CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: This Chancy Rendezvous

As Annie walked away from Halstead, past the dense row of pine trees and bushes that bordered the winding road, she shivered with the cold and pulled her new muffler up higher. Well, new to me, at any rate, she thought with a smile. The very muffler Michael had worn as the drunken coachman in The Mummy, thank you very much! Inhaling the tobacco and cedar smell of the old wool, she chuckled at the memory of her victory at Monday night’s trivia contest. Even after the horrors Michael had evoked with the story about his director friend, she’d managed to recover in time to trounce her only real competition – some creepy know-it-all grad student down from Miskatonic who thought he was in for easy pickings. She showed him. As if she wouldn’t know which two actors were first offered the Donald Pleasence role in Halloween! When she’d returned that night flush with victory, Archie had just laughed and shaken his head at the pile of prizes that she’d strewn in his lap. He’d been happy though, because, for a little while at least, she’d been happy, too.

Archie. Annie sighed and felt her good humor abruptly fade. Even with what she’d just written to Maria, even though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t let things affect her relationship with Archie, she knew they already had. She knew she was pulling away from him, disconnecting, as if doing that could prevent something bad from happening to him. She hadn’t told him about Michael’s story, hadn’t shared with him her concerns about the evil she felt sure Carandini was plotting. She hadn’t told him about the letter she’d written and was about to send, because she knew he’d insist on driving her, or walking with her. He’d want to know what was so important she needed to post it in the dead of night. She just couldn’t get him involved. And she certainly hadn’t told him what she’d done last Tuesday.

Her half-day off had been spent at the Port Legard library searching the Internet, but she’d only gotten hits that referenced Carandini’s papers and lectures on history, literature and archeology. Desperate to find something incriminating, anything to prove that the professor was up to no good, she’d waited yesterday until he’d gone into the village with Ronnie, then she'd searched his room thoroughly. Annie thought her heart would hammer right out her chest, she’d been so sure that he’d come back to find her rifling through his things. Nothing she saw, however, told her he was anything but what he said he was - an extremely well off, obsessively tidy and well-educated man. The copy of Faust in the original German that lay on his bedside table, while ironic, would hardly convict the guy. There had to be someplace else in the manor he was using. Some other room or hidey-hole.

She knew she could manage to wheedle some information out of Edmund; unfortunately she also knew the easiest way to get on his good side would also be the most unpleasant. Yet another reason not to confide in Archie, Annie realized. He’d never forgive her.

Thunder rumbled in the distance and Annie felt a few drops of rain on her head. “Great. Thank you so much,” she called up to the sky. “It never rains here except when I have to walk two miles into town.”

Picking up her pace, Annie passed the bend in the road where the forest cut off all view of Halstead. Fumbling in her coat pocket, she pulled out a flashlight and clicked the switch.

Nothing happened.

“Well, fuck,” she muttered, shaking it. "I just changed the damn batteries…”

That was when she heard the rustling in the bushes behind her.

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Edmund knocked on the bedroom door, the red letter clutched in his fist. He nervously glanced up and down the hallway, then smoothed back his hair and hoped he didn’t look as sick as he felt.

The door cracked open and a young boy frowned up at him.

“What do you want?” the child asked suspiciously.

“Uh, hi…” Edmund said, attempting a smile. “Antoine, isn’t it?

“It’s Tony,” the boy glowered.

Edmund raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, whoa. Whatever. Sorry, Tony. I’m Edmund.”

“So?”

“So…I’m here to see your Mommy.”

Tony leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. “Are you a servant or what?”

Edmund gritted his teeth and calmed himself by imagining dear little Tony’s head on a pike. “Just…get her for me, will ya, kid? Before I-“

A soft voice called out from inside the room. “Tony? Who is that? Is it-“

“Ronnie? It’s me, Edmund. I…got your note.”

Edmund started to ease past Tony into the room, but the boy’s next words froze him to the spot.

“I wonder wonder wonder,” Tony whispered in a singsong voice, his eyes bright with malice, ”what the professor would say….”


