Fiona gasped. ‘Highgate? So it’s not just one of them hanging out in the cemetery - there’s loads of them?’
April smiled. ‘I thought I was the one with the gothic imagination. That’s if you believe it, of course. His theory was that they’d been living among us for centuries and have been killing at will and using their influence in society to keep it quiet.’
Suddenly April had another thought: if the Vampire Regent existed and was calling the shots, then it followed that he might have ordered her father’s death for getting too close to the truth, whatever that was. Maybe Gabriel had been ordered to kill her dad - and Isabelle and Alix - so maybe it was the Regent she should be chasing. That’s if he even existed.
Fiona was shaking her head. ‘There’s so much to take in, isn’t there?’ she said. ‘What do you think? Do you think that book is right?’
‘I don’t know whether there are vampires or not, or if there’s some king ruling over them all - frankly it could all be complete rubbish. What I’m interested in is why Isabelle Davis wanted the book. It’s more than a bit odd that the last person wanting Kingsley-Davis’s book is the same woman who was brutally murdered in the cemetery.’
‘And maybe your dad saw it too,’ said Fiona quietly.
April was nodding. ‘And now I’ve seen it.’
‘Now I’m scared,’ said Fiona, pulling a queasy expression.
April found to her surprise that she wasn’t at all frightened. The only thing that mattered to her right now was getting to the truth, and if that put her in danger, then so be it.
‘The one thing I keep coming back to is that Isabelle and my dad were investigating the same thing.’ She bit her lip and looked directly at her friend. ‘You see, it doesn’t really matter whether you believe in vampires or not. Clearly the people wrapped up in it do, so we can’t dismiss it entirely.’
Fiona looked at April with dawning understanding, and then made a severe face. ‘You’re not thinking of tracking down Gabriel and confronting him?’ She glanced around and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘If there’s even a chance he’s your dad’s killer, you want to stay as far away from him as possible.’
‘But Fee, whether he’s the killer or not, he knows more than he’s telling me and I need to know what happened to my dad.’
Fiona put her hand on April’s arm. ‘No, because in teen slasher movies, whenever the kids go after the killer, they always end up dead.’
‘Not in
scooby-Doo.’
‘Scooby-Doo
is fictional.’
‘So’s Dracula, so are teen slasher movies - so what are you worrying about?’
Fiona’s expression was serious. ‘I’m worried because people are actually being killed here - or haven’t you noticed?’
‘Of course I’ve noticed,’ snapped April, the light-hearted note gone from her voice. ‘My dad is dead and I’ve got to find out who hurt him. I was kneeling down there while he was dying, with his blood all over me,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘The police are clueless and if we don’t get the killer, then I think I might go nuts, Fee. And you know what else? I think more people might die too.’
Fiona grabbed her and held her tight. ‘Okay, honey. We’ll do it. We’ve just got to be careful, okay? No heroics.’
April nodded. ‘It’s a deal.’
‘One thing though?’
‘What?’
‘If this is
Scooby-Doo,
I’m Daphne.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
The weather was just right for the funeral. Overcast, with spots of rain and a cold wind swirling up the last of the autumn leaves. They all left the house, shoulders hunched, and walked slowly around the square and across South Grove. As April had predicted, she didn’t know many of the people following them on the short walk to St Michael’s church, each one in uniform black, each one looking grave and respectful, some dabbing at tears. April herself could not cry. Somehow it didn’t feel real. But then, there at the end of the aisle was the coffin, covered in flowers, and suddenly her knees felt weak.
‘You okay?’ asked Fiona, taking April’s arm, squeezing her hand tightly. She hadn’t left April’s side since she’d arrived that morning, and for that April was grateful.
April nodded and filed down to her seat at the front next to her mum and grandpa. Time stood still as the vicar went into his eulogy, recalling William’s sense of humour, his dedication, his love for his family, talking as if he were an old friend. April knew he was being kind, trying to help them through this, but she couldn’t help feeling annoyed.
You didn’t know him,
she thought,
he was my dad. He loved
me. Even so, she went through the motions, saying the prayers, singing the hymns, but it all felt so remote, like some weird movie she was watching from a distance. It felt so wrong that a man who had been so full of life and excitement could be so quiet and still now. After the readings were over, they all filed out and climbed into a line of shiny black cars for the short drive down to the cemetery. April was glad that the one-way restrictions on Swain’s Lane meant that they had to loop around down West Hill and back up, so she didn’t have to watch the graves passing by on the other side of the road. Instead she concentrated on the rain dotting onto the window, the droplets joining together and forming little rivulets running down the windows. Finally, the hearse and the following car turned through the gates and parked. April stepped out and sucked in the cold air.
Fiona was there beside her, her arm linked with April’s. She smiled and nodded encouragingly. ‘You can do this,’ she whispered. ‘For your dad.’
April nodded. She had to be strong for her mum, too. Silvia was a wreck, walking unsteadily on her high heels, gulping at the air; Grandpa Thomas was virtually holding her up, one huge arm around her. The vicar came over to say a few words to Silvia, then approached April. He had a round face and red cheeks and his eyes were kind.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss, April,’ he said. ‘William was a good man.’
April nodded politely.
