Lydia (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} watchergrrl) wrote,@ 1997-08-22 18:45:00 |
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derring-do in Prague
August 22
Dear Pamela,
I'm meeting Alison (you remember, my roommate at Cambridge) in an hour to see "My Best Friend's Wedding" - the one with that annoying American with the big teeth, but it also has Rupert Everett and Alison insists that makes it bearable - so will have to keep this short.
(Rudi's out in Kent until late this evening, following up on a reported Gnarrl sighting. I doubt that's what it was, they're supposed to be extinct, but of course he wants to be sure. Though I suspect that if he hadn't been called to Kent his bathroom grouting would have required urgent attention and he still wouldn't have come to the film - Rudi is a prince among men, but there are things one should not expect a man to do.)
So I'll keep this as brief as I can, though it's a bit involved.
And allow me to say, in passing, that I understand your misgivings about my research methods, since when I broke off my story I was hiding behind a shower curtain in Prague as who knows what demonic force or homicidal maniac broke into the apartment. But this truly does not demonstrate any lack of caution on my part; it was only when I was unable to contact the local Watcher that I decided to look at the murder scene myself, and how was I to expect demonic summoning diagrams on the bathroom wall, when they had been omitted from the only reports I could access?
I admit that it's true I could have got the Watcher's address from the Council. But a) they wouldn't have given it to me, and b) if I had asked it would have tipped them off and I would have been prevented from visiting Prague entirely.
Yes, I know that's your point. But my point is - never mind. It must surely be clear.
In any event. To continue. Naturally the intruder into the apartment ignored my prayers and came straight into the bathroom. I barely breathed. Fortunately she was making no attempt to mute her activities, and her rustling and banging masked whatever slight sounds I could not avoid. I could see her in the mirror, through a small hole in the curtain; luckily I was not backlit so she could not see me. I hoped. She appeared human, and since I could see her reflection I knew, at least, that she was not a vampire, and I relaxed a little. I suspected she was either the landlady or a member of the police force, neither of them an immediate threat to life and limb. Still, it would have been at the least embarrassing to explain my presence in the bathtub, and I hoped I would not be discovered.
She checked her hair in the mirror automatically as she came in and I had the chance to look her over. She was quite nice-looking, rather in the style of that actress in "The English Patient" last year, Kirsten something. She was wearing a tweed jacket and had her hair tied back in a roll at the back of her neck, rather the way I wear mine in summer, for convenience in the heat. In fact had I not known better I would have thought she was English. But what would an Englishwoman be doing here?
She finished tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear and turned to the poster behind her. I gave fervent, if silent, thanks that I had taped it back into place. Without pausing for a moment she took it down and laid it on the floor beside her, then reached into her handbag and removed a plastic bag wrapped around what proved to be a margarine container, which she set on the floor under the diagram. From the side pocket of her handbag she drew out a fine-pointed paint brush. She opened the container, dipped the brush into dark liquid inside, and began paint in the unfinished portion of the diagram.
I was too stunned for a second to take in what I was seeing. The dark liquid must be blood, I realised. But - I had a hundred questions. Who was she? was perhaps the least important, but nevertheless it took up residence in the front of my mind as I watched her in the mirror, humming tunelessly (actually it sounded a little like "Yellow Submarine", but that may have been accidental), head bent in concentration, carefully painting intricate runes in the blanks of the design. We remained in our positions, she at the wall, I holding my breath in the shower, for a good ten minutes, while I wondered what to do.
We must have stayed in this position, I motionless and practically breathless behind the curtain, she with all her attention bent on her work, for ten minutes or more. Finally she took a momentary break, setting the paintbrush down on a scrap of paper by the dish and rolling her shoulders to release the strain of her cramped position. As she did this we both heard footsteps coming down the hallway outside. She did as I had, and sat without moving, head cocked to listen, until it was clear that they were slowing down outside the door. Then she moved with swift economy, wrapping the paintbrush in the paper, clipping the lid back on the container, stowing both in the plastic bag and tucking them into her purse. She rose from her knees and taped the poster back up over the diagram. She finished just as I heard the lock snick open and the doorknob turn, followed by a creak as the next visitor pushed open the door.