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In the secret passageway alongside Roderick’s bedroom, Alexandra backed away from the disturbing and distasteful scene she’d just witnessed, wanting nothing more than to blot the image from her mind. In her haste, however, she snagged her heel on the hem of her gown and lost her balance. Twisting around, she managed to stop her fall by grabbing onto a jagged outcropping where the plaster had crumbled away. Pulling herself back up and catching her breath, she realized that one of the bricks had come loose in her hand. She was about to replace it when something caught her eye. There was something in the hole reflecting the dim light and sparkling back at her. Carefully pulling out a few more bricks, she reached in and slowly drew out what looked to be a large amulet on a heavy chain. It was hard to make out the design, but Alexandra thought it must be of a face – yes, and those two rubies are its eyes! Trembling with excitement and wondering if there was anything else to be found, she eagerly stretched her hand farther into the hole. She touched something smooth and solid, and with a little effort she was able to pull the heavy object out. Large and square, it was wrapped in oilskin and secured with leather straps. A gasp of delight escaped her lips. A book? Perhaps the very sort of book she was looking for! She had to get back to her own room and examine it – quickly!


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Annie turned at the sound and peered into the dark, but the rustling had stopped. She shrugged, blaming the wind and her imagination, and continued down the road.

A few paces later, the noise came again, and this time it was accompanied by a low moaning sound.

“Okay, whoever or whatever that is,” she called out, still walking calmly, but feeling her pulse start to race, “you are fucking with the wrong girl here. I’m not one of those bimbos who starts running through the forest at the slightest sound and then trips over a damn root while looking back to see if the monster is following her. That ain’t gonna happen here, so just forget it. “

She gripped the flashlight more tightly, slapping it against her thigh as she walked. The noise behind her was getting louder, moving with her, but whatever it was, was staying hidden amongst the trees.

“And if you are just some pervert,” she said, raising her voice even more, “you should know I am perfectly capable of ripping your balls off and sending them home with you in a box.” Annie chose her moment carefully, and then swung around with the flashlight, intending to throw it at the sound. As she raised it up, however, the light suddenly came on, illuminating the bushes in front of her.

Two huge eyes reflected back at her like a pair of glowing silver dollars, and Annie could make out what seemed to be two gleaming rows of teeth, pulled back in a red, wet grimace. The awful face looked directly at her and snarled.

“Oh my god,” she whispered in horror. “Nice…kitty?”

Backing away, she stumbled into the middle of the road, knowing she had no chance of outrunning the thing or fighting it off with her flashlight. She could tell the monster was readying itself to spring, when suddenly its attention was diverted by something off in the distance. Then Annie heard it too – it was car, and it was coming from Halstead! Bright lights came swiftly around the corner, and with an angry roar, the thing in the bushes bounded away. Annie ran towards the oncoming headlights, frantically waving her arms and yelling. The driver slammed on his brakes and expertly skidded to a stop only a few feet away from her.

“Thank you so much for stopping!” Annie crossed quickly around to the driver's side. “I’m sorry I jumped out at you like that, but-“

As the car window rolled down to reveal her anonymous savior, Annie’s words caught in her throat.

“My dear…Annie, isn’t it?” said Professor Wilton Carandini, giving her a cool smile. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is for little girls to be out in the woods at night all alone?”



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Alex made it back to her room without further incident, tightly clutching her new discoveries. Setting them down on her vanity table, she cut the rotting leather straps off the package with a pair of sewing scissors and tore away the wrapping. She nearly shouted with joy; inside was exactly what she’d hoped for - a very large and very old book that had all the markings of a grimoire. It was edged with metal clasps and secured, unfortunately, with a heavy padlock. Well, locks are made to be broken, she thought. The book had no title, only three wide black burn marks on the dark leather cover. She traced one of the marks with her forefinger and felt an odd tingle run up her arm. The marks made a double cross: one parallel line with two horizontal lines bisecting it. But as she turned the book sideways to look at the lock more closely, she realized that the slashes formed the letter “H”.


