Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter Page 4

  “What about the bats?” I demanded, pointing to the picture.

  “Dead leaves blowing in the wind.” Bill took me by the shoulders and regarded me steadily. “Kit loves Will and Rob as if they were his own sons. He’s responsible for every child who sets foot in the stables. Do you really think he’d stand by and do nothing if he thought a creepy pervert was lurking anywhere near Anscombe Manor?”

  “No,” I answered reluctantly, “but maybe he wasn’t looking in the right place.”

  “I spoke with Emma as well,” Bill said, “and she—”

  “Why didn’t she tell me about the vampire?” I interrupted. “She was here yesterday. She could have told me then, but she didn’t say a word.”

  “She didn’t say anything because she knew you’d overreact, just as you overreacted to the telephone call from Miss Archer.” Bill raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Hmmm…I wonder if she was right?”

  “But Kit might have missed something,” I insisted.

  “I don’t think he did,” said Bill. “Emma told me that there were nearly forty people at the manor on Sunday—children, adults, stable hands, scattered all over the property. No one reported seeing a stranger in the woods, no one except Will and Rob, who had vampires on the brain because of that stupid comic book. They’re young, they’re suggestible. They mistook a tree for a vampire.” He tugged Will’s drawing from my hand, crumpled it into a ball, and deposited it in the wastebasket under the sink. “End of story.”

  With some difficulty I swallowed my frustration and gave a short nod. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Have I ever been anything else?” he said, grinning. “I’ll stay at the Flamborough while I’m in London.”

  “Naturally,” I said. Bill always stayed at the Flamborough Hotel when he was in London.

  “If Miss Brightman or Miss Archer wishes to speak with me,” he went on, “they can reach me there or on my cell phone.”

  “Right,” I said, trying not to look in the direction of the wastebasket.

  Bill pulled me into his arms. “Coming to bed?”

  “I’ll be up in a little while,” I told him, resting my cheek against his chest. “I have to go through my notes from the Guy Fawkes Day meeting. Peggy Taxman is chairing the next meeting, and I want to be prepared.”

  “You’d better be,” he said, shuddering. Peggy Taxman was one of Finch’s more forceful personalities. She had the same effect on Bill that Miss Archer had on me. “Peggy will have your guts for garters if you don’t do your homework.” He stood back and peered down at me. “No more worrying about Rendor?”

  “No more worrying about Rendor,” I promised, and gave him a gentle push toward the hallway. “Go to bed, Bill. If you want to beat the rush to London, you’re going to need an early start.”

  “Too true,” he acknowledged. “Good night, love.”

  Bill kissed me on the top of the head and went upstairs, with Stanley padding happily in his wake. I listened carefully, until I heard the sound of our bedroom door closing, then darted over to retrieve Will’s drawing from the wastebasket.

  “I’m not worried about Rendor, Bill,” I said under my breath. “I’m worried about someone much scarier.”

  I spread the crumpled sheet of paper on the countertop, smoothed it flat with the edge of my hand, and took it with me as I headed for the study. I hadn’t lied to my husband, I told myself. I would go through my Guy Fawkes Day notes—tomorrow. I had something far more important to do tonight.

  I needed to speak with Aunt Dimity.

  Four

  I frequently poured my troubles into Aunt Dimity’s willing ears, which might strike some people as odd, since I’d never actually seen Aunt Dimity’s ears—or her nose or her knees or any other part of her anatomy. Although she was always around when I needed her, Aunt Dimity wasn’t, in the strictest sense of the term, alive. She wasn’t even my aunt.

  Aunt Dimity was an Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood. She and my late mother had met in London while serving their respective countries during the Second World War. When the war ended and my mother returned to the States, the two friends kept in touch by sending hundreds of letters back and forth over the Atlantic. Although they never saw each other again, their friendship became stronger and more vibrant after the war than it had been while they were dodging doodlebugs in London.

  My mother’s postwar life hadn’t been an easy one. After my father’s early death, she’d raised me on her own while working full-time as an underpaid, overburdened teacher. There must have been days when she longed to run away with the circus, but she never let me know about them. Whenever she got fed up with her pinched paycheck, her crowded classroom, and/or her rambunctious daughter, she turned to Dimity.

