Jane Vows Vengeance

JANE COULD HARDLY BLAME WALTER FOR BEING A LITTLE STANDOFFISH. After all, discovering that she had once been married—however briefly—was a shock, and that she had forgotten all about it was difficult to believe, particularly when he remained unaware of her condition. Then too there was the necessity of once again postponing their wedding.

To Jane’s surprise, and thanks largely to Lucy’s intervention, he was handling it rather well. There had been some terse words back at the hotel, but in the end Walter had accepted Jane’s sincere apologies. She in turn assured him that she would remedy the situation as quickly as possible and that Joshua would be no more than a momentary nuisance.

Unsurprisingly, Miriam was not as forgiving. She had apparently spent the hour between leaving the Tower and Jane’s return to the hotel trying to convince her son to sever the engagement and return immediately to America, where, she’d assured Walter, they could find a nice woman who would give him not a minute’s trouble. A nice Jewish woman. A nice Jewish woman who wasn’t insane, at least not beyond the boundaries of reason.

“Tell me again about the rhyme,” Lucy said when Jane had composed herself. Ben and Walter had gone to the bar to order some pints, and the two women were alone at their end of the table. Chumsley Faber-Titting was regaling Miriam and Orsino Castano with a seemingly endless story, and so it was an opportunity to discuss Jane’s encounter with the princes in the Tower.

Given how they’d gone on about it, Jane had expected the ghostly boys to tell her all about Crispin’s Needle. However, their knowledge of it had proved to be disappointingly limited, confined primarily to the sharing of a rhyme. Jane repeated it for Lucy.

Cursed creature of the night,

foul fiend with no soul,

pierce your heart with Crispin’s Nail

and be once more made whole.

Lucy selected a piece of Irish soda bread from the basket on the table and liberally applied butter to it. “That’s not much to go on,” she said. “I suppose you’re the foul fiend.”

“No doubt,” Jane agreed.

“And you’re supposed to pierce your heart with Crispin’s Needle, whatever that is.”

“Gosebourne had a bit more information about that,” Jane told her. “Apparently Crispin was a medieval monk. He dabbled in alchemy and was a bit obsessed with the occult. Somehow or other he got the idea that he could reverse the process that turns one into a vampire.”

Jane nodded. “Exactly.”

“How would that work?” Lucy asked.

“That’s the problem,” Jane said. “Nobody really knows. The legend says that he invented an object of some kind—”

“Crispin’s Needle,” said Lucy.

“Yes,” Jane said. “And supposedly it’s capable of restoring the human soul.”

Lucy wiped her fingers on her napkin. “So you’re supposed to drive this so-called needle through your heart?”

“I’m guessing that’s the idea,” said Jane. “Only instead of killing you it gives you back your soul. A reverse staking, if you will.”

“No offense,” Lucy said, “but it sounds like a load of crap. My guess is that it’s a trick to get unhappy vampires to kill themselves.”

“Possibly,” Jane agreed. “But Gosebourne doesn’t think so.”

“If this thing has been around since the Middle Ages, why are you only just now finding out about it?” Lucy asked.

“Apparently it’s something of a vampire urban legend,” said Jane. “I gather that believing in it is looked upon a bit like believing in Santa Claus is. No one wants to admit they think it’s real, but at the same time there’s this fascination with it. Still, it seems that one doesn’t admit to believing in it if one runs in educated circles.”

“Good thing you don’t run in educated circles,” Lucy said.

“Indeed,” said Jane. “I was hoping the princes could tell me exactly how it works. But they don’t know.”

“Where did they learn the rhyme?” Lucy asked.

“They say they learned it from another vampire,” said Jane. “But of course they can’t remember who it was. Between us, I think they’re a little mad.”

“Did you find out how they died?” Lucy said.

“So we still don’t know who did it?” said Lucy.

“Sadly, no,” Jane said. “They have some guesses, but they’re the same ones people have been making since their deaths. Again, a bit of a disappointment.”

“May I join you ladies?”

Jane looked up to see Orsino standing beside them. “By all means,” she said, indicating the seat beside her.

Orsino sat. “Thank you,” he said. “I had to get away from Chumsley. If I had to listen to one more story about what a cow Enid is, I was going to scream.”

“You like Enid, then?” asked Jane.

“Heavens, no,” said Orsino. “She’s horrible. Which is exactly why I don’t want to hear about her.” He took a sip from the glass of wine he’d carried over with him. “I prefer to discuss pleasant topics.”

Well then, you came to the wrong end of the table, Jane thought.

“I like your name,” Lucy said to Orsino. “It’s from Twelfth Night, right?”

Orsino nodded. “Indeed it is. My mother was a professor of literature at the Università degli Studi di Firenze. She adored Shakespeare.”

“It’s one of my favorites of his plays,” said Lucy.

“I’ve never read it,” Orsino told her.

“Really?” Jane said, shocked. “How extraordinary.”

Orsino laughed. “I suppose it seems so,” he said. “The truth is, I haven’t read it because I fear I won’t like my namesake. How awful to go through life named after someone you don’t care for.” He turned to Jane. “For instance, suppose your mother adored Charlotte Brontë and you had been named after Jane Eyre, yet you found the character stupid and tedious.”

“Of course, there are many Janes in literature,” Orsino mused. “You could always choose one of the others and pretend that she was the inspiration. There are not so many Orsinos.”