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“Good heavens. A giant…cat, you say?” Carandini asked, raising an eyebrow. He downshifted and expertly negotiated the sleek sedan around another sharp turn. Annie had to stifle an insane impulse to laugh when she realized she was sitting in a black Jaguar.

But between the monster in the woods and the one driving, I'm not sure which is more dangerous.

“I really don't know what it was…sir," Annie finally replied. She looked away from Carandini and kept her eyes on the road. It had started to rain in earnest, and the steady tick of the windshield wipers filled the silence. Settling back into her plush leather seat, Annie forced herself to relax and tried to collect her thoughts. After her little display of hysterics on the road back there, she’d had no other choice than to accept the professor’s insistent offer of a ride into town.Obviously, he didn’t believe her. That didn’t matter. What was important now was making sure he did believe that she was absolutely no threat to him.

I am a non-entity I am just a brainless servant nothing to see here nope nothing at all just keep moving…

“I…oh, sir, I guess I just got spooked. I sure thought something was following me. It was probably just a stray…dog.”

“Whatever it was, I am only glad I saw you in time.”

He’s going to ask you why you are out here. Make up something, quick.

“I guess I deserve to be scared out of my wits. Heh, that’s what I get for sneaking out on my own just to have a beer with my friends in town.”

Carandini gave a dry chuckle. “Ah, but how can you be blamed when there is so little here to stimulate a young person such as yourself? Forgive me for saying so, but you do not strike me as someone who is suited to the life of a menial servant. I confess to a certain...curiosity about you, Annie.”

Ok, so much for blending into the woodwork…

“I’m just trying to do my job, sir. That’s all.”

“And you do it splendidly, my dear! In fact, you seem to do the job of ten!” Carandini cut her a sharp glance. “My room has never been cleaned so…meticulously.”

Annie looked down at her hands, carefully schooling her face to show no reaction. Oh crap, he knows I searched his room. He’s just playing with me now, he’s going to pull the car over any second now and make me cut out my own heart, and boy is that going to mess up this nice leather interior; he’s going to…Don’t let him know what you’re thinking don’t think of red eyes and blood and...think of something else…anything else…song lyrics, that’s it!

Annie started humming a favorite Cars tune under her breath.

'Oh well uh you might think I'm crazy to hang around with you…'

Carandini gave her a quizzical look. “I meant no insult, my dear,” he said in a reassuring tone. “I merely meant that with your obvious talents, you seem to be capable of so much more than changing sheets and…dusting antiques.”

What the hell…? Was he trying to get into her head? Or into her pants? Damndamndamn don’t think don’t... ’You think you're in the movies and everything's so deep’…

Peering ahead desperately, Annie finally saw what she’d been waiting for – the lights of Port Legard, dead ahead.

“OH LOOK, here we are! You can just let me off on the corner there, sir. I’ll be fine. I really appreciate you stopping for-"

Carandini showed no sign of slowing the car. “You know, Annie, I can read most people like a book.” His voice was low and soft, seductive. “But you…intrigue me…”

Carandini lifted his right hand from the wheel, and for a horrifying moment Annie feared he was going to touch her.

That was when the realization hit her. That’s how he does it! He can’t control you unless he makes physical contact! Don’t let him-

The tension was shattered by the wail of an ambulance approaching fast behind them. Carandini glanced in his rear view mirror and frowned, then put his hand back on the wheel and pulled over to let the ambulance pass.

Annie suddenly had an awful premonition that had nothing to do with Carandini; something bad had happened in town to someone she knew. Really bad. Please don't let it be Michael. Let Michael be okay, she prayed to herself. Please don’t let it be at-

The ambulance stopped in front of the Slaughtered Lamb.

Annie leapt out of the car before Carandini could pull away again, and she ran towards the small crowd gathered in front of the pub. The red lights from the ambulance flashed in the rain, casting a weird strobe effect over the scene. A police car was parked there, too, and the static drone of the radio dispatcher's voice could be heard calling another unit to the scene. Annie frantically searched the crowd for a familiar face – there!