  The letters my mother exchanged with her old friend became a refuge for her, a private place where she could go to regain her sense of humor and enjoy a moment’s peace. She kept her refuge a closely guarded secret, even from her only child. When I was growing up, I knew Dimity Westwood only as Aunt Dimity, the redoubtable heroine of a series of bedtime stories invented by my mother. I didn’t know that Aunt Dimity was a real person until after both she and my mother had died.

  It was then that Dimity Westwood bequeathed to me a comfortable fortune, the honey-colored cottage in which she’d grown up, the hoard of letters she and my mother had written to each other, and a remarkable journal bound in dark blue leather.

  It was through the blue journal that I came to know Dimity Westwood. Whenever I spoke to its blank pages, her handwriting would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village school at a time when fine penmanship was still awarded prizes. Miss Archer would have called for a psychiatrist if I’d told her I could communicate with the dead, but I would never have dreamed of telling her. Aunt Dimity was my refuge, my closely guarded secret. Apart from myself, only three people—Bill, Emma, and Kit—knew about the blue journal.

  I had no idea how Aunt Dimity managed to bridge the gap between here and the hereafter, and she wasn’t too clear about it either, but I didn’t need a technical explanation. The important bit, the only bit that mattered to me, was that she was as good a friend to me as she’d been to my mother.

  I entered the study quietly, closed the door behind me, and switched on the mantelshelf lights. The book-lined room was unusually tidy, considering that Bill had spent the day working there. His laptop and his briefcase were stacked on the old oak desk that faced the ivy-covered, diamond-paned window, and the fire in the hearth had been neatly banked.

  Before I reached for the blue journal, I placed a log atop the glowing embers in the hearth and stirred them with the poker until the fire was crackling again. I also paused to say hello to another friend, a much-loved companion who spent most of his time perched in a special niche on the study’s bookshelves.

  Reginald was a small, powder-pink flannel rabbit who’d been at my side almost from the moment of my birth. I’d started confiding in him as soon as I’d learned to talk, and I’d never found a good reason to stop. Although I was now in my midthirties, I still regarded Reginald as my oldest and most trusted confidant. It would have been unthinkably rude of me to enter the study without saying hello to him.

  “Hey, Reg,” I said, touching the faded grape-juice stain on his snout. “Seen any vampires lately?”

  Reginald’s hand-sewn whiskers seemed to quiver in the firelight, but his black button eyes remained neutral. He was clearly unwilling to commit himself until he’d heard more.

  “The boys have seen one,” I informed him. “His name is Rendor, and he looks like this.”

  As I held up Will’s wrinkled drawing, I could have sworn that Reginald shrank away from it. I knew that his apparent reaction was nothing more than an illusion of shifting shadows created by the dancing flames, but an involuntary shiver passed through me nonetheless as I took the blue journal down from its place on the bookshelves and settled into one of the tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth.


  “Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “Do you think Reginald believes in vampires?”

  There was a long pause before the curving lines of royal-blue ink began to scroll gracefully across the page.

  Good evening, Lori. I’m afraid that I don’t quite know how to answer you. You have addressed many curious questions to me over the years, but I cannot recall one as strikingly peculiar as the one you’ve just asked. Do I think that a small rabbit made of pink flannel believes in vampires? Are you entirely sober, my dear?

  I grinned sheepishly. I could always rely on Aunt Dimity to tame my wilder flights of fancy.

  “Yes, I’m sober,” I told her. “But I’m also…rattled. Bill and I had a private conference with Miss Archer this morning.”

  Aunt Dimity’s handwriting sped across the page before I could say another word. Oh, for pity’s sake, Lori. You’re not going on about Miss Archer again, are you? How many times must I tell you that she is NOT a vampire?

  “I’m not talking about Miss Archer,” I said indignantly. “I’m talking about Rendor, the Destroyer of Souls.”

