The Delicate Dependency: A Novel of the Vampire Life (45 page)

With a resurgence of painful resignation she said, “Then I will accompany you.” Again something in her winced. “But Niccolo...” she murmured. “We can’t just let him slip away from us.”

She turned to Ursula.

“You must follow him.”

Ursula’s eyes darted toward me for acceptance. In light of the peril of such an undertaking I writhed at the notion of letting her pursue this seraphim of a darker realm.

“Father, please,” she begged. “All I’ve ever wanted was your approval. I understand the risks involved. I want to help.”

“She has already proved herself to be extraordinarily resourceful and capable,” Dr. von Neefe added. “I will put her in contact with Dr. Weber for advice and counsel. She will not be able to wire us while we are in transit, but she will be able to wire him at the university. For the sake of little Camille we cannot let this chance pass us by.”

I looked again at Ursula standing before me in the garb of the New Woman. Expectedly, she still prickled at Dr. von Neefe’s assistance. Ursula was such a proud creature, but the hope and need in her eyes struck me to my soul. I looked again at the portmanteau. It was unheard of to allow a female to undertake such a dangerous and responsible mission, let alone one’s daughter. It went against everything I had been taught. In the whirlwind of my confusion I recalled a little boy who had stood before his father, longing, wishing with every fiber of his existence that insight would somehow transcend tradition.

“Very well,” I consented.

We sent out for a couturier to outfit Dr. von Neefe. For her dress she was content with plain brown cotton. As for her outer garment, she was not happy until she had a tweed cloak and ulster. In the short time permitted we were unable to obtain a two-peaked cap. I was terribly angry with her, particularly in light of the gravity of our situation, although I discerned new significance in her Sherlock Holmesian attire. In view of her new identity as a vampire hunter, several other quirks of her character made more sense as well—her unladylike aggressiveness at the British Museum, her resourcefulness in seeking out the Services en Commun, her artful display of lock picking when we first broke into des Esseintes’s house.

I was also struck by something else. I had underestimated the woman I had known as Lady Dunaway. I had seen certain unusual and admirable traits in her, but I had not foreseen the intellect or the full scope of the personality now before us. Indeed, the fact that she had been able to carry off such a masquerade so unwaveringly was a tribute to her ever surprising will. Although I did not tell her, these new insights into the woman I now knew as Dr. Hespeth von Neefe only increased my already marked esteem of her. I was still deeply chafed by her hoodwinking me, but another equally powerful emotion swelled within me. Although I tried to conceal it, and didn’t even quite want to admit it to myself, I was intrigued and fascinated by her newly revealed line of work.

It was afternoon when we finally bid Ursula a tortured farewell and left the Hotel Madeleine. On the way to the Gare du Nord we stopped to wire Dr. Leberecht Weber at the University of Vienna. Dr. von Neefe was taken aback when I insisted on reading the message and address for myself. I was not going to take any chances. Considering the knavery she had perpetrated already, I thought such an action was completely justified. The address appeared to be legitimate and the message was an innocuous and brief account of our status as well as an introduction for Ursula. During the day when Niccolo was sleeping Ursula was to wire Dr. Weber from the resting point and wait for his counsel by return wire.

We had but one purpose in returning to London: to get
Camillus influenzae
away from Dr. Cletus Hardwicke. I did not know exactly how we were going to achieve this. I knew we could not waste time bringing in the authorities. Not only would this give Cletus time to formulate some plan of evasion, but it also would give the vampire more time and opportunity to intercept us. I had only one option: to take my old adversary by surprise and confront him myself. I did not know how I would retrieve my work. I only knew from the rage and hatred within me that I would succeed.

At last we reached the Gare du Nord and purchased one-way tickets to Dunkerque. Even though it was the middle of the sunny afternoon I was apprehensive. Dr. von Neefe’s words kept passing through my mind.
For the sake of his survival alone he will be intent upon recapturing us.
I looked around at the crowded bookstalls and the waiting rooms. There was the typical rush and bustle.
If your suspicions are correct... that the vampire are involved in some sort of vast design, they may be willing to risk everything to get us back.