Michael stood huddled in the doorway, talking to the sheriff. Even at a distance, she could see that her friend looked awful; his face was gray with shock and misery. She was about to cross over to him when the policemen parted the crowd. Annie could now see what had been covered from view – it appeared to be a crimson-spattered pile of clothes on a stretcher. But as the paramedics lifted it up, a long white arm was exposed, and Annie could see that it was streaked in blood.

“What a shame,” murmured a voice close behind her, startling her. It was Carandini. She hadn't even sensed his approach.

Annie turned to reply, so surprised by the man's sympathetic comment that, for a moment, she forgot to be afraid. But any response she might have had was stilled by the look on his face - it was one of utter disdain. Annie then realized Carandini was gazing, not at the pitiful corpse being loaded into the ambulance, but at the wide, red pool of blood that was being washed away into the gutter by the rain.


L.A.G.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Blood Magic

“A double cognac for you, sir, and a pint of the Jack Ketch Porter for you, Miss Annie." Michael set down the drinks and gave Robert and Annie a welcoming smile.

“When are you going to marry me, Michael?” Annie said, stretching up to give the landlord a quick buss on the cheek.

Michael chuckled and tousled Annie’s hair. “Just don’t let Grant hear you say that; he’ll tell everyone I put rats in my Shepherd’s Pie.”

Robert coughed and hastily replaced the menu he’d been perusing. “We were lucky you reserved this booth for us,” he remarked, looking around. “Quite a crowd in here for a Monday night,”

“Yeah, something I just started,” said Michael, adjusting the string of garlic that hung on the wooden lintel over Annie’s head. “Monday night is now ‘Horror Trivia Night’ at the Lamb and I-"

“Whoa. Back up there.” Annie interrupted. “Did you say ‘Horror…Trivia...Night’?”

“That’s right. I have a little contest, sign a few autographs, give away some prizes…I figured I might as well give the fans what they want, eh?"

“And it doesn’t seem to be hurting sales at the bar, does it?” commented Robert dryly.

“That it does not, sir,” Michael replied with a wink. “That it does not.”

“P-prizes, Michael? Hello?? ” Annie stammered, her hands flapping. “What…kind of prizes?”

“Just silly stuff, really. Memorabilia, props, like the flask I used in REVENGE OF-” Michael stopped and looked at Annie with concern. “Are you alright?”

Robert glanced over at his companion, whose eyes were as wide as beer coasters. “Down girl!” he laughed. “Good lord, you’re quivering like a rabid Doberman.”

“But you don’t understand, Robert!” Annie exclaimed. “This is my game!! I am going to so totally rule! I am the Queen of Useless Horror Trivia Knowledge!!”

Robert shook his head and gave a rueful sigh. “When does this…contest begin, Michael?”

“Not for another hour or so.” Michael ran his fingers through his white hair. “Look, I have a few minutes now; Yvette can handle the customers for a bit,” he said, signaling to the buxom young blonde who was happily filling orders and trading insults at the bar. She waved back and gave him a thumb’s up. “My sister’s youngest,” he added with a proud smile.

Robert gave a mock stern glance to Annie, who was jiggling happily in her seat. “You see? Plenty of time, so could we please keep our priorities straight and hold off on the victory dance for another
hour?”

Annie immediately sobered, giving the two men an apologetic grin. “Yes, yes, yes. Sorry, just got a little excited there.” She eased over to make room on her side of the booth. “Thanks for taking the time, Michael.”

“Not at all,” said the barkeep as he sat down next to her. Facing Robert, he got down to business. “The last time Annie was in here, she said you’d want to hear what I know about Wilton Carandini.”

Robert grimaced. “He’s a pestilence that shows up just when he is least expected or wanted. I’ve known him for years, ever since he began putting forth this ridiculous claim that he was a long-lost relative. I still don’t know how he managed to convince Alexandra of the fact. I certainly never believed him for a second. But he seems to have the devil’s own luck when it comes to convincing people to do his bidding.”

