The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life (44 page)

“Who are you?” I repeated.

“What’s in a name?” she asked impassively. She demanded no absolution. She began to pace again and then stopped, looked at us, and glared. “I lied. Your daughter has done her research well. I really was talking to the music-box bird when you overheard me in the playroom. I purposefully did not quell your suspicions because I did not want you to know the truth—that there is no Ambrose. There never was.”

She showed signs of resuming her pacing when she realized we were still aghast. “Oh, come now, Dr. Gladstone, is there any use in my telling the truth? I might ask the same question you inquired of your daughter. Is there any possibility that you could ever accept what I said?”

“Only if you give me the chance.”

Without further argument she said: “Your daughter might also tell you that the Social Register lists Lord Dunaway’s wife as Sarah. In truth, I have no idea what Lucien and Sarah’s matrimonial life is like. As for myself, my real name is Hespeth von Neefe, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit. I am a member of that disparaged and ridiculed breed, the vampire hunter.”

She stood proudly after reciting the words, as one who had just revealed the Gospel to the pagans.

“How do I know you are telling the truth?”

She spied a fountain pen on the bureau, dipped it in ink, and scrawled across a piece of stationery:
Dr. Leberecht Weber, University of Vienna.
“You may ask Dr. Weber of my credentials.”

“Who will vouch for Dr. Weber’s credentials?”

“The University of Vienna as well as half of the academic world,” she said indignantly. “He is a renowned philologist and folklorist. Naturally, the university knows nothing of his pursuit of the vampire.”

Dr. von Neefe proceeded to draw a picture of what it meant to be a vampire hunter that was quite contrary to what I was prepared for. I had assumed that she and her colleagues carried stakes and hated Niccolo and his kind, but nothing was farther from the truth. The network of vampire hunters consisted largely of scholars and a few wealthy eccentrics. They knew the vampire existed. They studied their historical traces, and the actual rare meeting between mortal and vampire. Most of all, however, they were drawn to and enchanted by the vampire. The rabble may have viewed the vampire as loathsome and monstrous, but to the well-fed and intellectual upper classes their world was a glittering ultima Thule. They hunted the vampire because they envied them. They were drawn to them out of a sort of romantic vision, as any scholar might be drawn to his field of pursuit.

“Why didn’t you tell me about yourself in the beginning?” I asked when she had finished.

“You wouldn’t have taken me seriously. It was much more expedient to appeal to your emotions.”

“Do you think I will take you seriously now?”

“I believe you will.”

“Why?”

“Because you have been through a great deal.
We
have been through a great deal. The unbelievable has become a part of your everyday life. I think you are much more willing to believe me when I tell you I am deadly serious in my line of work. I think you can now understand what it means when I say I am haunted by Niccolo and Lodovico. You see, my uncle was a vampire hunter, as my grandfather before him. My grandfather actually met Niccolo briefly, in Vienna. My grandfather’s crumbling diary describes in detail the same youthful and disarming face we know today. Look and see.”

She withdrew the locket from around her neck and opened it to display a painted miniature and an engraving. The miniature was of a craggy and moonstruck old gentleman with ruffled white hair and porkchop sideburns. The engraving was in a style reminiscent of the old German masters. The subject was undeniably Niccolo.

“You see, I am on an ancestral spiritual quest. I am motivated by a desire perhaps even more deeply felt than your own.”

“What of Niccolo’s warning? Did you make that up?”

“No,” she said distantly. “It is true it was not delivered to me, but I did not make it up. It was given to my grandfather one snowy evening in that city of the harpsichord and the waltz.”

“What do you know of the vampire that I”—I looked at Ursula—“we don’t know?”

