Dracula in London Part 11

"Two," said Countess Magda."Would you care to try it on?" Miss Carr offered politely, jotting the style number into each of the two younger ladies' measurement charts.

"Perhaps not now," said the eldest wife. "There is so much else to see."

"But, she must stay," the youngest wife insisted. Miss Stimson received her silent instructions from Miss Carr, and took up a languid-seeming stance against the wall near the vase of feathers, with one arm resting lightly on the table top. It was actually a restful posture, designed to ease the back when one of the mannequins must remain standing for a long time. Another girl swirled into the room in a walking costume of leaf green with sage trim. The countesses chattered to one another with delight, though their eyes kept returning to Miss Stimson.

Miss Carr was quite dizzy with delight by the time she finished writing up the order.

Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs would have to put the workrooms on full alert, but it would be worthwhile. This order would be the talk of the industry. The last model was displayed and retired. The eldest countess clapped her hands.

"Brava," she said. "This is all very good. And now, we are feeling rather famished.

Perhaps you may furnish us with that little refreshment?"

Their red mouths looked almost predatory, their white teeth sharp as an animal's. At once Miss Carr was horrified at herself for even thinking of such a comparison. "Of course!" she said. "Forgive me for not offering again." She nodded to one of the seamstresses, who left the room and sent in the page boy. Miss Carr gave the order for tea, sandwiches, and cakes. She risked a discreet look at her watch. The hour was long after midnight. She hoped the day's bread would still answer. Knowing that they would have night visitors who might require sustenance, they had wrapped a fresh loaf as well as they could.

The final group of mannequins began to withdraw. Miss Stimson, seeing release at hand, crossed the room to join her companions.

"Oh, no, don't go," the youngest countess said, catching Miss Stimson by the arm. "You must join us for our meal."

She drew the girl beside her and held her quite close. Miss Stimson looked unhappy, but she was afraid to refuse. She knew what it meant to them all if she should displease the customers.

She smiled tremulously, looking to Miss Carr for rescue. Miss Carr was uncertain what to do, and wished the owner was there. She knew no respectable Englishwoman would touch another person so familiarly, but these were foreigners. She fancied that she saw their mouths open as if they would eat the girl right there.

What to do? The gown was lovely, and the girl did look lovely in it. Perhaps the countesses just wanted to have it there under their eyes while they discussed the final details of their order. Since the financial arrangements had not yet been concluded, Miss Carr was as paralyzed as Miss Stimson. She watched in horrified fascination as the youngest countess reeled in the girl like a fish until they were virtually eye-to-eye.Suddenly, the blond woman let out a horrified cry and threw the girl away from her. The girl landed in a heap of white silk on the floor. The countess pointed a trembling, accusatory finger at the mannequin's neck.

"What is that?" she cried.

Miss Carr went to help Miss Stimson up and investigate the problem. About the girl's neck was a tiny chain. Miss Carr hadn't thought a thing about it except that it accessorized the neckline of her gown and drew attention tastefully to the bare shoulders.

Hanging from the fine chain was a minute gold cross, a small personal item that belonged to Miss Stimson herself. The mannequins were permitted to wear such jewelry as long as they were handsome and in good taste. The tiny cross was real gold, cla.s.sic in shape and irreproachably modest. Miss Carr hadn't thought that the countesses might not be Christians and would find the symbol offensive. They didn't look Jewish. Perhaps there was another faith they followed in the Balkans that went along with polygamy.

"I am so sorry," Miss Carr said, lamely, searching for words to repair the damage.

"I can see that we are not welcome here," the blonde said, rising to her feet with flashing eyes.

"Don't be silly," Countess Magda exclaimed, tugging on her sister-wife's sleeve. "

Clothes, sister! This will be our only opportunity. He never shows remorse. You know that.

We must take advantage of this indulgence as we can."

"Ladies, please," Miss Carr appealed to them, seeing hundreds of pounds fly out the window on night-borne wings. "If the bauble offends you, I shall remove it."

"Please do," said the eldest countess, swiftly. "That will suffice." There was a m.u.f.fled outburst from her co-wife, but it was quickly quelled by a fierce glance.

"I am so sorry, Miss Carr," Miss Stimson whispered, her fair cheeks crimson. "I thought it would be all right. Please don't sack me."

