Origin of the Vampyre

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Rachel had intended on going straight to bed, to force her body clock onto local time. Instead she sat cross-legged on the bed in her pajamas, staring at Polidori’s desk and the empty document box sitting on top. The window above the desk glowed from the lantern light of the townhome’s internal courtyard, creating a dull aura that hugged the box, pulsing with each flicker of gaslight.

She smiled at Aubrey’s cheekiness about the box’s contents. Of course it was empty. A ruse to intrigue her and lead her here. She walked over to it, pulled on her gloves, nudged the latch to the side, and lifted the lid. After carefully lifting out the broken tray, which still held the envelope with her name on it, she checked the upholstery covering the inside of the box. It was definitely empty.

The desk beneath it was not.

Rachel had broken her own research protocol while unpacking her luggage and preparing for dinner. She’d opened each drawer just a c***k. It was enough to determine all five were filled to capacity with documents and notebooks. Her heart skipped several beats at the thought of what might be contained within the antique mahogany furnishing.

Though it was midnight in London, she was still on New York time and thus not tired at all. She grabbed her camera and laptop and started her research.

First the outside.

A web of fine scarification crisscrossed the top, notably on the right-hand side. Most marks were shallow, the result of years of use and refurbishment. It had certainly been re-polished at some point in the past two hundred years, the scratches and nicks filled with wax and polish that had hardened generations ago. The camera flashed in the dull light of the room—two dozen closeup photos of nearly indecipherable words etched into the wood. Reg. Serpent. Bright. Pav. Ruth. Mar. alto.

The drawer fronts were free of mark and blemish.

Rachel leaned against the bed and checked the photos on the camera display. She smiled. The flash had been able to penetrate the layers of wax and polish. Regiment. Serpentine. Brighton. Pavilion. Ruthven. Mary. Walton.

The last photo held her attention. Walton?

She leaned close to the wood. Snapped another photo. Her name was etched into the mahogany. The on of Brighton, Pavilion, and Walton were identical. Polidori had written her name. She felt euphoric.

He must have been referring to the sea captain in Mary’s novel. Still, she grinned.

Gripping her camera tight in her gloved hand, she lay on the bed, sinking into the mattress with the eiderdown blooming around her. Captain Robert Walton, from the opening chapters of Frankenstein. She’d read dozens of letters between Mary and Polidori outlining the evolution of the story into the full-length novel. Almost daily they had shared tidbits of their thoughts via ink.

Rachel shook her head. The connection might seem obvious, but she must not assume anything. It said Walton. Nothing more. She would have to find out why.

And the other words; what was their significance, that he took the time to etch them into his desk? She typed them into her spreadsheet.

The clock in the foyer downstairs struck one. A light rain was tapping against the panes of the three large windows and, outside, late-night revelers dashed along the sidewalks beneath umbrellas. Perhaps she should have gone out with Aubrey, to get to know her host. She pressed her cheek to the window and looked up at the sky. The clouds reflected the muted orange of London’s streetlights as the rain increased to a torrent. She loosened the curtains and they fell across the glass, occluding light and sound from the world outside Polidori’s room.

The left-hand desk drawer held thirty-six letters.

All were either fair copies or originals.

All were addressed to Mary Shelley or Doctor Polidori.