For a moment I was terrified that she was going to turn to hide behind the shower curtain and find me, but she walked unhurriedly out of the bathroom and I heard her say, "Janna?"
Another voice came from the front of the apartment. "Gwen? What are you doing here?" The English was idiomatic, but faintly accented.
"I thought I'd go over the apartment again and have another look for trace evidence," said 'Gwen' in perfect Oxbridge. Either English, as I had guessed from her appearance, or had had excellent language tutors. "I wondered if the German hitchhikers might have found their way here."
"The two from Mainz?" There was a pause, and when Janna, presumably the Prague Watcher, spoke again, she sounded doubtful. "There's no evidence that they were even in the city," she pointed out.
"I thought it worth a look," said 'Gwen'. "Thoroughness is always a virtue." And not one you'd know much about, her faintly condescending tone fairly clearly implied. I felt instantly sympathetic towards Janna.
Perhaps Janna was not equipped to decipher Oxbridge voice colourations, however, for she took this platitude at face value. "It cannot hurt, I suppose. Did you find anything?"
I assume 'Gwen' shook her head; at least I was quite sure she hadn't investigated anything in the apartment beyond the bathroom wall. "What brings you here?"
"The police are closing the investigation," said Janna. "And the landlord would like to clean out the apartment next week, to repaint and re-let. I wished to take a final look around it while opportunity still existed." Her voice was coming closer as she spoke.
I heard Gwen move out of the bathroom a few steps, neatly intercepting Janna in the hallway, and saying "I was about to make tea, would you like a cup?" Nicely done, I thought. Distract Janna from what she was doing in the bathroom, and establish herself as the dominant party, householder of the murder scene, as well. I heard Janna murmur thanks and both sets of footsteps receded towards the kitchen.
"You were unable to delay the police any longer?" said the frosty Oxbridge voice, contriving by its tone to hold Janna personally responsible. No question that Gwen was a bitch. I would have thought so even if I had not known she was deeply involved in the Black Arts.
"One cannot blame them, Miss Post." Her tone seemed to be getting through to Janna after all, from her retreat to formality. "It has been two months after all."
I couldn't hear the other's reply over the water pouring into the kettle in the kitchen, and seized the opportunity to clamber silently out of the tub, shoes in my hand. I did not think she would return to the bathroom while Janna was here, or allow the Prague Watcher to use it, and I wanted to be ready to bolt for the door as soon as opportunity offered. At the same time I didn't want to leave the nearly-completed diagram intact on the wall. I looked around. Gwen Post, whoever she was, had left her handbag in the bathroom. I reached into it as silently as I could, and retrieved the carrier bag and its contents, the margarine container full of blood. I slipped them into my own handbag. This would at least delay her. Now how to get out?
The two women in the kitchen supplied the answer for me. I think Miss Post wanted to get Janna out of the apartment entirely; at least I overheard her suggesting to the Watcher that they drink their tea on the "balcony", the fire escape off the kitchen, and discuss the case out there. "It's so gloomy in here," I overheard as she opened the back door. "Almost haunted."
I waited until I heard both of them move onto the fire escape, from which they could not see the front door, then tiptoed out as speedily as was consistent with stealth, gently snicked open the door and slid out, pulling the door quietly to behind me. I heard Janna, I think, saying "did you hear something?" and the conversation drop briefly just as I pulled the door shut, but felt I could count on Miss Post to quell any impulse the Watcher might have to investigate anything at all in that apartment. I was safe.
I sagged against the wall outside the door and closed my eyes in relief. I pulled my shoes on and considered my next move. The blood Miss Post needed to complete her diagram, whatever it was for, was safely in my handbag. Presumably she could replace it, but I hoped not immediately. If the landlord was coming in to repaint this weekend she might not have time to complete it at all. But could I count on this?