The tension in the air had lessened. The haggard woman walked over to a chair before the window and sat down. “Very little, I think. Dr. Weber and I have scoured the genealogies of kings and the graves of a hundred famous men and women. We and our colleagues have discovered the names of a dozen or so suspect personalities. For example, there are some who believe the entity who was to become Sir Francis Bacon has appeared throughout history under a number of different identities. They cite evidence that his funeral in 1626 was a mock funeral and assert that he later appeared in Germany under the name of Johann Valentin Andreae. It is true engravings of Andreae and Sir Francis Bacon are uncannily similar, but who can say? The exact dates of births and deaths before the nineteenth century are limited to parish records, and even these are sketchy and difficult to track down.”

She looked at me with uncertainty. “You recall des Esseintes spoke of the references in the first English translation of the Bible to the vampire or
lamya
. It was Sir Francis Bacon who edited the King James version of the Bible and changed all references of the vampire to ‘sea monsters.’” She searched for the fountain pen once again and scribbled a note to herself. “I must wire that to Leberecht.”

“What of the work of the vampire—what do you know about that?”

Her expression became very serious as she looked out the window and nervously wrung her hands together. “As I have said, it is very difficult to obtain information on them. We believe they have been among us at least since antiquity and probably before. We know that on occasion they have mingled with kings and even infiltrated the highest offices in the land, but we do not know the true extent of their involvement in our cultures, the amount of their influence, or their ultimate purpose.”

“You must have some theories.”

She turned to us again. “There are those who say they are tampering with history. I do not know. I do know one thing: Their abduction of your daughter was a most astonishing act. Under ordinary circumstances they prefer to remain behind the scenes and perform their deeds indirectly, by influence and trick. That they would act so boldly and directly is most unusual. It must be a very special time for the vampire. Something very urgent is at hand, a major turning point.”

I recalled the similar remark of Madame Villehardouin, but I was befuddled. How on earth did my little Camille fit in? What possible consequence could my innocuous daughter have upon the matrix of history? I noticed that Dr. von Neefe had once again lapsed into her troubled meditation out the window. The trees on the Left Bank shone brightly in the sun, but it was not the scenery that disturbed her. It was something she was not telling us.

Dr. von Neefe, you still have not offered your beliefs on why they are doing these things. Is there some malevolent purpose to it?”

She regarded us pointedly “I do not know. That is why I was so reluctant to leave Monsieur des Esseintes’s house.

I felt I was getting closer to the truth. What that truth is I only wish I knew. There are some who believe there is a very definite evil close at hand, some danger. I”—she shook her head—“I just don’t know I don’t believe there is. I don’t want to believe. Dr. Weber has always proposed that the game of the mind is only an illusion, a side effect due to the vastly different rationale of our thinking and existence. He has done much research on encounters between
widely
dissimilar cultures—”

That’s preposterous. Niccolo’s deception was no side effect. He lied and created confusion for a specific purpose. His meeting with the woman in the garden is also no side effect, and the fact that the woman is apparently a
professeur
at the Sorbonne is no coincidence. They have a very definite interest in scientists, and their intentions are most definitely evil. They are sowing confusion and their objective is to drive their victims mad.”

A look of horror crossed her face. “How do you know that?”

I told her in detail about Dr. Chiswick, the engineer at Oxford, and the doctor in Liverpool. I told her all the other things that fit in as well, Madame Villehardouin’s words and des Esseintes’s meticulous scouring of a profusion of newspapers and scientific journals. I had not seen the
Aerology Quarterly
among them, but I had no doubt that it was there, that des Esseintes or Lodovico or some other of their number had spied the article on dirigibles by M. W. Radner and for unknown reasons sent out their minions to begin the game.

Profound disappointment shone in both women’s faces, although Dr. von Neefe’s expression had a stamp different from Ursula’s. In Dr. von Neefe’s features was a subtle indication she already knew or at least had considered what I was saying. It was also obvious she did not want to believe it. She shook her head slowly.

“Perhaps you are wrong. Your evidence is all very circumstantial.”

“I don’t think you believe I am wrong.”

She said nothing, but her grim countenance revealed her answer. She turned again toward the window.

“Why were you sometimes absent from your cell when I called to you?”

Without turning she replied, “There was a secret entrance. Des Esseintes often sent for me.”

“Why?”