“Devil’s own luck,” Michael said with a bitter chuckle. “That’s a good way to put it, Mr. Saint-Peter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tell him what you told me,” Annie prodded. “Tell him about the movie. Tell him about your friend.”

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“J-Jameson Legard?” Alexandra’s mind raced frantically to put the pieces together, to remember how she knew that name. There was Port Legard, obviously, but God only knows where, or rather when she was. The man in the strange costume was obviously not Mitch; he was not from her time, and this was not the Halstead she knew. “Do…do you live here?” she finally managed to ask.

“Well, yes, God help me, I do. For over a year now. My…wife has been-” A flash of pain creased the man’s handsome features, and then was gone. “Madam, please; obviously you are distressed.” Alexandra noticed a slight blush creep over his cheeks as he took a closer look at her dress. “And you must be nearly frozen. Come in to the drawing room; let me ring for the servants.”

He opened the door wider and gently ushered her inside. Alexandra stepped gratefully into the foyer and looked about in wonder – it was Halstead, and yet completely different. For one thing, it feels like a tomb in here, she thought, repressing a shudder. It’s so depressing and dark!

Following her host into the drawing room, she immediately saw one reason for the gloom: there were no windows anywhere. It occurred to her that when she’d been outside she’d seen candlelight shining from a window, but it had been very high up, and very dim. In her drawing room at her Halstead there were spacious French doors that opened out to the veranda and large windows that looked out over the estate, but here there was nothing but dark, solid wood paneling. It felt oppressive and close in the room and Alexandra took a deep breath to fight off a wave of claustrophobia.

“May I get you a brandy?” The man named Jameson turned up a gas lamp by the amply stocked bar.

“Yes, thank you, I –I am a little hazy on how I got here, actually…”

Did Mitch even know what happened? What of the awful task Alexandra had steeled herself to perform in that other time-band? Megan was going to die if she failed! And in spite of that 'other' Andrea's sympathetic mouthings, she'd been much too well-acquainted with John, much too friendly. A horrible thought intruded- what if the two of them did this on purpose – to get her out of the way permanently!

Alexandra startled when a hand touched her elbow. She looked up to see Jameson hovering next to her with a large snifter of brandy. “My dear lady," he said, "you’ve turned white as a sheet! Please, sit on the couch here. Drink some of this. Why, you’re still shivering.”

The handsome young man handed Alexandra the glass, then carefully placed a beautifully crafted gold and burgundy afghan over her shoulders and sat down beside her.

“I’m alright, really, it was…just the shock…” Alexandra’s mind raced as she took a sip of the brandy - she had to come up with a good story, and quickly. She needed time to figure out exactly what did happen. And as usual, she could only rely on herself to make things right again. She gave the man’s outfit a surreptitious once-over.

If I know anything, I know fashion. By the cut of his clothes, I’d wager I’ve landed sometime in the 1790s.

“You see, I was…traveling here from Bangor,” she began, “and my…coach…broke a…” Oh hell, what would a coach break? A spoke? A hub? A trace? Ah well, when in doubt, smile winsomely and flutter. “Oh a something and it was taking so long and I’m afraid I insisted on being headstrong and tried to walk the rest of the way here in the dark. I got a bit turned around in the woods, and I know I was being silly, but I started hearing noises and panicked a bit…erm…and I started to run and I’m afraid I tripped and tore the bottom part of my dress…” Good lord, was he actually buying this hogwash? By the concerned look on his face, Alexandra thought he was. Or else he just assumed her to be a typical female, bereft of brains.

“You poor woman,” he said, gently patting her hand. “What a dreadful experience. I’m not surprised you took fright. The woods around here are filled with dangers. It was very foolish indeed for you to attempt to walk them alone. But you are safe now. May I ask your name?”

“I – yes,” she said, deciding to take a risk.“ My name is Alexandra...Halstead.”

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Robert and Annie leaned in closer as Michael began his story.

“You ever heard of a film called BLOOD OF THE NECROMANCER?” he asked. “No, I didn’t think so. Reason is, is because it was never made. It was going to be Hammer’s big comeback film, back in 1976. A real merging of the old and new; bringing back a few of the old guard and adding a new element of realistic horror – none of that Kensington gore – this was going to be big budget, big special effects. God only knows where they got the money for it, must have been hocked up to their eyeballs, but this was the one that was going to make it all back and then some.

