The Secret of Abdu El Yezdi (36 page)

“Ah, you know of that!
Mais non.
The zombie, it is but an animated corpse and must be controlled by a
bokor
—a sorcerer. The un-dead, they have just enough
volonté
remaining to know one thing—” The Frenchman paused, drew another lungful of smoke, then, with clouds of it billowing from his mouth, said, “That they, too, must feed.”

“Vampire begets vampire,” Burton murmured.

“
Non, pas exactement.
Not exactly! Remember, the vampire original—the
nosferatu
—it is very powerful; by its nature, it feed on and is sustained by others. Its victims, the
strigoi morti
, they have not this type of
volonté
, so they must rise at night—”

Burton interrupted. “Why at night?”

“
Parce que
, it is at night when all is concealed by darkness. The un-dead prefer this; they have an aversion to any stimulation of the senses, for this make them remember what they are not—alive! So they hunt at night, to do to others what was done to them, for they want to live again, you see? And in day, they are like in hibernation, hiding from
l'horreur
of self-awareness. Also, their prey is more easy to take at night, when sleeping.”

Burton lit a cheroot, his brows furrowed as he grappled with the concept. “Can the
strigoi morti
be restored to proper life if they feed sufficiently on the willpower of others?”

The occultist shook his head. “
Il est terrible.
Blind instinct drive them to feed, but they cannot be made strong by
volonté
, as can the
nosferatu
. For the
strigoi morti
, there is only the agony of insatiable hunger, nothing else. It is the worst torture.
Mon Dieu!
The worst torture!”

They smoked in silence for five minutes, both lost in thought.

Burton murmured, “What of fangs and bloodsucking?”

“
Embellissement
, monsieur! People in the old times, they say the blood is the life,
non
? They think when the whole village is weak, it must be that their blood is taken in the night, so they dig up the dead and see the teeth.” Levi pulled his lips back and ran a forefinger over his gums. “This flesh here, it quickly grow small in death and make the teeth look very long, so the people think these are the fangs that suck the blood.”

Burton stood, went to a desk, and retrieved the logbook of the
Royal Charter
. He flipped through a few pages, stopped, read, and said, “So the sailor Colin McPhiel was drained of his
volonté
by Perdurabo, who'd taken possession of John Judge. He became a
strigoi morti
, and rose at night to feed on others of the crew and passengers. With Perdurabo doing the same, the un-dead would have proliferated, but for the fact that Captain Taylor ordered the corpses thrown overboard each morning.”

“
Exactemente.
”

“The
nosferatu
, is it also restricted to the night?”

“In its own body,
non
. But when it occupy another, the
volonté
of the host fight hard during the day. This exhaust the parasite. Only at night can he dominate.”

“And the garlic and mirror, monsieur?”

“Strong odour, it activate
le sens de l'odorat
—the sense of smell—which of all the senses is the one most connecting with memory. With
strigoi morti
, perhaps it wake the remaining
volonté
a little; perhaps make a bit of awareness; and then open the eye and hold the mirror so it see itself—a reaction of
horreur
and despair, and we know this corpse is dead but not dead.”

Burton reached up and massaged his temples. “How quickly are the un-dead made?”

“By a
nosferatu
, if he need much sustenance, many in a single night. But a
strigoi morti
, it must feed again and again on the same individual to make that one un-dead, too.”

“But, nevertheless, they proliferate?”

“Like the black plague.”

“That, at least, might help us to locate Perdurabo. I shall alert Scotland Yard to look out for any reports that might indicate such activity. By Allah, how am I to convince Chief Commissioner Mayne that a vampire is on the loose?”

“The police, they must see it with their own eyes, I think.”

For the rest of the weekend, the two men studied.

Monday, the last day of October, was the first cold day of the autumn; so much so that Burton had the fire lit and he and Levi sat around it, with books piled beside their chairs.

A letter arrived from Isabel. She reported that preparations were almost complete at New Wardour Castle and the first houseguests, her friends Mr. and Mrs. Beeton, had arrived.

Sadhvi has been of splendid assistance, and her stories of the hardships you all endured in Africa have certainly improved your standing in my parents' eyes. Perhaps they are beginning to understand, as I do, that your thorns function to preserve and protect the rarest of blooms: a courageous, honourable, and sensitive man; the only man I could possibly marry. Oh, Dick, if you could see how supportive Papa, in particular, has become; how much he has thrown himself into decorating the ballroom, organising the rooms to accommodate the guests, hiring the extra staff, planning the menus, and so forth. It has been quite simply wonderful. I must say, however, that of all of us, nobody has worked harder than Tom, our remarkable groundsman. As you know, Capability Brown landscaped the estate back in the late 1700s, and none is more “capable” of maintaining the gardens than good old Tom, but my goodness, what a task he faced after last week's atrocious storm! Trees were down, there were branches, twigs, and leaves strewn all over, fences had fallen, and even bits and pieces from the nearby villages had blown onto our lawns and flowerbeds. In his typically quiet and efficient manner, our man enlisted a force of locals and had the place shipshape and Bristol fashion in the blink of an eye. He's an absolute gem! But what a strange thing; as I sit here by the window and look out at his marvellous handiwork, I see ravens gathering by the hundreds in the trees and, in the distance, they blacken the tops of the old castle's walls. You know what a superstitious thing I am, Dick. What with that horrible omen uttered by Hagar Burton and now these wicked-looking fiends “tapping, tapping at my chamber door,” I am overcome with uneasiness and a sense of foreboding. Bless my soul; your bride-to-be is a quivering bag of nerves! Perhaps it is normal. Dear Isabella says she felt the same way before she wed Sam Beeton. I should consider her happiness a far better indicator of our future than silly auguries and squawking birds!

