Jonathan Barrett Gentleman Vampire (127 page)

“You knocked some sense into me then,” he went on. “Am I going to have to return the favor?” He looked as grim as a tax collector.

I felt another hiccupping gasp coming from me, but this time it was the precursor to a laugh, not a sob. As with the weeping, I could not stop it, but unlike the weeping, Oliver was able to join in. When at last it died away, I found I no longer shivered.

* * *

Thanks be to the Almighty, all was safe and secure when we got home.

Elizabeth had gone upstairs, but was not yet asleep, and the commotion of our return brought her down again. She had but to glance once at us to know something was amiss. Orders were flung at servants who were still astir, and as they scurried off my good sister swept us into the parlor and saw to the building up of the fire herself. Just as one of the maids brought in a tray loaded with a hastily thrown together tea, Jericho magically appeared, stripped us of our outdoor things, and replaced them with dressing gowns and slippers. Without being asked, he unlocked the cupboard where the household spirits were kept and placed the brandy bottle on the table next to Oliver’s chair. By the merest raising of one eyebrow and cant of his gaze he silently inquired if I should like a serving of my own special drink as well. I shut my eyes briefly and shook my head once. I’d see to it myself later. He nodded and stood to one side to listen in. Not one of us had a thought of dismissing him.

“You look paler than ghosts,” said Elizabeth, rounding on us. “What on earth happened?”

Oliver made the first attempt to deliver an answer and initially tried to shield our reputations by passing Mandy Winkle’s place off as being a public bath house—a fiction that lasted all of two seconds with Elizabeth.

“I understand your wish to protect my sensibilities from being shocked,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it more if you just be as plain in your speech with me as you would be with Jonathan. Things will go a lot faster if I don’t have to interpret what you’re really talking about.”

While Oliver blushed and blinked, I took over the task of relating the incident to her. Of course I left off a large part of it, for my business with Yasmin and Samar had nothing to do with the actual shooting. Elizabeth went rather ghostlike herself upon hearing of the attack and my consequent injuries and had to be assured that though shaken, I was mostly recovered in the physical sense. Her own reaction matched Oliver’s, being composed of equal parts of fear, relief and fury. Once she’d expressed a portion of each to the world at large, she then plied the same questions already plaguing us: Who were the men, how had they found me, and why should they want to murder me?

The who and possible why of it were fairly obvious, but the how was more elusive. Jericho quietly excused himself at that point. Just as we’d concluded that we must have been followed from Ridley’s flat, he returned accompanied by our two footmen, both looking exceedingly uncomfortable and crestfallen.

“Didn’t mean no ’arm, I’m sure, sir,” blurted Jamie, the younger of them. “ ’Ow uz we t’ know ’e weren’t a proper gennl’m’n?”

“If I might clarify things, sir,” said Jericho, stepping in before the boy could go further.

“Clarify away,” I said, with a wave of my hand.

In a few succinct words Jericho related his formation of the idea to check and see if the other servants had noticed strangers lurking about the house that evening. None had, except for the footmen, who, in light of Elizabeth’s instructions to be watchful, had made a quick circle of the house and grounds before turning in for the night. Coming around to the front they met, as by chance, a well-dressed, well-spoken gentleman who said he was in need of a physician, and asked if Dr. Marling was at home. Having become used to such inquiries, they saw no harm in telling the man the doctor was away that evening, adding that he might be found at Mandy Winkle’s. The gentleman seemed to know of the place, gave them each a penny vale for their trouble, and walked off into the darkness.

“We din’ think twicet ’bout it, sir, as there’s alus someun comin’ ’round to fetch the doctor at all ’ours.” Poor Jamie looked to be close to tears. “Then when Mr. Jericho ’ere told us that someun ’ad tried shootin’ you, sir—”

“What did he look like?” I asked.

Jamie and his companion offered a flood of information on the man; unfortunately none of it was specific or useful. He’d been muffled to the ears against the weather like most of the upper-class male population of London. He could have been any one of our many friends, but between us, we decided he was most likely from Ridley’s crowd. Only a Mohock from the upper class could have combined easy manners with such ruthless action.

Oliver sourly admonished them to be more careful and to report any additional incidents to Jericho. “I could dismiss the both of you on the spot without a character and no one would blame me for it, but you’d only inflict your ignorance on some other luckless master and then he’d come after
me
with a pistol. Off with you, and if you’ve any wits left, use them sharp the next time a stranger talks with you, or your next billet might be in the King’s navy.”

They fled without another word.

My good cousin diluted his brandy with a little hot tea and drained his cup away, making a fearsome face. “Damnation, but if I didn’t sound exactly like Mother just then.”