"It is not your fault," Miss Carr said, unfastening the tiny clasp and gathering the chain in her palm. "I will put this in the dressing room on the table. In future let us choose a different jewel for you to wear."

The girl's grat.i.tude shone in her eyes. "Thank you, madam." She gave an uneasy glance over Miss Carr's shoulder at the visitors. "I... I do wish you would not leave me alone with them."

"Nonsense," Miss Carr said briskly. "They will do you no harm. They merely wish to look more closely at the dress. Allow them to examine it as they wish."

"Yes, madam," the girl whispered.

"Refreshments, Countesses!" Miss Carr announced, as the page boy entered, pushing the laden tea cart. She was grateful for the distraction. It also gave the mannequin time to recover herself and resume her station near the wall. The visitors waited as the pagepoured tea and offered sandwiches all around.

"That is very nice," the eldest countess said, accepting a cup with a slice of lemon floating on the amber tea in one of Mrs. Feldon-Jacobs's heirloom cups. "Very nice. All is most satisfactory."

"Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I will go and prepare the papers for your approval," Miss Carr said.

"Yes, yes," said the Countess Magda. "Everyone go away. We wish to talk among ourselves. Not you, my dear," she said, taking the girl's hand as Miss Stimson attempted to follow. "We wish you to stay with us."

The last thing Miss Carr saw as she closed the door on the salon was the girl's frightened eyes.

The invoice took little time to prepare. Miss Carr had but to transfer to it the name and price of the gowns ordered, note the name of the buyers and their impressive-sounding address. Carfax Abbey, Suss.e.x. The owner would be pleased with everything from this night's work.

She returned to the salon in time to see the mannequin staggering back to lean against the wall, pale as a ghost, with a few drops of blood on her neck. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, and the silk ball gown was on hooks against the wall. No doubt one of the countesses had wanted to try it on, but the blood was a puzzle. Perhaps Miss Stimson had been injured by the pins holding the incomplete stays together, which had to come off over the head. Miss Carr checked the gown for spots. The girl seemed to have had the presence of mind not to bleed on the dress. Miss Stimson stood looking at her employer with the dazed expression of a sheep.

"Are you all right?" Miss Carr asked.

"Yes, madam," the girl said, rather stupidly. She blinked at the lamp, her pupils shrunk to pinpoint size. Miss Carr saw how pallid she was, red rings around her eyes very much in relief to the parchment color of her skin, and put it off to the lateness of the hour. No wonder she had scratched her neck. "It's a trifle bright in here, madam."

"Perhaps," Miss Carr said. "You have done well, Miss Stimson. I will tell Mrs.

Feldon-Jacobs so. You may retire and take tomorrow off. But I expect to see you here bright and early Thursday morning."

"Yes, madam." The girl tripped clumsily out of the room. Miss Carr was tired too, but she didn't dare to give in to the sensation. Thankfully, the visitors read over the invoice with little interest. The eldest countess signed her name at the bottom beside the sum total, a colossal number that made Miss Carr want to dance, if only she wasn't so tired.

"Our bankers are Coutts & Co. The count has a substantial letter of credit with them.

This should take a substantial bite out of it." As if it was part of an old joke, the seniorcountess showed her teeth, and the other two laughed. "We thank you very much for your hospitality, Miss Carr, but we must now be going."

Miss Carr dropped her half-bow, half-curtsy gratefully. It was after one in the morning. She'd be lucky if her bespoke cab would still be outside.

"Very well, Countesses. May I say, on behalf of the House of Feldon, that it has been a great pleasure to serve you? Is there anything else at all with which I may a.s.sist you?"

"No, thank you," said the youngest, rising from her grand chair and licking her lips. Miss Carr noticed again how very, very red they were. Was that a drop of rouge on her chin?

"We have got everything that we came for."