  I see. No, on second thought, I do not see. Who on earth, or elsewhere, is Rendor, the Destroyer of Souls?

  “He’s a character in a comic book,” I replied, and launched into a summary of the day’s many conversations, beginning with Miss Archer’s accusations and ending with Bill’s confident dismissal of the boys’ claims.

  “Bill’s convinced that there’s nothing to worry about,” I concluded, “but I’m not so sure.”

  I must say that I agree with you, Lori. Bill is quite wrong to dismiss the boys’ story out of hand.

  A wave of gratitude welled up in me. “Then you believe Rob and Will?”

  Why shouldn’t I? I’ve never known them to lie.

  “That’s what I told Miss Archer,” I said eagerly. “I mean, the boys make up stories about their ponies and they pretend to be dinosaurs, but they’ve never told an outright whopper.”

  I don’t think they’re doing so now. I believe they’re telling the truth. Furthermore, I disagree with Kit’s assumption that the twins mistook an old tree for a vampirelike figure. Rob said that the figure swooped, didn’t he? I’ve never known a tree to swoop.

  “Me neither,” I said, wondering how I’d missed such an obvious flaw in Kit’s argument.

  The tree in question may, in fact, have blocked the figure from everyone’s view but the boys’. The cloaked figure—shall we call him Rendor, for simplicity’s sake?

  “Sure,” I said, straining to keep up. I’d hoped that Aunt Dimity would take my part, but I hadn’t expected her to take it quite so vigorously. She was coming up with ideas that hadn’t even occurred to me.

  Rendor, then, may have chosen to stand in that particular spot because he wanted only the twins to see him. Perhaps he hoped to lure them farther into the woods.

  “But what about Kit’s search?” I asked. “Kit checked out the place where Rendor had been standing. He didn’t find any evidence to suggest that anyone had been there.”

  I’m not at all surprised to hear that Kit’s search for evidence proved fruitless. When the boys identified the figure as Rendor, they lost credibility with Kit. Since he believes that vampires are imaginary creatures, I suspect that he failed to search the area as thoroughly as he should have.

  “In other words,” I said, nodding wisely, “Kit found nothing because he expected to find nothing.”

  Precisely.

  I glanced at the portrait of Rendor and became momentarily fixated on his absurdly long canines. Will had colored the tips of the pointy teeth in a lurid shade of crimson. A chill crept down my spine as I tore my gaze away from the picture and turned back to the journal.

  “Dimity?” I said. “What do you know about vampires?”

  If you think I’m an expert on the subject because of my…affinity with the undead, you are sadly mistaken, Lori. I doubt if I know any more about vampires than you do.

  “But you might,” I coaxed. “Please, Dimity, tell me what you know.”

  Very well, if you insist, I’ll dredge up what I can from distant memory. Let us start with the basics, shall we? A vampire is a reanimated dead person. It rises from the grave and feeds on the blood of the living. It is averse to garlic, crucifixes, holy water, sunlight

  “Sunlight?” I cut in. “Then we can’t be dealing with a vampire, Dimity. The twins saw…whatever they saw during the day.”

  Rendor was wearing a long, hooded cloak, was he not? Such a cloak would shield him from the sun. I would also point out that the English sky, in October, is not famous for its abundance of bright sunshine.

  “The sun was in and out of the clouds on Sunday,” I acknowledged. “So I suppose the boys could have seen a—” I broke off abruptly, gave myself a mental shake, and went on. “I interrupted you, Dimity. Please, continue. Tell me more about vampires.”

  A vampire casts no shadow, has no reflection in a mirror, and cannot be photographed. It can turn into a bat or a cloud of mist. It can be immensely charming when it wishes to be, which is usually when it’s attempting to seduce a potential victim. It possesses great strength and heightened senses. It is virtually immortal, but it can be killed if a wooden stake is driven through its heart. Decapitation after the staking is advisable, as is the burning of the corpse. And there you have it, my dear, the sum total of my knowledge of vampires.

  “Thanks.” I glanced at Will’s drawing again, then asked hesitantly, “Do you believe in vampires?”

