Saturday morning (continued)
A hundred yards beyond the Jacobean hulk of Furbelow Hall, a gap in the drystone wall, marked for some reason by a pile of earth, gave access to a small lane, shaded by dark Scots pines, which led to the back of the manor house. Mallard eased his Jaguar onto a rough gravel parking area. Tire tracks showed that other vehicles had used the space recently.
The Hall’s rear entrance was at the end of one of its long projecting wings. Effie reached for a bell-pull, but Mallard stopped her.
“Let’s not be in too much of a hurry to announce ourselves,” he said, with a brief grin.
It was a hint of their usual working relationship, and it made her want to sing. Mallard pushed at the door, and they stepped into a small entrance hall and listened. Not a mouse stirring. They set off cautiously down the long, dim corridor, occasionally shining a flashlight into empty side rooms. The corridor was oak-paneled, but bare of the paintings, stuffed deer heads, and sentinel suits of armor often found in period houses. Its flagstones were uncarpeted.
They reached the crosspiece of the house’s H-shaped plan, the corner where Effie thought she’d glimpsed a man during her earlier visit. They turned left, past the closed door to the room where she’d conducted her interview with the Vampire of Synne, and through the heavy curtain that brought them into the main entrance hall.
“Mr. Snopp!” Effie called, following Mallard’s nod. There was no answer. She took a few steps across the checkerboard tiles and called again. Mallard stepped back into the shadows. They could hear hasty footsteps from the upper floor. Then, slightly breathless, the cowled figure of a monk seemed to materialize on the landing high above their heads. He made no attempt to descend the stairs.
“Who is it that disturbs my tranquil and solitary life?” Snopp intoned, in his odd, richly layered voice. As before, his hands were pushed into the opposite sleeve openings, creating the impression of a single arm that looped from shoulder to shoulder.
“It’s Detective Sergeant Strongitharm, Mr. Snopp.”
“Of course,” Snopp replied. He paused, like an actor unsure of his lines. “You choose an odd hour to visit a nocturnal wanderer. And this time, you come unannounced.”
The reproof was clear. The vampire still held his position at the top of the stairs, upright but a little fidgety, hood low over his face, so none of his disfigured skin could be seen.
“I apologize for that, sir, but I have a few additional questions about the Breedlove case. Just routine you understand.”
Again, a long pause. Snopp seemed to be weighing the situation. “It shall be so,” he said at last. “Pray find your way to the same chamber in which we held our brief conference on Thursday. I will join you in a matter of a few moments.”
The hooded head turned to one side. “And yet I see you are not alone, my dear,” he crooned. “Who is it that hovers in the shadows beyond? Kind sir, will you come forward and declare yourself, that we may embark in a true spirit of forthrightness and candor?”
Mallard took a couple of steps across the tiles and stood beside Effie, looking up at Snopp.
“Hello, Reg,” he said. “I thought you were dead.”
The Vampire of Synne threw back the hood to reveal a beaming, middle-aged face, without a trace of a scar. “Mr. Mallard!” he cried, in a strong west-London accent. He spread his arms, the loose sleeves of the robe waving like brown wings. “I’m undead.”