“You weren’t anywhere as severe with them as she might have been, so be of good cheer,” I said.

“It’s myself I should be severe with, standing by and talking about taking you to Mandy Winkle’s with the two of ’em hanging about with their ears flapping. Those damned Mohocks came straight back here when we slipped ’em and waited. Good God, we’ll be murdered in our beds next.”

“I think not,” said Elizabeth. “At least not right away.”

“Come again?”

“They’re probably off having a celebration. After all, they think they were successful. Until they learn better, they’re under the mistaken impression that Jonathan is dead.”

That silenced us a moment. Then Oliver began to laugh.

“Well-a-day, but won’t they be in for the shock of a lifetime when they find out differently?”

“Until they get over it and try again,” I put in, sobering him. “And who’s to say they might not try for you as well? Or Elizabeth?”

“By heavens, if they do—”

“They won’t. I’ll see to that before another hour’s past.”

“What?”

“There’s plenty of night left; I’ve time enough to track down Ridley and his crew and sort them out for good.” That was putting it in the most mild of terms. When I found them I’d probably wring their necks. And enjoy it.

Elizabeth must have sensed the anger churning in me and gently touched my arm. “Stay home, little brother. Please. You’ve been through too much already for one evening.”

“Yes, and it’s to prevent my going through more of it that I must go out again as soon as possible. As you said, they’ll be congratulating themselves over my demise. What better time to deal with them?” My every instinct forbade waiting. If I left things until tomorrow evening, who knows what mischief Ridley’s friends might accomplish while I slept through the day? There was no reason to think they’d limit their activities only to the hours of darkness.

“He won’t go alone, Elizabeth,” Oliver said, standing up.

“Oh, yes, he will,” I countered.

“But, Jonathan—”

“Believe me, Coz, there’s no better man I’d want along to help, but I’d be distracted worrying for your safety. Mine I need not be so concerned about. Besides, you know perfectly well I can travel alone faster and with less notice.”

“You’ll still need help once you find them, or do you propose thrashing the whole lot all on your own?”

“I’m not thrashing anyone unless they force it on me. First I find Ridley and make sure he is indeed the one behind this attack.”

“Surely there’s no doubt of that.”

“Not in my mind, but I have to see why my influence didn’t last on him.”

“How will you find him, though? If you wait till the morrow I can—”

“Not one minute more. I’ll go to his flat. He may have returned by now, and if not then to Arthur Tyne’s. I was too polite with the butler earlier; this time I’ll get some names out of him.” Perhaps I’d wring his neck, too. Arthur, not the butler.

“What will you do?” Elizabeth asked, wearing a troubled expression. “Not that I give a fig for their welfare, but I wouldn’t want your conscience troubling you later with regrets.”

My conscience is my own business
, I thought glumly.

“It makes you too difficult to live with,” she added with a crooked smile.

I looked at her. She was trying to be light, but her eyes told me the lie of it.

“What will you do?” she asked again.

I patted her hand. “Not to worry, I’ll stay within the law.”
Or try to
, I
added to myself, shrugging off my dressing gown. Jericho was in the entry hall holding my cloak ready.

“That did
not
answer my question!” she bellowed as I hurried from the room.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I’d not noticed the wind before quitting the ground. Insubstantial as I appeared to be, skimming across the sky like a wisp of invisible cloud, there was yet enough of me left to feel its effect and have to fight it. But my strength had returned, so the struggle was more annoyance than trial. A clandestine stop in a nearby stable provided me a swift and much-needed physical recuperation. Normally I’d not bother courting the risk of discovery by supping on a neighbor’s stock, but our driver and lads were wide awake and like to remain so for longer than I’d wanted to wait. Rather than influencing them all to sleep I simply went elsewhere for my meal. With its red fire still fresh on my tongue and glowing hot in my limbs, I found a recuperation had taken place in my heart as well as my body, inspiring me to an even greater determination to sort things out with Ridley and his ilk.

Rooftop and tree, park and street rushed beneath my shadowless form as I sped in a nearly straight line from Oliver’s house toward the dingy square where Ridley lived. Even though my memory of how to get there was from a much lower perspective than the one I presently enjoyed, I had no trouble finding the way. Unwilling to give up the advantage of so fine an outlook, I solidified on the roof of his building to have a good look at things before going in.

The square below was as quiet as could be expected in London, even at this small an hour on a winter night. A few figures paced along on their own obscure errands, some wearing rags and their walk unsteady, probably from gin, others more respectably garbed, but no less tottery in their gait. I dismissed them, peering closely into the darkest corners within view. All were empty except for a narrow gap between buildings where a tart was busy earning money. If her bored expression held any clue to her true thoughts, then her patron had no talent for his purpose. After ascertaining by his humble clothing that he wasn’t likely to be part of Ridley’s circle, I left them to it and partially vanished.