“The director was a lad, name of Ritchie Petherton – a real promising young talent – he’d A.D’d for Terry and Freddie on a number of films, worked his way up from pushing the tea cart, practically, and this was to be his first feature. The studio was willing to take a chance because he had also come up with the screenplay and was savvy enough to insist that he was the only one who could direct it – he said it was all or nothing. The studio was so impressed with the script that they agreed – I think they figured Ritchie was ready for the gamble. Plus, they could get him on the cheap. Weird thing was, he’d never written a screenplay before, but told us it just came to him one night, after he’d been mooching around in an old bookshop off the Strand and found something that ‘inspired’ him.”

“What was it?” asked Robert.

“I only saw it once, and believe me, that was enough. He kept it under lock and key at his place. It was an old, old book called the Arcanum Sanguinarium. Ritchie said it was a book of ancient spells – I think the official term is ‘grimoire’, but this one dealt specifically with what he called ‘blood magic’. Stuff that was only used by these geezers called ‘necromancers.’ They were sort of a step above or below your average, workaday wizards and warlocks, I suppose, depending on your worldview. Written by a defrocked bishop or a Templar Knight or some such from the 13th century. Now, I’m not normally one to believe in bosh like that, but I tell you, the grisly thing even felt evil. The engravings alone gave me the cold shivers. Whatever it was, though, it sure as hell inspired a bang-up script. Smart, horrifying and real. Ritchie’s story had it all. Christopher and Peter were going to be paired up again, bless their hearts, such lovely gentlemen, so long as you don’t get Chris talking about opera or you’ll be there all night…but anyway...I was going to get to play sort of a hero for once, a lot of the gang was back, and the studio was one hundred per cent behind it. At least, that was the way it started out.

“It was the real mutt’s nuts for the first few days of shooting. Just like old times, but with a fantastic new energy. Ritchie was on top of every detail; he knew exactly what he wanted, but he also knew enough to trust his crew and his actors. That first week we were actually ahead of schedule, that’s how good he was. Then, that first Friday night, one of the producers shows up with this posh-looking foreign chappie in tow, introduces him as 'a world-renowned scholar and leading authority on the history and literature of the occult’. Says he’s generously agreed to lend us his ‘expertise’ on the subject."

“Carandini.” Robert said, as if muttering a curse.

“The one and only. You both know for yourselves just how quickly that man can take over a room.”

“I’ll say,” said Annie, rolling her eyes.

“He seemed like a nice enough fellow at first, if a bit full of himself,” continued Michael. “Extremely knowledgeable, but not ‘woo-woo’ or anything, if you know what I mean. But there was just something about him I didn’t trust. Call it an actor’s instinct, but I know people, and when that man shook my hand I got the very same feeling I did from Ritchie’s book. It was like...touching death. Nobody else seemed to notice, though. He told Ritchie he’d heard about the Arcanum Sanguinarium and was eager to compare it with some other material he’d found. Had some amazing stories to tell about his travels and rituals he’d actually observed.

“Oddly enough, about the only person he didn’t try to charm was Christopher Lee. For some reason, Carandini just seemed to loathe him on sight - completely ignored him, which as you can imagine didn’t sit too well with Chris. First he starts asking the professor what part of Italy he's from, which Carandinis he's related to, then the two of them get into a barney over the proper way to sacrifice a goat to Mendes and Carandini just gives him this glare. Chris starts looking like the dog’s breakfast, excuses himself and immediately takes off for his dressing room. But Ritchie, well, he was fascinated by the professor; couldn’t get enough of him and his stories. Before you know it, he’s begging Carandini to go back into town with him, says he can’t wait to show him the grimoire and see what he thinks.” Michael paused, seemingly lost in a memory.

“And?” Robert gently urged.