We had no luggage. We went directly to the boarding line. There were perhaps twenty people ahead of us. It was the same at the other gates up and down the cast-iron supports of the roof. The queues were backed up and at the head of each line was a conductor punching tickets and two men in plain clothes checking papers. I looked at the station bar behind us. It had been gaslit and busy when we had first arrived in Paris. Now it was closed, but several conservatively dressed gentlemen still leaned against the counter. People were grumbling all around us. It was unusual for the queue to be moving so slowly.

I looked again at the two plainclothesmen at the head of each line, and back at Dr. von Neefe. She did not seem particularly worried about them. I snapped my fingers and motioned for a porter. “Could you please find out what is taking so long?” I said, producing a sizable banknote. His eyes twinkled at me knowingly. He strolled up to the gate and scuffed about with a perfect air of slovenly disinterest. It was obvious he was an old hand at it. He asked one of the men for a light and casually perused the papers he was holding. He engaged in a brief discussion and then walked away. Instead of coming directly back he assisted a lady with her luggage. I glanced at the men at the station bar. They were looking in the opposite direction.

At last the porter returned to me. “They’re Agents de Sûreté,
monsieur.
They are looking for an Englishman. It is said he stole a vast fortune of jewels from a wealthy gentleman on the Île Saint-Louis.” He winked at me shrewdly. “May I suggest,
monsieur,
that you go down the street and take the stagecoach to Chantilly. From there you can take the railway to the coast.” I nodded and covertly pressed another bill into his hands. Thank God it was a day and age when porters had to help the passengers—or starve.

Dr. von Neefe made a pretense of ruffling through her cloak and forgetting something. I shrugged my shoulders with commiseration and we sedately turned to leave. In the flurry of the crowd no one paid any attention. We slowly made our way to the door. I turned one last time and looked at the men leaning against the counter of the station bar. Their eyes were still on the gates.

We walked through the exit into the street. I was about to squeeze Dr. von Neefe’s hand when we walked face to face into Grelot. He was fashionably dressed in a dark frock-coated suit. His hair was pomaded. The falcon perched upon his arm.

“
Bonjour,
Monsieur le Docteur, were you going somewhere?” He lifted the hood from the falcon. A third of its body and the side of its face were singed and blistered. It ruffled what few remaining feathers it had left against the nauseating gray of its flesh. It leveled its enraged eyes upon me. It gave a low and guttural rasp of recognition.

“We were wondering which station we would intercept you at.”

“What are you going to do?” Dr. von Neefe demanded.

“Nothing if you will slowly walk toward that waiting carriage.” He nodded at des Esseintes’s black hansom across the street The same liveried boy sat in the driver’s seat, waiting patiently for us.

“And if we don’t?” I asked.

For the first time since I had known him “little bell” broke into a grin. “I will allow this falcon to make its reparations.”

“I think not.”

The smile was short-lived. “Do not tempt me, Docteur.”

“Do not try to make me believe what is not true.”

“What do you mean?”

“The station is crawling with police officers. I do not think you will make the falcon attack us in front of so many witnesses. Don’t you realize you would be sent to the guillotine for that?”

It was obvious Grelot was not an intelligent man and had not considered that possibility. He was visibly shaken. He looked first in my eyes and then in Dr. von Neefe’s. “You would not take the risk.”

“Oh, wouldn’t we?” I said, taking Dr. von Neefe’s hand. She hesitated, but then turned.

“Stop!” Grelot called behind us as we slowly walked away.

I could feel it, feel the falcon’s rabid eyes burning into my back. It gave another feverish and grating cry.

“I warn you for the last time: Stop!”

We continued to walk away, expecting at any second to hear the falcon take to the air. But it did not. When we had traveled a good distance down the street I turned to see Grelot standing and shifting his weight from foot to foot, speechless. When we reached the carriage stables there was already a stagecoach loading. The driver motioned for our luggage, but when I told him we had none he motioned for us to get in. Once seated on the fusty, straw-stuffed cushions inside I looked back at the station. Grelot had overcome his stupor and rushed inside. I did not have to be told why. He was frantically enlisting the aid of the Agents de Sûreté to track down the thieves who had “stolen” Monsieur des Esseintes’s fortune in gems. I leaned out the window. “When is this coach due to leave?” I inquired.

