had known when dealing with those bland and faceless superiors in the Foreign Office who could not and would not understand field conditions, but demanded results nevertheless. For a moment he wanted to take Ysidro by his skinny neck and shake him, not solely from his fear of what might happen to Lydia, but from sheer annoyance at being ordered to make bricks without straw. “If I’m going to do as you ask, you’re going to have to give me something…”

“I will give you what I choose.” The vampire did not move, but Asher sensed in him a readiness to strike andknew the blow, when it came, would be irresistible as lightning and potentially as fatal. Nothing altered in the voice, cold and inert as poison. “I warn you again—you are playing with death here. What bounds I set are as much for your own protection as for mine. Take care you do not cross them.

“Understand me, James, for I understand you. I understand that you intend to work for me only so long as it will take you to find a way to destroy me and those like me with impunity. So. I could have found a man who is venal and unintelligent, who would not even have been told who and what I am, to whom I would simply have said: Find me this; find me that; meet me with the results tonight. There are men who are too unimaginative even to ask. But it would not have answered. One does not select cottonwood to fashion a weapon to preserve, perhaps, one’s life; one selects the hardest of teak. But with that hardness comes other things.”

They faced each other in silence, in the silken chaos of that cluttered chamber with its stinks of ancient perfume. “I won’t have you coming to Oxford again.”

“No,” Ysidro agreed. “I, too, understand. Whoever is behind these murders, I will not lead him to your lady. Take rooms here in this city—I will find you. For those of us who hunt the nights, that will be no great task. You might remember that, also, should it cross your mind to ally yourself with our murderer.”

“I’ll remember,” Asher promised quietly. “But you remember this: if you and your fellow-vampires kill me, you’ll still have a problem. And if you play me false, or try to take hostages, or so much as go near my wife again, you’ll have an even bigger problem. Because then you’ll have to kill me and you’ll still need to find someone else to do your day work for you. I’ll play straight with you, but, in a sense, you’ve put yourself in my hands, as I am inyours. I believe in your existence now…”

“And whom would you tell who would believe you?”

“It’s enough that I believe,” said Asher. “And I think you know that.”





FOUR




“HOW DOES one go about investigating the personal life of a woman who’s done murder on a regular basis for the last hundred and fifty years?”

Lydia Asher paused, the handkerchief-wrapped fragments of bone in hand, and tilted her head consideringly at her husband’s question. With her long red hair hanging down over nightgowned shoulders and her spectacles glinting faintly in the misty gray of the window light, she looked more like a fragile and gawky schoolgirl than a doctor. Asher stretched out his long legs to rest slippered feet on the end of the bed. “She must have hundreds of potential enemies.”

“Thousands, I should say,” Lydia guessed, after a moment’s mental calculation. “Over fifty thousand, counting one per night times three hundred and sixty-five times a hundred and fifty…”

“Taking off a few here and there when she went on a reducing diet?” Asher’s mustache quirked in his fleet grin; only his eyes, Lydia thought, were not the same as theyhad been. Below them in the house, Ellen’s footsteps tapped a half-heard pulse as she went from room to room, laying fires; further off, on the edge of awareness, Lydia could detect the regular clatter and tread of breakfast being prepared.

Ellen had insisted on remaining awake long enough to fix a scratch dinner, after they had all wakened mysteriously in the chilled depths of the night. Lydia had sent them all to bed as soon as possible. The last thing she’d needed was the parlor maid’s unbridled imagination, the cook’s self-dramatization, and the tweeny’s morbid credulity to add to what she herself had found a deeply disturbing experience. That James had been home she’d deduced from the fact that the fires were built up, though why he should have taken apart his revolver and left the knife he didn’t think she knew he carried in his boot among the pieces on his desk had left her somewhat at a loss. Characteristically, she had spent the remainder of the night searching through her medical journals—which she kept in boxes under the bed, as they’d overflowed the library—for references to similar occurrences, alternately outlining an article on the pathological basis for the legend of Sleeping Beauty and dozing in the tangle of lace-trimmed counterpane and issues of the Lancet. But her dreams had been disturbing, and she had kept waking, expecting to find some slender stranger standing silently in the room.