‘I always looked forward to our chats,’ said the vicar. The priest saw April’s quizzical expression and smiled slightly. ‘Ah, perhaps he didn’t mention it, but he used to pop by every now and then. A most engaging fellow. And of course, if you ever need to talk, I’m always here.’
He patted her hand and returned to April’s mother, gesturing towards the steps.
What was all that about? thought April, frowning. What ‘chats’? We only moved to Highgate two weeks ago and Dad was never a particularly religious man. Was it something to do with the investigation?
She shook her head and forced herself to concentrate on the here and now as the pall-bearers hoisted William’s dark wood coffin onto their shoulders and began to walk up the hill to the tomb. The priest leading the way, chanting the ritual words as he walked. ‘Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and giving life to those in the tomb ...’
April was concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, doing her best not to stumble, silently thanking Fee for persuading her to wear ballet flats not heels. She stared at her feet and tried hard not to think how, on the way back down this hill, she would have said goodbye to her father for the very last time.
She looked up at strangely familiar graves and statues as they slowly climbed the hill. Angels and animals and unhappy renderings of Christ. Where a few days before they had reassured April, today they looked forlorn and powerless. Then she gasped and stumbled against Fiona.
‘What is it?’ she whispered.
‘Nothing,’ said April.
But it wasn’t nothing. Standing half-hidden by the foliage twenty metres back from the path, April had seen the man from the little white gatehouse. The one who had disappeared, the one Judith had claimed was a figment of her imagination. April thought about asking Fiona if she could see him, but she dismissed the idea.
There’s nothing wrong with me,
she thought,
I’m fine.
But when she looked up again, the man was gone.
‘I look
after
the graves,’ that was what he had said. April could only hope he was as good as his word, because now she could see William Dunne’s final resting place looming up ahead. The Hamilton vault resembled a tall Greek temple, with pillars to either side of an iron door and a pitched roof. To April, it looked like a miniature bank, and to her surprise the name above the door wasn’t ‘Hamilton’. It read ‘Vladescu’. Of course, her grandpa had told her he’d changed his name, but it was still a shock to see.
Is that who I am?
thought April miserably.
Now he’s gone, is that all I have left? Someone else’s name?
The door was already open and a table with a dark red velvet cloth laid over it was standing to one side of the entrance, while huge flower displays had been left to both sides of the steps. The pall-bearers gently laid the coffin down and the vicar began the ancient rites, the same words this hillside had heard over and over these past two hundred years.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’
April began to cry.
‘Into thy hands, O merciful Saviour, we commend thy servant William,’ continued the priest. ‘Receive him into the arms of thy mercy, into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the saints in light.’
The mourners all mumbled ‘Amen’; then, leaning on Grandpa Thomas’s shoulder, Silvia shuffled forwards and, with a great sob, placed a white rose on the coffin as the vicar made the sign of the cross and began to intone: ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down, like a flower; he fleets as a shadow and cannot stay. In the midst of life we are in death ...’
April stepped forwards and placed her own flower on the coffin. ‘I love you, Daddy,’ she whispered.
‘We therefore commit his body to this resting place; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of resurrection to eternal life ...’
Each of the mourners stepped forwards in turn, then the priest signalled to the pall-bearers, who lifted the coffin into the tomb as they all muttered the Lord’s Prayer over Silvia’s sobs.
‘Forgive us our trespasses ...’
Finally, the priest stepped forwards to close the vault door. ‘Deliver us from evil ...’
And a terrible scream went up.
‘Nooo!’ cried Silvia, throwing herself against the door. ‘I won’t let you, I can’t!’
‘Dear lady,’ whispered the vicar, and Silvia slipped down the door, as if in a faint. April jumped forwards, but her grandfather got there first, lifting Silvia to her feet and supporting her. The vicar, as gently as he could, finished the service.
‘God of peace, who brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus Christ, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, grant eternal rest to his soul, O Lord. May his soul and all the souls of the departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Caro had painted her nails a pale, neutral pink. It was only a small thing, but April almost started crying again.
‘Oh, honey, that’s so sweet,’ said April with emotion. She had never seen Caro with anything except black nails; it was almost part of her personality, a statement of intent to the rest of the world. But today she had changed it for April and for her dad.
Caro flushed a little and shrugged. ‘Well, I just thought it was appropriate, respectful.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I didn’t want any of these weird people thinking I was taking the mickey.’
The ‘weird people’ were April’s relatives. As William Dunne had no family to speak of, the mourners were mostly from her mother’s side, so it was no surprise that like Silvia and Grandpa Thomas, they were tall and athletic. April had always assumed Gramps had been referring to character when he said Hamilton - or should that be Vladescu? - women were ‘strong’, but she could now see he was referring to their stature, too. Beautiful as well, which somehow gave April hope. Her mother had cheese-wire cheekbones, but April was still waiting in vain for hers to pop out.
Maybe there is still time,
she thought, casting a longing glance over at the Constances, Mariellas and Georginas sipping politely at their wine.
Maybe I’ll get their legs too.
She wasn’t particularly keen on inheriting their personalities, though. They were all polite of course, muttering that they were ‘sorry for her loss’ and that ‘William was a good man’, but overall, they were posh and aloof, observing the room with superior stares. Perhaps they were silently questioning Silvia’s decision to hold a wake for her husband in the room next to the one where he had been killed. April certainly had.