  The concept of vampirism has been embedded in the folklore of many cultures for thousands of years, Lori. Although some dismiss it as mere superstition—a naive misreading of easily explained natural phenomena—learned scholars have written dissertations and treatises supporting it. People all over the world believe in vampires.

  “People all over the world believe in a lot of things that aren’t true,” I pointed out. “As do a few allegedly learned scholars.”

  Let us say, then, that I prefer to keep an open mind on the subject. After all, there are those who would tell you that I don’t exist.

  “But you do,” I said thoughtfully.

  Strange as it may seem to some, I do. But it doesn’t really matter whether vampires exist or not, does it? Will and Rob saw a queer figure lurking in the woods where they ride Thunder and Storm. I, for one, would like to know who—or what—they saw.

  “So would I,” I said firmly. “And I intend to find out. I went into hiding when Abaddon came after my sons in Scotland, but I’m not going to hide this time. I’m going to Anscombe Manor tomorrow, to do a little vampire hunting of my own.”

  I would expect nothing less of you. It would, however, be foolhardy to pursue Rendor by yourself, Lori. He—or it—might resent your interference. If challenged, he might become dangerous. Cornered animals often do, you know.

  I gulped nervously and brought a hand up to cover my neck. “I take your point, but who’s going to come with me? Bill will be in London, Emma’s always busy, and I need Annelise to take care of the boys while I’m looking for Rendor.”

  Might I suggest enlisting Kit’s help? As you know, he’s intimately familiar with every corner of the Anscombe estate.

  “Ask Kit to help me find Rendor?” I said skeptically. “He’ll think it’s a waste of time.”

  I’m sure you’ll find a way to change his mind. Just think of how satisfying it will be when you prove him wrong.

  “It’ll be satisfying to prove that Will and Rob are telling the truth,” I said virtuously.

  A noble goal, my dear, but you won’t prove anything if you run into a situation you can’t handle on your own.

  “All right,” I said, shrugging. “I’ll ask Kit to come along with me, but if he refuses, I’m going after Rendor without him.”

  You’d best get a good night’s sleep, then. You’ll need your wits about you in the morning.

  “I’ll need more than that,” I muttered distractedly, then added, in a normal to
ne of voice, “A good night’s sleep is the next thing on my agenda, Dimity. I’ll let you know what I find at Anscombe Manor.”

  I expect to be kept fully informed on your progress. Good night, Lori. And be careful.

  “I will,” I promised. “Good night.”

  I waited until the lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, then closed the journal, leaned back in the chair, and gazed at the fire, stroking my neck absentmindedly and wondering, for the first time in my life, if I believed in vampires.

  I would have scoffed at the notion a day ago, but after speaking with Aunt Dimity, I no longer felt like scoffing. Vampires might be imaginary creatures born of superstition and kept alive by dark imaginations, but then again they might be as real as Aunt Dimity. As I sat and watched the dancing flames, I decided that I, too, would keep an open mind on the subject. There just might be more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in Bill’s philosophy.

  Although I was still undecided about vampires, I was fully aware of how dangerous humans could be. I’d been shot and nearly killed in Scotland by a maniac who’d dragged the twins from their beds and tried to hurl them into the sea. It wasn’t the sort of thing I’d soon forget.

  I touched the star-shaped scar below my left collarbone and made a silent vow. If another sicko was stalking Will and Rob, I’d do everything in my power to track him down and put him away for good. If he turned out to be a vampire, I’d drive a stake through his heart with my own hands.

  I would allow no one, living or dead, to harm my sons.

  Five

  After considering the situation from many angles, I decided that it would be irresponsible of me to tell my husband about my plan to track down Rendor. Bill would do nothing but worry if I informed him of my intention to comb the woods for a potentially dangerous pervert, and worrying would do nothing but distract him from the important work awaiting him in London. Heaven alone knew what would happen to the firm if Bill confused Miss Muffin’s trust fund with Mr. Muddy-Buddy’s. The consequences were too terrible to contemplate, so I resolved to keep mum about my mission, for Bill’s sake as well as the firm’s.