Blood Will Out. Jill Downie
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the kitchen. She fetched a bottle of vodka from the equally sizeable sideboard, and some chopped-up lemon rind.
“Is he anything I should worry about? Here,” Elodie pointed to a large crockery bowl high on a shelf near the fireplace, “get that down for me, would you?”
Liz obliged. “I don’t think so, and the complaint is so bizarre it could be that we should be looking into the complainer rather than your new neighbour.”
She pulled out a branch of berries from the basket, holding them up against the light, admiring their purple translucence in the sunlight streaming through the window. “Now what do we do?”
Elodie took another branch from the basket. “We’ll need something for the stems and so on. They are mildly toxic. We’ll use this.” She pulled out a plastic pail from under the table, then a tall stool. “You’ll be fine with a chair, but this suits me better.
“So, tell me — is he a flasher? A con artist?” She hopped up on to the stool, and started to pull off the berries, her fingers swiftly turning purple.
“Nothing so run-of-the-mill, El.”
Liz hesitated. It had all sounded so ridiculous this morning, and she couldn’t believe Chief Officer Hanley had asked her to look into it. But he had, and she knew why. Because the complainant was the wife of one of the major estate agents on the island, a man not to be trifled with. It was a familiar theme. She watched the juices trickle over her hands and thought of Lady Macbeth, and blood, and said, “We have been told he is a vampire.”
The shriek of laughter that burst out of Elodie shook the stool on which she was sitting, and she grasped the edge of the table to steady herself.
“Liz, Liz — which demented islander told you that? I cannot believe you are taking this seriously.”
“I’m not, and it certainly added a little light relief to my morning. But Elton Maxwell’s wife does.”
“Ah. So the chief officer does.” Elodie pulled out another branch of berries, and winked across the table at Liz.
“Got it in one. Mrs. Maxwell’s a member of the Island Players. Do you know her?”
“Only as a fellow player. I don’t socialize much with the Maxwells.” Elodie leaned across the table. “Tell me more. Should I be avoiding the garden after dusk? Carrying garlic? Is she out of her tiny mind? If she has one at all?”
Liz shrugged her shoulders and went on picking berries from the stem in her hand. “She’s not quite as wacky as that makes her sound, actually. She says he is writing a play for the group — do you know anything about that?’
“No. But then, I’m only just coming up for air after finishing a really tough project for a researcher at Great Ormond Street Hospital. What does playwriting have to do with vampires?”
“Everything. That’s what the play is about, and what has upset Mrs. Maxwell is that Hugo Shawcross says it is an area of interest to him, because he is a vampire himself, descended from a long line of the undead. She says he is trying to create a splinter group within the Island Players, and has joked about secret oaths and blood sacrifices.”
“Seriously?” Elodie had stopped working on her branch of elderberries, and now looked concerned. “I know they were hoping to get some new blood into the group — sorry, terrible choice of expression — and wanted to attract a younger crowd. But this doesn’t sound like a good idea.”
“No, and that was one of her complaints. That he is a bad influence on the island young. She also said he became threatening when challenged. Mind you, it could be that Mrs. Maxwell doesn’t have much of a sense of humour. He told her to leave him alone or one dark night she’d wake up to find him chomping down on her. Or words to that effect.”
“Yuk. Not nice.” She caught Liz’s eye, and giggled. “Sorry again, Liz, but this is just ridiculous. Does chomping down on someone’s neck constitute a death threat?”
Liz grinned. “Don’t feel the need to apologize. You should hear the jokes back at the office — well, you shouldn’t. Some are just filthy. Even Chief Officer Hanley had difficulty keeping a straight face when he told me, and he’s not a laugh-a-minute kind of feller.”
“Were you planning on going round to talk to him? Do you need backup? We could take some of that.” Elodie pointed to the string of garlic hanging near a thick rope of onions. “I don’t have any crucifixes handy, I’m afraid.”
“I sort of need backup — at least, that is what I was going to ask you.” Liz was no longer looking amused. “But I am now rethinking that, in case this guy is —”
“Dangerous? Have you seen him? He’s not much taller than me, looks more like Gandalf than a vampire, and I’m pretty sure I could take him if I had to.” Elodie got up and went over to the sink to wash her hands. “See, Liz, I don’t believe in fairies, or ghosts, or vampires. But I do think he could be trouble. The Island Players have always played second fiddle to GADOC, and I’m sure that’s what this is about.”
GADOC, the Guernsey Amateur Dramatic and Operatic Society, were the principal group on the island, with a history that went back close to a century. They performed at the well-equipped theatre in the Beau Sejour centre; the Island Players had come into being with a mandate to perform more challenging material. Their audiences, not surprisingly, were considerably smaller, and they were constantly in need of funds.
Elodie went on. “The Players may be hoping that something shocking will help membership. I can always just ask about the play — say I’ve heard about it. I often see him out in his garden, through the trees.”
Elodie turned around and grabbed at a towel near the sink. “Let’s get these beauties into the vodka with the lemon peel.”
Liz went over to the sink, taking the towel from Elodie. Something fragrant was cooking in the oven, and the aroma drifted towards her as she washed her hands.
“There’s a fantastic smell over here. What is it?”
“Lamb shanks, cooking very slowly, with red wine and herbs from the garden. And garlic, of course! Some time you must let me teach you how to cook, young woman. Living on omelettes, fish and chips, and Dwight’s curries — delicious though they are, and I have some in the freezer — is not good. It’ll catch up with you, sooner or later.”
“Knock it off, El. You sound like my mother. Anyway, are lamb shanks a health food?”
“Kind of. They are good for the soul.”
Together they filled the Mason jars, fastening down the lids, and Elodie put on the coffee. “How is Dwight?” she asked. “Still playing in that jazz group with your boss?”
“Yes. He’s fine. We are not an item anymore, you know.”
“I know.” Elodie had her back to Liz, but could hear the subtle change in her voice. She took down two coffee mugs from the shelf near the fireplace and put them on the table. “Is that something you care about, or am I misinterpreting that change of key I hear?”
Liz grinned, and said, “Major to minor you mean? Actually, that’s more about my Guvnor than about Dwight. Thanks.” She took the filled coffee mug, sat down and took a sip. “He was going to come and hear me sing with my group, Jenemie. Then he had to go to London for a debriefing for this last caper — case — of ours and missed it. I was disappointed, don’t know why.”
Elodie looked at her niece, and felt a wave of tenderness. She was younger than her age in some ways, flitting from relationship to relationship, some of them from which she disentangled herself — or was disentangled. Her apparent insouciance about such things was not always genuine, her flippancy a useful cover for hurt.
“Have you heard him play? I have, once. He’s good. Went with your Uncle Vern.” She smiled. “Do you think your disappointment is artistic, or personal? Do you fancy him? He has a certain je ne sais quoi. Well, I do sais