To Burton, it was inconceivable that his engagement party was already just five days away and he'd be at New Wardour Castle by tomorrow afternoon. He was so engulfed by uncanny events that the mundane prospect of a social occasion felt strange and out of place.

He put Isabel's letter aside and opened another. It was from Buckingham Palace and signed by the king's personal secretary:
The converted stables in the mews behind numbers 13 & 14 Montagu Place have been purchased in your name. Keys enclosed.

Mystified, Burton went downstairs, out into the backyard, passed through the door into Wyndham Mews, and crossed to the two buildings in question. In the first, he found two brand-new rotorchairs, in the second, a new steam sphere and two velocipedes. A note lay on the seat of the sphere. It read:
With compliments, His Majesty King George V.

Burton was speechless.

At three in the afternoon, a falsetto screeching drifted up from the street below. It continued for five minutes and was followed by the jingling of the doorbell. The stairs creaked as Mrs. Angell ascended. She knocked, entered, and stood with hands on hips. “A small hobgoblin has invaded our hallway.”

“Does it have red hair?” Burton asked.

“Oh, is that what it is? I thought the creature's head was on fire. I was going to throw a bucket of water over it before chasing it away with my broom.”

“Resist the temptation, please, and send the apparition up. He is one of our dinner guests.”

“Very well, if you think it wise.”

She departed and half a minute later Algernon Swinburne bounded in.

“Swindlers!” he shrieked. “To a man! Swindlers all! To perdition with them!”

“
À qui faites-vous allusion?
” Eliphas Levi asked.

“To whom do I refer? Why, to cab drivers, of course! The villains are forever altering their charges!”

“Depending on the distance travelled,” Burton explained.

“Twaddle and bosh! A cab ride is a shilling! A shilling, I tell you!” Swinburne surveyed the room. “I say! Are you planning an army or a library, Burton? Swords, pistols, a spear, and books, books, books!” He capered alongside the shelves, his eyes running over the many volumes, then let out a sudden howl of dismay—“Walt Whitman? Walt Whitman?”—and yanked a leather-bound book down. “
Leaves of Grass
? How can you possibly inhabit the same room as this mess of voluminous and incoherent effusions? My hat! You must be liberated at once!” With a violent swing of his arm, he hurled the book across the study. It hit the corner of a desk just above a waste-paper basket and rebounded, spinning with perfect accuracy into the fireplace.

“Oops!” the poet said. “I was aiming for the bin. But it's for the best. Burn, foul putrescence!” then to Burton, “Are you going to stand there with your mouth open, old chap, or offer me a brandy?”

Burton cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, Algy. How pleasant to see you again. Do come in. Make yourself comfortable. Can I interest you in a drink? Perhaps a small brandy?”

Swinburne plonked himself into the armchair Eliphas Levi had occupied before standing to greet him. “Small?”

Burton rolled his eyes and moved to the bureau. He poured the poet a generous measure, and lesser ones for himself and the Frenchman. After handing his guests their drinks, he indicated that Levi should take the unoccupied armchair. “I have a question for you, Algy. If I placed you among staunch Catholics and asked you to behave yourself, would you be capable?”

“Of politely curing their delusions?”

“No. Of keeping your mouth shut. I'm inclined to invite you to accompany me to New Wardour Castle tomorrow but not unless you can do as Monckton Milnes does, and keep your paganism to yourself. Could you give recitations for the benefit of the guests without causing them offence?”

“Sir Richard, my poems are by no means confined solely to anti-Christian declamations. If we are to celebrate your engagement, then surely verses that eulogise love and affection would be more suitable?”

“Quite so, and certainly more likely to be appreciated by the audience,” Burton confirmed.

Swinburne gazed upward, his eyes taking on a dreamy expression, and chanted:

The shapely slender shoulders small,
Long arms, hands wrought in glorious wise,

Round little breasts, the hips withal
High, full of flesh, not scant of size,
Fit for all amorous masteries;

The large loins, and the flower that was
Planted above my firm round thighs

In a small garden of soft grass…

“Stop!” Burton commanded. “That sort of thing is also best avoided.”

Swinburne giggled. “Testing the boundaries, old thing! Testing the boundaries! I have a rather lengthy piece, unfinished, but I can improvise. It tells the story of the ill-fated lovers Tristan and Isolde.”

“But,
mon Dieu
!” Levi put in. “Such
tragédie
—at
une célébration
?”

“We English glory in the juxtaposition of opposing sentiments, Monsieur Levi. Nothing makes us more conscious of the glories of love than a tale of its obstruction, loss, or sacrifice,” Swinburne answered.

“Ah!
Romeo et Juliet
!”

“Indeed so.”

The poet knocked his drink back, gave a satisfied sigh, and said to Burton, “I assure you, I shall be the shoul of dishcretion, old shap!”

A loud hammering sounded at the street door.

“By thunder!” Swinburne exclaimed. “Thunder!”

“Trounce,” Burton corrected. “He appears to have a blind spot where doorbells are concerned.”

Crossing the room, he went out onto the landing and looked down the stairs in time to see Mrs. Angell admit Detective Inspectors Trounce and Slaughter.

“Come on up, gentlemen,” he called.

His housekeeper glared at their police-issue boots as the two men ascended the stairs.

“Would you bring up a glass of milk, please, Mother Angell?”

“What ho! What ho!” Swinburne cheered as the detectives entered the study.

Burton introduced Slaughter to the poet and to Levi, arranged chairs, poured drinks, lit another cigar, waited until his housekeeper had delivered Slaughter's milk, then gave the group an account of his discussion with Levi.