The repetition of the word "worst" and the use of demonic languages made the dark forces inevitable allies of her work. So for that matter did her use of blood, which was invariably associated with the Black Arts. It could not be that she was simply working a little white magic to exorcise the evil from the apartment. And if she were she'd have had no reason to hide it from Janna.
I decided reluctantly that I couldn't rely on the landlord to scrub off or cover over the diagram before Miss Post had a chance to complete it. She was clearly up to no good and I had a duty to thrust a spoke in her wheel if I could.
I walked quietly down the hall and partway down the stairs, then turned and retraced my route as noisily as I could. When I reached the apartment door with the police tape across it I knocked loudly, waited, knocked again, then, whistling to advertise my presence in case by some mischance it had been missed, I reached through the broken pain of glass and unlocked the door for the second time that day. I walked in, slung my handbag over my shoulder, pulled out my camera, and began snapping pictures of the front room. I had run out of film by the third shot, but no observer could have spotted that.
As I positioned the stained (by what?) silk-brocade sofa in the viewfinder for my sixth 'photograph' a decidedly teed-off Oxbridge voice behind me said "who are you and what do you think you're doing here? Perhaps you missed the police tape?"
Miss Post. I wondered what had kept her so long. Had she and Watcher Kundera been huddled on the fire escape, hoping I would go away? There seemed no reason for that. I was an unauthorized intruder, they had a perfect right to chase me off.
I gave her my best clumsily eager graduate student grin. "Watcher Kundera!" I said. "I was hoping to find you. I've looked for you everywhere. I thought you might be here but when I didn't hear anyone I thought I would at least take some photographs of the scene." I gestured widely at the room, the apartment. "This is where William the Bloody and Drusilla were encamped is it not? Is that wardrobe" - I pointed - "where the body was found? Poor girl. I'd like a photograph of that too if I may."
A variety of emotions crossed her face as I spoke. Exasperation, anger, confusion, surprise when I mentioned William the Bloody, and surprisingly a touch of fear. She finally broke in as I turned towards the wardrobe, camera in hand, and crossed to block my path.
"Who ARE you?" she asked again.
"Oh, I'm so terribly sorry," I gushed. "Of course you don't know me. I'm Lydia Chalmers, Watcher-in-Training, I'm writing my thesis on William the Bloody and only heard last week that he had actually been sighted in Prague with his paramour. I came as fast as I could. I was hoping to make contact with you, perhaps you could fill me in on as many details as you could of their activities, feeding habits, companions, idiosyncracies - anything, really - it's so exciting to meet someone who has actually seen my subject!" I kept my eyes on her and watched her relax as she realised that I was no real threat. I had no idea who she really was and had simply stumbled into the apartment. All she had to do was deflect me and get me back out the door.
A thought crossed her face and she said, "why didn't you get in touch, warn me that you were coming? I could have arranged to have the relevant files put at your disposal. As it is it will take some time."
An approach towards honesty seemed to be the best bet. I contrived to look a trifle shamefaced and said, "I only heard that my subject had been in Prague while I was on a research trip in Munich last week. I would have contacted my supervisor to put me in touch with you but I suspected he would disapprove of the side trip, so I thought - "
"Who's your supervisor?" Miss Post asked.
"Quentin Travers."
Her face cleared; she believed me. She obviously knew him, then; she must be associated with the Council - or else his reputation for secrecy and need for total control of information sources had spread far beyond the ranks of Watchers. Watcher Kundera seemed to know her too, though. It seemed very likely that she was an English Watcher.
"And how did you find this apartment?" she asked.
I was actually surprised at this, and didn't have to act. "It was in the newspapers," I said. "Location of the murder scene."
