Origin of the Vampyre

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER SEVEN

The cab wove through the streets and alleys around Leicester Square then into the heart of Soho. Finally they turned down Brewer and then onto Great Pulteney, pulling to a stop in front of number 38.

The ground floor of the imposing townhome was cream colored, the three upper stories brickwork, with darker bricks delineating each of the nine large sash windows—three per floor. Beside the Greek-style portico protecting the front door was a green historical marker.

JOHN WILLIAM POLIDORI

1795–1821

POET & NOVELIST

AUTHOR OF

‘THE VAMPYRE’

BORN & DIED

HERE

Here.

The word jabbed at Rachel’s heart as she stepped onto the sidewalk. She’d wandered this street but never entered the building, doubting any remnants of Polidori’s life could still exist within its walls. Now, after talking with Aubrey, she knew her assumptions were wrong.

“Much of the home was remodeled after the Blitz,” Aubrey said as he hoisted her luggage from the trunk. “But my room is almost exactly as it was. The family has always thought it best to disturb the past as little as possible.”

“Your room?” Rachel said, peering toward the basement through the wrought iron fence.

“I mean, it was Doctor Polidori’s room. It has the best light and is where you will stay.”

Rachel shook her head, wide-eyed.

“Nonsense,” Aubrey continued. “There are several empty bedrooms on the upper floors I am equally comfortable in. If you are to do justice to my ancestor’s biography then you must reside in his suite. I think it will give you a better sense of him. Of who he was.” He pushed his fingers through his hair again and unlocked the front door.

Rachel felt uneasy stepping into the townhome. She wondered if she was doing the right thing. Perhaps she should stay at Wembley. At the same time, she felt an unexpected excitement at being exactly—exactly—where her subject had researched, written, slept, dreamed.

Died.

She followed her host through the door and up the stairs.

Polidori’s bedroom was at the front of the house, with dark wooden floors, almost black, and whitewashed, wood-paneled walls. The three tall sash windows were open to Great Pulteney Street, heavy cream-colored drapery pulled to the side. Centered on the far wall was the wrought iron bed frame, flanked by dressing tables and a tiled washstand. A windowed niche in the wall held a broad mahogany desk, scarified and worn. A cast iron tub, without plumbing, stood on its ball and claw feet beneath one of the windows.

“Only one bathroom in the house, I’m afraid. It’s down behind the kitchen,” Aubrey said. “But you are welcome to bathe in here if you’d like to use his bath.”

Rachel felt flushed. His bath. His bed. His desk.

“Of course, the mattress is new.” Aubrey smirked.

“Thank you,” Rachel said. “I really don’t know what to say. Your offer for me to stay here is so kind. So wonderful.”

Aubrey checked his watch. “I’ll leave you to unpack and freshen up. I usually eat at seven, but we can have dinner whenever you wish. I hope you like bangers and mash.” He closed the door slowly behind him. It creaked.

Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, astonished by where she was.