Moving down the front of the building I found what I guessed to be the window to Ridley’s sitting room, it being hard to see anything through the glass while in this state. But it was the work of only a moment to vanish altogether, seep through the cracks, and re-form just on the other side of the closed curtain.

I’d found the right flat. All was dark and silent. Apparently he was not yet home. Probably out getting drunk or plotting new crimes, the bastard. I drew breath for a soft curse to express my disgust and froze.

Bloodsmell
—so
thick on the air I could taste it: the hair on my nape quivered to attention, and my knees locked immobile as recognition tore through me. I knew by the scent that it was human blood.

So strong was the urge to leave, I nearly faded away and shot back through the window again. When my nerves settled to the point where I could think, I held as still as possible and listened. I sensed many other people in the building, but none in this room or the next. I was alone. Moving cautiously and with leaden feet toward the bedroom door, I paused at the sight of a bold red smear marking the threshold. It was like a line drawn by a bully daring me to cross.

But the bully was dead, I found, when I worked up the courage to look.

The curtain for the window in here was pulled aside, allowing me ample outside light to see every horrid detail. Ridley sprawled on his back across the bed and was the source of the bloodsmell.

His throat was cut.

The blood from that fearful wound saturated the bed linens and his clothing, for he was fully dressed, and a puddle of it stained the floor. His white face was turned to one side, toward me. His eyes were eyes partly open, sending the hackles up along my nape, for he seemed to be aware of my presence. It was fancy only, as I discovered when I stepped into the room, and his gaze remained fixed in one spot. Not that that brought any comfort; my teeth were chattering again.

It required a great effort to master myself and closely examine the room for any sign of who might have killed him and why. Considering the life he’d led, Ridley must have had many enemies; I was almost certain one of them had had his fill of the man and committed the deed.

Almost, for this death coming on the heels as it were of Clarinda’s failed scheme struck me as being too coincidental to ignore. Had she anything to do with this? That was impossible what with Edmond having locked her away. Might
he
have done this? Perhaps he’d overcome my influence and sought Ridley out with a mind to ensure the man’s permanent silence. It seemed unlikely. Besides, Edmond’s temper was the sort that might lead him bludgeon a man with his fists. This throat-cutting struck me as—well—
beneath
him somehow.

I could be wrong. I didn’t know Edmond that well.

The room was bare of anything that might be helpful toward linking Ridley’s bloody fate to any specific perpetrator. It was strewn with his clothing and other personal items in such a way as to confirm he had no servant. Thrown in one corner was the discarded costume he’d worn to the Bolyns’ masqued ball where so much mischief had sprouted. I turned this and other things over with a gingerly hand, reluctant to touch his property, as though what had happened to him might somehow taint me.

Ridiculous thought, but there it was, joining hard and close with the leaden suspicion that I had somehow brought about his death.

I searched through every cranny but found nothing that shouldn’t be there. Hidden in one of his boots was a small purse with guineas and a few lesser coins. I guessed it to have been a sort of emergency fund and put it back. Beyond that there were no papers—no letters of any sort, not even a discarded bill, which was extremely odd, though I didn’t exactly know what to make of it.

Going to the next room, I had to find a candle. There wasn’t enough light coming past its window’s closed curtain to serve, and I wasn’t going to change it lest the rattling of the rings on the rod be noticed and remembered later by his neighbors once word of this matter got out. Someone might hear me moving around and be curious enough to investigate, and I had no desire to draw attention to myself or these rooms until I’d finished with them. With shaking fingers I coaxed a spark from my tinderbox, begrudging even that small noise.

The single small flame was all I needed to resume my search, but if anyone asked what I might be looking for, I’d not be able to provide an answer.

The sitting room was not as I’d left it. Two things leaped forward: a chair was no longer pushed under its table, and an empty brandy bottle and glasses on the table had previously occupied the mantel. Had the murderer shared a drink with his victim to work up the courage to kill? Or, the deed done, had he revived himself for an escape? There were four glasses, all the ones in Ridley’s possession, all with traces of brandy at the bottom. Four murderers? Five, if another drank right from the bottle. Even six or more if they shared. Six Mohocks had chased me earlier, but why would Ridley’s own men kill him? Or had those six been part of some rival group of troublemakers?

I could carry this no further without more information.

It would be instructive to speak with the other tenants to learn if they’d heard or seen anything, but inquiry on my part would place me in a most serious position. I could influence people to completely forget my existence, but only for a time, and then might they talk amongst themselves of the gentleman asking questions about a murder prior to its discovery? Might that gentleman be the murderer himself? London was not so large a city that I could hide in it forever. The duel I’d fought was yet fresh in the minds of all I knew. Some might consider that Ridley and I crossed paths again and the resulting conflict yielded a less than honorable conclusion.

