Chapter Twenty-Four
The little bell
tinkled as April pushed through the door. Mr Gill looked at her
with puffy, slightly pink eyes; she was fairly sure the ringing
bell had woken him. In fact, she had a strange sense that the
bell’s chimes didn’t just wake the shop’s proprietor, they woke the
whole shop: when the door was closed, time stopped
entirely.
‘Back so soon?’ said
Mr Gill suspiciously, setting his glasses on his nose. ‘How can I
help you today?’
‘Well, I was
wondering if you had some sort of index or inventory of the books
you have here?’
Mr Gill clucked his
tongue in disapproval. ‘Oh no, no need for that. They are all
stored up here,’ he said, pointing to the wiry white tufts of hair
on the side of his head.
‘Then could you tell
me if you have this book?’ she asked, opening the notebook and
pointing to the entry. ‘Infernal
Wickedness by
Kingsley-Davis?’
The old man peered at
the note. ‘Hmm … well, we did have a copy. Rather popular, that
one. But I think the young lady bought it only the other
day.’
‘Young lady? Who
would that be?’
‘Oh, a charming young
thing. Shiny hair. No, no, now I think about it, she didn’t buy it
in the end. Yes, I think we may still have it. Shall we have a
look?’
With some effort Mr
Gill rose from his chair and gestured towards an alcove at the back
of the shop, lifting the velvet rope that closed it off from the
rest of the shop. April found herself climbing a wooden spiral
staircase to the first floor, almost identical to the ground floor
only crowded with even more books. Mr Gill followed her slowly then
immediately began scanning the shelves at close range, tilting his
head to read the worn leather spines through his tiny spectacles,
tutting and muttering his way along the rows.
‘Ah, now here we
are,’ said Mr Gill triumphantly, taking down a slim volume. It had
a battered blue binding and faded gilt lettering. He handed it to
April reverently.
‘Very rare, that one.
Never seen another copy, actually, and plenty of people have been
looking, let me tell you.’
‘Could I … ?’ asked
April, gesturing to a chair by the window.
‘Oh, by all means, by
all means,’ said Mr Gill, tottering towards the stairs. ‘I’ve
plenty to get on with, rushed off my feet as you can
see.’
When he was gone, she
eagerly opened the book and began to read the
foreword.
It is my unhappy duty to inform the reader, within these pages, of a true horror hiding in our very backyards. This is not an historical terror such as a young boy may thrill over while reading of dead kings and queens, but a very real present-day threat which may, if not handled with the proper vigour and dispatch, even undermine the already shaky foundations of our civilisation. It is not a disease that the wealthy classes can avoid with indoorplumbing and rich food, nor is it something education and breeding will unseat, for it is as present behind the doors of the finest houses in the land as it is in the dark streets of Clerkenwell and Bow. My dearly cherished hope is that, by setting these facts down in type, I can expose these fiends and rid our land of them once and for all. Please, dear reader, heed my words, for if this plague is allowed to spread, all that we hold dear will surely unravel.J. Kingsley-Davis, St James, 1903
As she read the
words, April felt herself shiver. It wasn’t the comically dire
warnings of the author, it was the fact that they were so similar
in sentiment to the snippet of the introduction her father had
written for his new book.
It was almost uncanny
- unless, of course, he had read this obscure tome himself, but
then Mr Gill had said it was super-rare, hadn’t he? Still, her
father was a journalist, he could find things that other people
couldn’t. She quickly turned back to the index page to look at the
chapter headings. ‘Chapter One - The Vampyre, A History’, ‘Chapter
Two - Arrival On Sovereign Soil’, ‘Chapter Three -The Nests Are
Feathered’, ‘Chapter Four-The Servants Are Recruited’. It was
obviously a history of the myth, but presented as historical fact.
In any case, it would be useful in April’s investigation. She
flipped back to the front page to see how much it cost and almost
fell off her chair. ‘Three hundred and thirty pounds?’ she gasped.
How could any book be worth that? You can get
anything off the Internet for nothing these days - why would you
bother with these dusty old things?
But then again, she
had never found any information as focused and concise as this on
the Internet. Certainly, everything she’d found written about the
Highgate Vampire on the net was confused and a bit hysterical.
That’s probably because vampires are made
up, April reminded herself. It’s not as
if they’re in the Natural History Museum.
Sadly, April headed
back down the spiral stairs to Mr Gill and put the book on his
desk.
‘Changed your mind?’
he asked, peering over his glasses.
‘More that I can’t
afford a book like that,’ she said. ‘It’s a shame, because it’s
exactly what I need.’
‘That’s what the
other girl said,’ mused Mr Gill vaguely.
‘Who was this other
girl?’
‘Oh, came in a while
ago, asking for the Kingsley-Davis, said she couldn’t afford it
either. People don’t appreciate the value of rare books any more,
you see. Sometimes the books you find on these shelves are the last
remaining copy of a masterpiece that took decades to complete and
contains vital information that might otherwise have been lost.’
The old man paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. ‘Of
course, many of them are utter rubbish,’ he added.
‘Well, thank you for
letting me see it—’
‘Isabelle,’ said Mr
Gill.
April looked up
sharply. The shopkeeper was bent over a large ledger on his
desk.
‘Isabelle Davis, that
was her name,’ he said. ‘I wrote it down in case a cheaper copy
came in, although, as I told her, that’s most unlikely. Yes, I
remembered it because of the name. Apparently she and the author
were distantly related.’
‘Could it have been
the same Isabelle Davis who was killed in the
cemetery?’
Mr Gill’s rheumy eyes
opened wider. ‘Do you think so?’ he said. ‘I read about it of
course, a terrible business, but you never think of it happening to
someone you’ve spoken to, do you? My word, the poor
girl.’
April could feel the
hairs standing up on her neck. ‘Thank you, Mr Gill.’
She turned towards
the door and pulled the handle.
‘Of course, if you’re
not too busy, I could always give you a precis of the book,’ he
said, picking it up and waving it at her. ‘I read it after she’d
left. Very interesting, actually. Especially in the light of the,
uh, murder.’
‘Oh, that would be
fantastic.’
‘Well, sit yourself
down over there and let’s see what I remember, but not before I’ve
put the kettle on, mmm?’ he said, reaching for an ancient plastic
jug. ‘I’m sure you’d like a cup of tea?’
‘Oh yes,’ said April.
‘Yes I would, very much.’