“Just the one, as far as I know,” Lucy said. “But just so you know, Orsino is a very likeable character.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” Orsino said. “I sometimes tell people that my mother named me Orsino because in Italian it means ‘little bear.’ As you can see, I do in fact resemble the animal.” He stroked his beard and held up his hands, the backs of which were covered in the same black hair.

“Very clever,” Jane said. “I think that’s what I will call you. Little Bear.”

“Most of my lovers do,” said Orsino.

“Are you suggesting we become lovers?” Jane teased.

Orsino laughed. “I’m afraid my inclinations lie elsewhere,” he said. “I prefer the company of other bears.”

“Ah,” Jane said. “I understand. And I’m sure there are a great many of them who prefer your company as well.”

“A few,” Orsino said, smiling.

“Are you trying to steal my fiancée?”

Walter appeared, carrying in each hand a glass of ale. Ben, likewise encumbered, took the seat beside Lucy and handed her a glass. “Boddington’s Ale,” he said. “The cream of Manchester.”

“You will be happy to know that your fiancée has deflected all of my attempts to make her fall in love with me,” Orsino told Walter. “I am utterly defeated.” He winked at Jane, who hid her smile in her beer.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Walter said. Jane detected a note of anger in his voice, and her heart sank as she was reminded that despite appearances he was deeply hurt.

“This beer is amazing,” said Lucy, changing the subject, for which Jane was thankful.

“Where is our Australian friend?” Orsino asked.

“Still at the bar,” said Walter. “He ran into some other Aussies and they’re having a drink.”

“Then I’m certain he’ll be in a fine mood when he arrives,” Orsino said.

As if on cue, Brodie’s voice boomed through the air. “Walter!” he called out. “Look who I found!”

Jane looked up to see the Australian approaching with his arm around a woman. She was about Jane’s height, with curly brown hair that was cut short and a pug nose that gave her a boyish look. She was dressed in jeans and a red shirt that Jane was almost certain came from the most recent L.L.Bean catalog.

“Sam!” Walter cried. He got up and walked around the table to give the woman a hug. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You too,” said Sam in a husky but pleasant voice. “It’s been a long time.”

Lucy leaned across the table. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” she whispered to Jane.

Walter turned around. “Jane, this is Sam,” he said.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” said Jane. “I’ve heard so much about you.” This of course was a lie, but if Walter caught it, he showed no indication of it.

“Brodie tells me the two of you got married today,” Sam said, looking between Walter and Jane. “Congratulations.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Jane had assumed that Walter had told everyone about the interruption to their wedding. Apparently he had not. Jane, not knowing how to respond, waited anxiously as the seconds ticked by.

“Thank you,” Walter said. He didn’t look at Jane as he smiled broadly and added, “We’re thrilled to be able to celebrate it with good friends.”

Orsino, sensing that Walter probably wanted to sit beside his supposed wife, returned to his original seat on Chumsley’s right. Sam sat next to him, with Walter and Jane filling the rest of that side of the table. Brodie took the end seat, facing Chumsley across the table, with Ben and Lucy to his right. That left a seat between Lucy and Miriam. This was occupied by Lilith, whom Miriam had once again presented as a helping dog to a dubious but ultimately acquiescent hostess. The little dog was curled up, asleep but snoring loudly.

A waiter appeared not long after and took their orders. Jane, with feelings of nostalgia, ordered bangers and mash. She hadn’t had it in years, and although she of course didn’t have to eat due to her undead digestive system, she enjoyed the ritual of it. As she waited for the food to arrive, she listened to the conversations going on around her. Walter, busy catching up with Sam, was turned away from her, and she felt the urge to reach beneath the table and hold his hand. She resisted it, afraid he would pull away.

“Nasty little bugger,” she heard Brodie say.

“Who is?” she asked.

“McGuinness,” Brodie replied. “Man’s a right berk.”

Jane was intrigued. The previous night Brodie had seemed more or less indifferent to McGuinness. Now she detected a distinct note of dislike in his voice. She wondered if he’d had enough drinks to let his true feelings for the man show.

“Did I tell you we went to school together?” Brodie asked.

“No,” Jane said.

“We did,” Brodie continued. “Dalhousie University in Halifax. Wonderful school. I don’t know how the hell McGuinness got in. His designs were shit.”

Brodie held up one thick finger. “A very good question,” he said. “The way he gets everything he gets—by cheating.”

“It seems to me it would be rather difficult to cheat at designing a building,” Ben remarked.

“Not if you steal other people’s designs,” said Brodie. “Thieving bastard.”

The tone of his voice suggested a personal experience with McGuinness’s treachery, and Jane couldn’t help asking, “Did he ever steal from you?”

Brodie snorted, sounding not unlike an angry rhino. “Course he did,” he said. “Stole one of my best ideas. It was my own fault for telling him about it in the first place, but I didn’t know then what a sly one he is. Clever as a shithouse rat. Pardon the expression, ladies.”

“Surely you told the professor what he’d done,” Lucy said.

“Wouldn’t have done a bit of good,” he said. “He was having a naughty with her every afternoon while her husband was off teaching the history of Canada to undergrads. No way she would believe me over him.” He took a long pull on his ale. “Anyway, that’s all in the past. Still, I wouldn’t mind if someone kicked him down a flight of stairs.”

At that point several servers arrived carrying plates of food, and for the next half an hour Jane focused on her bangers and mash. They were just as wonderful as she remembered, and for the time it took to finish them she forgot all about her unfortunate predicament. Walter too seemed to forget, chatting with her amiably about his fish and chips and exchanging bites with her.

Tuesday: London