“We’re already ten minutes overdue,
monsieur,
but I’ve had instructions we’re to delay for some old lady.”

I looked back at the station. By now he had surely attracted the attention of the men at the station bar and was explaining the situation.

At last an elderly lady appeared in a mammoth hat with netting, hobbling and talking a mile a minute to her browbeaten maid. The lady motioned to her footman to take care of her trunks.

I looked again at the station. They still had not appeared.

The old dowager grunted and heaved, taking an impossible length of time to step up into the coach. Her spiritless maid assisted ineffectively from behind. At last, amid a ponderous flurry of knitting, penny dreadfuls, and boxes of bonbons she settled into the seat and forced her servant to position herself in the remaining crevice.

In the distance the plainclothesmen appeared in front of the station and madly looked around. Grelot broke into the street and pointed at the coach.

Oblivious, the driver cracked his whip at the horses and we started to roll away. The faint sound of whistles met our ears. I casually peered out the rear window and saw the plainclothesmen running and waving wildly for us to stop. We picked up speed. It was too late. For the moment they had lost us.

From Chantilly we took the train to Boulogne without incident, and I told Dr. von Neefe all of the intricacies of my past experiences with Hardwicke. It was while standing on the deck of the ferry and gazing at the dark and foggy waters that I began to realize something else about the woman beside me. I sensed her presence, sensed it reaching out toward me, but in the same stream of thought I sensed something else. There had been something very unintimidating about Lady Dunaway. She had exuded something comforting and frumpy, and that was no longer present in Dr. von Neefe. It had not occurred to me before, but there was a new edge to her character. There was something detached and even clinical about her and it frightened me a little.

It was on the train from Hastings that a startling thought occurred to me. The falcon was Monsieur des Esseintes’s heavy artillery—his trump card, as it were. Since it was logical for him to assume I would be traveling south in pursuit of Camille, it would have made more sense for him to send Grelot with the falcon to the Gare de Lyon and send someone else to the Gare du Nord. However, he had sent Grelot and the falcon to the Gare du Nord. That seemed to indicate he knew there was something drawing me to London, something even more urgent than the pursuit of my daughter. Did he know about
Camillus influenzae
and Cletus’s interference? Had he understood and anticipated my fear, a fear powerful enough to wrench me away even from little Camille? And if so,
how?
What was Monsieur des Esseintes’s involvement in London?

We arrived at the station in the dead of the night It was their time again. Monsieur des Esseintes had most certainly wired the vampire population of the city There was no telling how many of them would be out looking for us.

We had to reach Bond Street without being spotted. It would be pure idiocy to approach the house from the front. There was only one possibility. To most discerning eyes the garden enclosed by the terrace houses was completely sealed off from the street. However, between two of the houses flanking the rear of the garden there was a gap of three feet, which had been sealed off with rose trellises. My one hope was that they were unaware of this passage. Running parallel to Bond was Albemarle. If we took a circuitous route to Albemarle we might be able to make it through the rear entrance without being seen.

We approached Albemarle cautiously. There was no one. As stealthily as possible I pried back the trellises, scratching my hands painfully on the thorns. At every second we expected a voice to stop us. All was silent. We passed through the narrow passage and moved slowly into the garden. I looked at the chestnuts and the lilacs and the astrolabe resting solemnly in the starlight. The garden appeared empty. We stole softly through. I turned the latchkey in the back door and we slipped inside.

We found Cook wandering around in her flannel nightgown. She was pale and frightened and talking a mile a minute about people knocking at the door in the middle of the night and prowlers. In the midst of her dither she interjected something about rashers of bacon and breakfast, but food was the last thing on our minds. After calming her I rushed to my laboratory and discovered what I had so dreaded. I had known it was true, but seeing it with my own eyes still had its effect upon me. The glass cubicle was empty. The living rabbit containing
Camillus influenzae
was gone as well as all of my notes and research. Perhaps I had a bit of a mysterious and unknown force in my own heart, for something told me we could not waste a single second.