“He is a creature of exceptional cunning. He met with each of us separately to gain a free hand in dividing us, setting us against one another.”

“Did he know your real name or that you were a vampire hunter?”

“No.”

I was skeptical. “But certainly des Esseintes could have looked you up in the Social Register just as Ursula did and discovered that you were lying. Why on earth didn’t he?”

“Because of my passport,” she answered simply. “As you yourself have seen, my passport does list my fraudulent identity. I have certain connections that enabled me to obtain a forged passport printed on official paper and with legitimate government seals. Because the passport itself proved genuine Monsieur des Esseintes did not question the information it contained.”

Still another question surfaced in my mind. “But why did you behave so strangely and refuse to speak with me about your disappearances?”

“I was afraid. I remembered Niccolo’s warning to my grandfather”—she fingered the locket—“to tmst no one. Des Esseintes used that to make me suspicious of you, to drive us apart.”

Suddenly Ursula stepped forward. “I have a question: How did you know it was Niccolo who had kidnapped Camille? When you read about it in the newspapers how could you be so sure it was the vampire?” The acuity of her inquiry pleased me.

“Because of this,” Lady Dunaway—or Dr. von Neefe— asserted and pounded her bosom with her fist. “There is something in my heart that guides me. I am compelled. It is my destiny. I think you may comprehend even more fully than your father the nature of this special obsession. We are seekers of a magical world, you and I. We are possessed by a mysterious and unknown force. All I can say is that, inexplicably, the moment I read about your little sister in the papers I knew with complete conviction it was the work of the vampire.”

In her typically proud and aloof way Ursula prickled at the comparison between herself and the older woman. Dr. von Neefe noticed this, seemed disappointed by it, but took it in stride.

“I have another question,” Ursula continued. She directed it to both of us. “What will Monsieur des Esseintes do about your escape?”

Dr. von Neefe answered. “About that I think we can both agree. For the sake of his survival alone he will be intent upon recapturing us. If your suspicions are correct, Dr. Gladstone, that the vampire are involved in some sort of vast design, they may be willing to risk everything to get us back.”

“There is but one thing for me to do,” I said.

“Yes,” the older woman replied. “If your daughter is correct about Niccolo’s booking passage at the Gare de Lyon, we must follow him.”

“No,” I said.

At this Dr. von Neefe’s eyes widened in shock. “What do you mean?”

“I have discovered my life’s work is in the hands of a man of no integrity. It is imperative I return to London.” An unreasonable rage returned to her face. “You can’t be serious! You mustn’t abandon this chance. If’—she faltered—“if you are correct about the vampire, somehow your daughter seems to be the crux. Surely you must realize Niccolo is leading us right to her.”

“Of course, I realize it. Ilga herself told me Camille was somewhere in Italy.”

“And your work is more important to you than your own daughter?”

“No!” I snapped angrily. “I have much greater concerns than my investment in my research or even my daughter. Do you remember what I told you about the virus I was working on? You yourself recognized how potentially dangerous it is. It is a strain of
influenzae
that completely lacks antigenicity. You are intelligent enough to know what would happen if it were ever released.” I shook my head. “You do not know this man as I know him. I know it is the height of folly to return to London, to the very place they’ll be looking for me, but if
Camillus influenzae
were to be handled improperly, more than just Camille’s life may be in danger.”

Dr. von Neefe stormed toward me. “But—” she sputtered. “You—” And then another change shot through her face. It was as if she suddenly realized the seriousness of the situation. With wrenching reluctance she said, “Very well, London. We will go to London first.”

“We?”

“As you said yourself, Dr. Gladstone, we have had our differences, but we are still in this together. Won’t you understand? Won’t you forgive? We are still striving for a compatible goal, you and I. Given our ignorance of what dangers lie before us, isn’t there still an advantage to our working together?”

Was there? A thousand little doubts flitted about my mind. I still harbored a great deal of resentment over what she had done, even mistrust.

“Very well. If you wish to accompany me, you may. I must warn you, however, you will not sway me from my decision.”