Origin of the Vampyre

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

A loud banging interrupted what had been a pleasant dream.

The sunlit pebbles of Brighton Beach . . . Officers of the regiment strolling barefoot in the ocean shallows . . .

A hand pressed firmly upon his chest. It was cold against his n***d flesh, sucking the warmth from his slumber.

“Doctor, quickly. A Bow Street Runner awaits you at the door.”

Polidori rubbed brusquely at his face, attempting to wake. He pushed himself up onto his elbow amongst pillows and quilted eiderdowns. “Has there been another?” he said.

His valet nodded, fright evident on his features, garishly lit by the single candle on the washstand. Polidori quickly donned a shirt and pulled Wellington boots onto his stockinged feet as the valet held his frock coat high. He was still fastening the top buttons as he ran out the front door into Great Pulteney Street, his medical bag tight under his arm.

It was dark outside, the ubiquitous dull glow of London fog hanging just above the eves of the four-story townhomes bordering the street.

A bell rang in the distance.

The Bow Street Runner was blowing his whistle, waving for Polidori to follow in haste. They ran along Great Pulteney and across Brewer Street, carriage horses startled by the commotion, then down the narrow Farrier’s Passage and into the cobbled stink of Smith’s Court. Within moments their course had led them from London refinement to absolute squalor. The court was darkest at this time of night, devoid of the lanterns that lit the surrounding streets. Ladies never frequented here; only men who desired what a city might provide within its quiet corners and private niches. The court was empty now save for the flowery odor of opium and the salty lingering stench of masculine satisfaction.

Polidori came to a breathless halt. The Runner had stopped and bent low, holding aloft his lantern.

This was the second man this week.

Polidori squatted beside the Runner to inspect the body—an elderly gentleman, dressed immaculately for the opera. His pantaloons hung loosely at the knee, his opera slippers missing, his left foot and calf mauled with chunks of flesh ripped loose from the bone.

“A hound?” the Runner asked.

Polidori leaned in further to inspect the gentleman’s head. A gash behind his ear, blood glistening. A corner of the sooty brickwork was smeared with blood and tufts of grey hair. “The cause of death,” Polidori muttered. “Did you find his slippers, Officer?”

The Runner pointed to the far side of the court where the slippers lay, then retrieved them. Polidori lifted one close to the light of the Runner’s lantern. It was saturated in a translucent, blood-specked saliva. “Bring him to Great Pulteney Street. There may yet be more I may learn before you locate his family and associates.”

The Bow Street Runner hauled the gentleman onto his shoulder and followed Polidori. A few passers-by shuffled, wide-eyed, into the gutters in case the well-dressed burden should be diseased.

The steps to Polidori’s basement were slippery from the fog. The green door, seldom locked, stood ajar. Polidori pointed to the parquetry table in the center of the room and the Runner shrugged the body onto it. The week’s first cadaver still lay unclaimed on the side counter, draped in a sheet mottled by yellow-green stains, its stench barely tempered by the pickle-odor of formaldehyde.

“Do you think it was the same animal, Doctor?”

Polidori ripped open the gentleman’s pantaloons, exposing the full extent of his wounds. Whatever mouth had ripped at the flesh was broad—much too large for a rat—most probably a hound, as the Runner had suggested. Polidori prodded at the muscle and sinew, attempting to nudge it back into its original circumstance. It didn’t appear any was missing. Nothing eaten.

“It is merely ravaged, and not for want of consumption. At least, not of the meat itself.” He took a scalpel from his bag and cut through the ragged muscle closest to the bone. He dug his fingers into the flesh and extracted a tooth.

It was flat.

Decayed.

Human.