Not a speculation I wanted running about.

Ridley’s acquaintances would afford another and better outlet for my questions, but with them lay the same danger—unless from them I learned the name of the killer, hopefully one of their own number. Then could I influence the fellow into confessing, keeping myself removed from necessity of appearing before a judge.

I preferred that course over Edmond being the executioner. Were he behind this horror I’d not know what to do.

These thoughts rushed through my mind as I searched, each examined and put to one side like the items I sorted through, none of them helpful to the present situation.

Except for the chair and brandy being out of place from my earlier visit, and the fact there were still no papers to be found, nothing else seemed amiss in the sitting room.
Everyone
kept papers about their home, for even the illiterate found scraps useful for fire-lighting. That none were here was a singular oddity the significance of which I could not guess.

And now there was no more reason to delay a closer look at the most important source of information remaining to me, silent as he was.

I returned to the bedroom with the candlestick in hand, making sure to keep it below the level of the window. There was close work ahead; this little light was wanted to scour away any shadows. There was a risk someone might see from the street, but I was willing to take it so long as I missed nothing of import.

Careful to step well over the smear of blood at the entry, I squatted and held the candle near and determined the stain had been caused when someone had stepped into the pool by the bed and then tracked it to this point. Easy enough to follow the trail he’d left, he must have realized it, then tried to wipe the blood from his shoe by scraping its sole across the wood planks of the floor.

I looked closely at the puddle next to the bed and could make out the scuffing indicative of someone having had at least one of his shoes in the mess. Why would he find it necessary to stand in that spot? In my mind I put myself forward to stand in the same place to determine the answer. It came quickly. Ridley must have been sitting on the other side of the bed with his back to whoever else was in the room. That unknown man must have certainly leaned forward across the bed, perhaps with one knee on it, and one foot anchored on the floor for balance. With a knife in his hand, he could drag its sharp edge hard through Ridley’s throat, then retreat, letting the body fall backwards toward him. Thus would he be spared of the initial spray of blood; it would instead strike the wall Ridley faced.

Indeed, to confirm this there was a fearful splashing over its otherwise plain surface. Anyone who had ever seen a hog hauled up by its hind legs for butchering would understand how the blood would spurt from a man in much the same manner and take care to avoid it.

Then might the killer have stood a moment over his victim, looking down at the final struggles to hold on to life, waiting until it had run out. Ridley’s hands and arms were covered in dark, dried gore. He’d put them to his throat in a futile effort to stay the flow. His last sight must have been of his murderer backing toward the doorway.

Going around the narrow bed, I began a reluctant search of Ridley’s pockets. It was impossible to avoid contact with his blood. Though my appetite was so completely altered that blood had become the single support of my existence, in this case I felt the same pity and repugnance anyone might feel. So distracting was it that I could barely control the tremor in my hands; I nearly missed the thin fold of paper secreted deep in one pocket of his waistcoat. Surprised, I carefully drew it forth, turning it over once.

The outside surface was damp, but it had been closely folded so the inside part had been protected from damage. Given the fact no other paper was in the whole of the place, I hoped that this one piece would provide some important insight to his death.

It did, but not in a form I could have ever anticipated.

I took it into the other room to spread it flat on the table. The staining ruined a portion of what was evidently a letter. The upper half of the page was gone, the ink and blood blending and obscuring everything. The lower part was yet readable:

. . .
an unsettling, dangerous fellow. I do not believe it will reflect badly upon my manhood to admit I harbor a cold fear of this Mr Barrett and of what he might do. He is handy with his blade, as he proved to my chagrin at the Bolyns’, though I was intoxicated at the time. Upon reflection I realize now how my drunken remarks coming from so befuddled a brain insensed him to the point of giving challenge that night. But I doubt his defeating me then has ended the matter, for he and his cousin, Dr Marling, have made it obvious they bear me much ill will.

I hope that by inviting Barrett to meet with me he will hear my sober and contrite apology and we might then calmly settle the differences between us, but if not, then I expect we shall have to have another trial of honor. As I am not yet recovered from the cut I got at the previous encounter, I cannot be certain the outcome will prove favorable to me, unless he relents and gives me leave to delay things until I am better able to defend myself. If at the conclusion of my conversation with him I must cross with him again, then I should be desirous that you act as my second as you did before. I don’t reckon him to be quite so ill-bred as to force a conflict without going through the proper forms, but in the event that I am wrong, I hope this letter will find its way to you so you will let others know the truth of things.