“And that was the last time any of us saw Ritchie alive.” Michael heaved a sigh and cleared his throat. “Annie, I didn’t tell you everything before. I didn’t want to upset Miss Megan. But…I was the one who found him. I lived about a mile down the road from his place and we’d trade off on the commute. That Monday morning, I let myself in and called out, but there was no answer.

“I…smelled him before I saw him. I found him in the kitchen. sitting at the table, facing the window. His back was to me. He was just sitting there, like he was waiting for the kettle to boil. When I…touched him…his head slumped back. His chest was covered in blood. It was like he’d been doused in the stuff. My hand…stuck to him at first. He was dead, of course. I remember…looking down at the kitchen table. He’d drawn something in blood on it with his finger - a parallel line with two horizontal lines bisecting it. And on the window in front of him he’d daubed two big red eyes – it was as if they were staring down at him, egging him on to finish the deed. He’d been dead for six hours, police told me later. They said…he’d tried to cut out his own heart, using a carpet knife.”

“Oh, God.” Annie breathed.

“The investigation didn’t take long: the verdict was that Ritchie was ‘despondent and took his own life’ with the help of a whole lot of drugs. But that was bollocks. I knew that lad. He was a good boy with a future; he was loaded with brains and he really loved making movies. No way he ever would have…done that to himself. No way.”

“But what about Carandini?” Robert exclaimed. “Didn’t the police question him?”

“Sure they did,” Michael said. “For about five minutes. That was all it took for him to convince them he was completely innocent. Needless to say, he didn’t hang about.”

Robert swore under his breath and downed the rest of his cognac. Michael gestured to Yvette to bring over another round and one for himself.

“One last thing,” he added. “The book? It was never found. They said that there were ashes in the grate, but they couldn’t prove it was the Sanguinarium. You know what I think? Carandini took it. It was what he came for in the first place. He as good as murdered Ritchie. Killed the studio too, far as I can tell. They never really recovered financially.

“Things just ground to a halt after Ritchie’s death. I tell you, the production was completely and utterly buggered. First, Christopher came down with some ghastly virus and lost his voice for a fortnight. Teddy Fallows - our gaffer? He fell off a lighting grid and broke both legs. Then there was the fire in the studio. Half of our sets were destroyed and had to be rebuilt. And finally, three different directors were called in to take over – one had a heart attack, the next died in a car crash and the third had a nervous breakdown within two days of signing the contract. Carreras and the other studio execs finally said enough is enough and shelved the project. Can’t say I blame them. You think those were all just accidents? Hell, no! Carandini did it just because he could and because we were an inconvenience to him. Or maybe just because he couldn’t stand Christopher Lee.”

Annie gave Michael’s arm a comforting squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

The trio sat in silence for a moment. When Michael continued, his voice was rough with emotion. “You know, it’s funny, but when I was standing in that kitchen; there was poor Ritchie slumped dead in his chair, and I can remember looking at my own hand covered in his blood,” Michael opened his right fist and stared down at it as if it belonged to a stranger. “And there was a part of me thinking, this is nothing at all like in the movies. Nothing at all. And another part of me was thinking, you better file this away, Michael. This is all stuff a good actor should be able to use.”

He raised his head, his eyes bleak. “That was the moment I decided it was time to get out of the movie business.”


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Jameson sat back abruptly, a shocked look on his face. “You’re a…a Halstead? But that’s impossible! I was told that Bridget was the last surviving member. That the only thing left after her was the name of this estate!"

“Oh my goodness!” Alexandra said. “Well it is a very distant branch. Perhaps my letter never arrived? How embarrassing! I wouldn’t be surprised if you hadn’t heard of me. I …I’m a sort of… cousin.”

“From England?”

“No….” For some reason, the strong, comforting image of Wilton Carandini came to mind and inspired her. “I...I’m from…Italy.”

“Ahhh.” The young man slowly nodded his head, as if that explained everything. Then he glanced towards the double doors and huffed an exasperated sigh. “I don’t know what could be taking Paxton so long. We have the most dreadful luck with servants in this place. My wife…” There was that look again. “My wife has been ill. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be just a moment.”