Long-Term Investment

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

The coffins bothered him, no doubt about it. Ever since the foreign gentleman had hired him to supervise his warehouse, the coffins had bothered him-that, and working late, although he was not completely alone at any hour, for even at night the London docks bustled; ships tugged restlessly at their moorings out in the Thames and those secured to the vast wooden piers strained at the lines holding them. Lamps gave off a fuzzy glow, tingeing the docks with gold and lighting the busy efforts of all who labored here. Activity was everywhere: longsh.o.r.emen worked steadily, loading or removing cargo from the waiting holds; sailors from a hundred foreign ports polished brightwork, swabbed decks, inspected rigging, bucked cargo, hauled lines, all as if it were midday. Many of the office windows in the warehouses were lit, testimony to the industry of the owners of the vessels as well as the men they hired. The brackish smell of bilgewater and the odor of tar hung on the air, stronger than the clean scent off the distant sea, although there was a tang of salt in the fog.

Edward Hitchin sat in the dusty office above the warehouse floor and tried to keep himself busy. The foreign gentleman- calling himself Carfax-was paying him well: ten shillings for a day's work, and twelve when he had to remain past nine at night, handsome wages for a young man from Stepney who was little more than a watchman. He was determined to keep the job as long as possible, for he liked the jingle of coins in his pocket and the respectful nod from the patrolling constables.

A ship was due in from Varna, and Mister Carfax had told Edward to expect another load of coffins. "Not that we haven't a fair supply on hand already," he had added before leaving Edward alone. "Still, it is good business, is it not, to have an ample supply. Coffins are a long-term investment, are they not?" He had chuckled, which Edward found disquieting, but there were so many things about Mister Carfax that gave him pause that this chuckle seemed a minor intrusion.

"Too true," Edward said to himself as he looked out the window and down onto the warehouse floor where several dozen elaborately carved coffins were stacked. He had been thinking about Carfax's remark all evening-that coffins were a long-term investment; he had decided that in its way, the observation was witty. Coffins always got used, eventually. Another load of them and the warehouse would be more than half-filled, and that load would arrive in a matter of hours.Edward was considering lighting up his pipe when a sharp rap on the entry door claimed his attention. Surely the ship had not yet off-loaded the cargo for Mister Carfax. When the knock was repeated, he bolted from the office, running noisily down the stairs as he called out, "In half a tick!" Opening the door, he found himself facing a man he had never seen before, but knew at once, though the man wore a suit instead of a uniform, that he was a member of the police. Edward blanched but held the door steadily. ''Good evening."

"Good evening. Am I addressing Mister Carfax?"

"No," Edward answered, wondering what the police wanted with the tall, foreign gentleman. "'He's away just now. I'm his... a.s.sistant. Edward Hitchin." He could not make himself ask what the police were doing here, so he waited while the policeman stepped inside.

"Do you have a little time to spare, Mister Hitchin? I am Inspector Ames of Scotland Yard."

This polite inquiry, along with being called "Mister" caught Edward off-balance. "Sure enough," he said after he thought about it.

"You've been here all evening?" The policeman took a notebook from his inner breast pocket, and a pencil from his outer breast pocket, and prepared to write.

"Is this official, you taking down my answers and all?" Edward asked, trying to conceal his anxiety.

"Should it not be?" Inspector Ames asked so mildly that Edward had to resist the urge to spring from the room. "Now, have you been here all evening?"

"Since eleven in the morning. I came in late because I have to be here late to receive a new shipment of... stock." He indicated the dimly lit warehouse.

"The sign over the door says D. Carfax, importer and purveyor of fine coffins and caskets" said the policeman. "Is this the stock on hand?"

"Yes," said Edward. "The bills of lading are in the office. What you see here comes from Varna, most of it. Very elaborate carving they do in that part of the world-very elaborate." He pointed to the nearest stack of coffins. "These are the simple ones. There are fancier toward the back. We even have some with bells to be secured above in case someone should be buried alive, and need to be dug up again." He had been told to mention this desirable feature even though he thought it ghoulish.

"Do you open them, or-" the inspector began.

"Oh, no," said Edward hastily. "It's not... seemly."

"Um. Very prudent," said the policeman indifferently, and handed a card to Edward.

"Will you be good enough to tell Mister Carfax that Inspector Uriah Ames is desirous of speaking with him at his earliest convenience?"Edward took the card, holding it gingerly. "May I tell him what this is about?" he asked, curiosity and dread warring within him.

Inspector Ames coughed diplomatically. "A body was found washed up on the Isle of Dogs. It has no identification, no clothing. It is likely the deceased was the victim of foul play. The dead woman has not been claimed or anyone of her description reported missing."

He watched Edward closely. "We are asking all businesses along the docks, for it is likely that she was thrown into the water somewhere in this area, and we are hoping that someone noticed something." He paused, his pencil poised over his well-thumbed notebook. "Have you noticed any suspicious activities in this area in the last week or so?"

Edward shook his head. "I have been in the office, or on the floor, making an inventory for Mister Carfax. I take my tea inside." He shrugged apologetically. "I wish I could tell you something more."

"Provide me with your direction, and I suppose that will do for now," said Inspector Ames.

"Edward Hitchin, Beeks House, White Horse Road, Stepney," he said promptly, knowing that the address was far from impressive.

"Lived there long, have you?" Inspector Ames asked as he wrote.

"M'Mum and I have been there for ten years and more." He did his best not to sound defensive.

"Your Mum still there, is she?" Inspector Ames asked.

"Yes; she's not in good health." It was a convenient mendacity, for the melancholy which held her in its grip seemed as crippling as any misfortune or disease.

"Sorry to hear that," said Inspector Ames with the habitual sympathy of one used to bad news. "Stays in, does she?"

"Most of the time. I tend to her needs," Edward informed Inspector Ames, at once proud and wary.

"And you work here for long hours," said Inspector Ames.

"I am well-paid for my time," Edward insisted. "Mister Carfax is a generous employer."

"Worked for him long, have you?" Inspector Ames seemed disinterested in the answer, but Edward knew enough about the police not to be deceived by this ploy.

"Not long, no. Mister Carfax is a foreigner but recently arrived in London. He keeps a house somewhere in the country, but he has a place in London, probably in the toffy part of town- Mayfair, or Berkeley Square or some such. He's rich enough, and he has the manner." He felt that volunteering this information would show his willingness to cooperate with the police inquiries. "He comes here three or four times a week to tend to business and to instruct me in my duties." "Then you expect to see him shortly," said Inspector Ames."Tomorrow, about four or five," said Edward promptly.

"Then you will give him my card and pa.s.s along my message, and I shall expect a call from Mister Carfax before the end of the week." This affable request, Edward knew, was an order. He nodded.

"I'll attend to it, first thing he arrives," Edward said, and tried to contain his fidgets.

"That's good of you," said Inspector Ames as he put his pencil and notebook away, and with an uneasy glance at the stacked coffins and caskets said, "I'll let myself out."

By the time Carfax arrived the next afternoon, Edward had become distressed about what the Inspector had told him; dead women, murdered women, brought back memories of the Ripper, and with it, other, more personal recollections, as well as the uncomfortable awareness that the Ripper had never been brought to justice. So Edward was nervous when he pa.s.sed on Inspector Ames's card and request. "The police are nothing to fash with, Mister Carfax," he added when he finished explaining the situation. "When there are dead bodies involved, the police are... are persistent."

"Ah, yes. English police. We hear many things about them in my native land," said Mister Carfax, examining the inspector's card. "What does he want of me, this Inspector Ames?

You say there is a body-what has that to do with me?"

"There's an investigation into the woman's death. The police are gathering information about the circ.u.mstances," said Edward, wondering how Mister Carfax would doubt that: foreigners were unaccountable.

"What has that to do with me?" Mister Carfax repeated with supreme indifference. "1 know nothing of this woman. Why should the police need to know that?"

"They want you to go along to the station and tell them what you can. You may know nothing, but they will want to hear of it from you." Edward tried not to sound too apprehensive, but he suspected he failed.

"But I have nothing to tell them. Dead women do not interest me." His accent grew stronger, as if his emotions had loosened his control over the English tongue. "It is most unseemly, to have to answer to the police, a man of my position."

Although Edward was not sure what that position might be, he said, "They just need to have you tell them you were not on the docks when the woman was killed-that's all."

Carfax looked indignant as he pulled himself up to his full, and considerable, height. "It is for the police to wait upon me. Send this Ames word that I will receive him the day after tomorrow in the early evening." He looked toward the newest arrivals. "How many in this load?"

"Twenty-three of the fancy, eleven of the plain," said Edward, grateful to have this opportunity to show his efficiency. "The ones with bra.s.s fittings are in the row at thecenter."

"Just so," Carfax approved. "Did you open any of them?"