As soon as the young man left, Alexandra jumped up from the couch, the afghan puddling at her feet. She had to find out exactly when she was and who her relatives in this time were. A letter or a calendar would do. Anything! She yanked open the top drawer of the secretary and rifled through the papers. There! A small journal or a date book of some sort…she flipped it open to the last page and held it up to the feeble light.

“Are you here to punish me?”

Alexandra whipped around at the sound of the small voice behind her, stuffing the book into her pocket as she did so. “Good God! Where on earth did you come from?”

Standing by the fireplace was a young girl – no, a woman, Alexandra realized, but she had the look of a terrified child. “Please say you aren’t here to punish me,” the girl pleaded. She wore a filmy white dressing gown and was barefoot, her auburn hair in disarray. In her hands she held a dirty pink silk ribbon, and compulsively wound it and unwound it around her left wrist. Alexandra could see red, scabbed abrasions on both her forearms. There were dark circles under her eyes and it was obvious she’d been crying. “Brother says that I-"

Suddenly the girl stopped and cocked her head to one side, as if listening for voices. “Shhhhhhh,” she whispered conspiratorially, laying one finger to her lips. Then she scuttled over to the drawing room doors and carefully closed them.

“I – I’m sorry, you startled me.” Alexandra said in a quieter tone as the girl turned back to her. “I promise you, I’m not here to punish anyone.”

“He will make you punish me when he finds out I’ve been exploring,” the girl whispered as she crept back over to Alexandra. “There’s a secret passage, but I won’t tell you where. He hates it when I do that, he says it’s bad, that I’m bad, but all I want to do is see the sun again and feel the rain on my face and walk in my garden. Is that so bad, is that so wrong, tell me why?”

“I don’t…know why.” The poor girl was obviously not all there, Alexandra realized with dread. It struck her that this might well be the ‘sick wife’ that the Jameson fellow had mentioned. Where the hell was he, anyway?

“But you have to tell me!” The girl gripped Alexandra’s arms with a surprising strength and stared intently into her eyes, as if the answer she sought was hiding there. “WHY won’t anyone tell me?” she insisted. “Why can’t I even have a window in my room?”

“Look, you have to calm down,” Alexandra said to the girl, trying to extricate herself. “Let me go, now. Let me call for-”

But the girl only tightened her hold, digging her nails into Alexandra’s arms and thrusting herself even closer until Alexandra could smell her sour breath. “No no no,” the girl persisted. “No one can hear - it doesn’t matter how hard you cry or how loud you scream. It’s all bars and locks and stocks and rocks and a long wooden box and the ‘mancer’s curse and a spider for a nurse and snakes and chains and a big white rat with red red eyes and a long pink tail and you can’t make me they can’t make me I won’t go back I won’t go back I- ”

Enough was enough. Alexandra had some sympathy for the girl, but it was time to take control of the situation. Finally managing to wrest one hand free, she gave the girl a hard shove.

“I told you to let GO OF ME!” Alexandra commanded, delivering a resounding slap to the girl’s left cheek. The creature immediately froze - one hand to the injured cheek and a look of open-mouthed surprise so sudden that Alexandra had to suppress a bark of laughter.

The brief silence was shattered when the doors to the drawing room flew open with a reverberant crash. The girl spun around at the sound and Alexandra fell back against the couch. In the doorway stood a tall, cadaverous man in a scarlet red dressing gown, his white hair a wild nimbus and his chest heaving as if he had just run a great distance.

“Augusta!” he cried in a hoarse voice.

The girl gave a wail of anguish, and then crumpled to the floor, shivering and mewling like a terrified animal. The man ran to her and crouched down beside her, cradling the small pitiable figure in his arms, murmuring endearments and gently stroking her hair with his long, pale fingers. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he looked up at Alexandra, his large, ice-blue eyes blazing with a feverish intensity that matched what she’d just seen in the girl’s.

“Who the bloody hell are you,” he demanded in a fierce, guttural whisper, “and what have you done to my sister?”


L.A.G.