"Hm," she said, but was apparently satisfied. "Well, I'm sorry you've had this trip for nothing," she said after a brief pause during which I could practically see the cogs working. "Unfortunately I have already sent all the files back to London. Mr. Travers should have them on your return."
Something told me that she was lying. Perhaps it was the fact that I knew she was not Janna Kundera, a point on which she had failed to enlighten me. I would not have put it past her to destroy the files if she got her hands on them, though I wasn't (at that point) sure why she would do so. But she didn't want me to go looking for them, that was certain.
I allowed my face to fall. "What a waste!" I said. "I should have simply asked Mr. Travers for your phone number, but I thought I'd like to see the scene for myself, perhaps have lunch with you if you had time ..."
I let my voice fade, to see what excuse she would give me for turning me down. Sure enough, she said,
"I'm so sorry. I'm due to leave the city this evening, to see if I can pick up any signs of William and Drusilla's trail across Europe. There's some thought that they may have gone to America, but I am to check their usual haunts in Paris and Marseilles just in case." She was a quick thinker, certainly. She let her eyes drop, as if considering, and then offered, "I will make sure to send my findings back to the Council as I learn anything, and will ask Mr. Travers to make a copy for you, will that help?"
"Why yes, it would!" I smiled gratefully. "Thank you. I'm just sorry we won't have time to chat before you go, to get your impressions, all the things one doesn't write into a report. Unless you'd have time for coffee now?"
She was ushering me firmly to the door as I spoke. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to Kundera - why had she not appeared by now? At the entrance to the main room I turned equally firmly towards the hallway and marched down it, saying "I hope you don't mind if I use the facilities before I go," over my shoulder as I went.
This move surprised her and I got a crucial few seconds' lead before she pursued me, saying "I wouldn't, the loo's not in order, you'd be better down at the tube station on - "
"I'm afraid it's rather urgent, it's - that time of the month, you know," I said, managing to sound embarrassed without too much effort. Saying the phrase "that time of the month" is embarrassing all by itself. "I won't be a moment, and I won't use the loo", I promised, and dashed into the bathroom, contriving just inside the door to trip over her handbag, which had not been moved, and stumble against the poster, which came away from the wall as I pulled away. Well, I gave it a little help.
"Oh goodness, I hope I haven't - " I began to say, then started away from the wall in feigned surprise. (I was rather proud of that.) "Good Lord, what's this?" I said., staring at the diagram. I grabbed some toilet tissue from the roll by the commode and scrubbed away at it, ostensibly to 'clean' it so I could see it better. But I took care to start with the still-wet part she had just painted and smeared her painstaking lines and runes all over the plaster. "It's still damp!" I said. "The humidity, I suppose."
I scrubbed a little more, irretrievably breaking the lines and rendering the figures illegible. I knew enough about the Dark Arts to know that one must write it correctly the first time. The first error or smear or crossed-out line and the diagram is nullified or, worse, could backfire in a hundred very unpleasant ways if one tried to summon with it. It was unusable now; whatever she had been doing here, she would have to start it over again somewhere else. If she could.
As she rounded the corner, her face like thunder, I looked up innocently. "Did the police see this?" I asked. "It was hidden behind the poster. I wonder what William and Drusilla were up to - "
She snatched the tissue out of my hand and actually slapped me. "You stupid, stupid girl!" she said icily. "What have you done?"
She inspected the diagram as I hastily got to my feet, spouting apologies. "We'll never know now what they intended with this, thanks to your blithering idiocy," she said. I admired the speed of her recovery. "We can't read this now. Do they train you to be a fool?"
She was standing between me and the door and I stood back, hoping to encourage her to come farther into the room so I could edge around her and make a break for it if need be.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "Of course this is essential - but it's so surprising! Vampires almost never get involved in -"
"William the Bloody is an unusual vampire," she said curtly, examining the diagram. I managed to slide around her towards the door as she stood there preoccupied, obviously trying to decide if it was reparable.
"I didn't mean to - " I said. "Should I call the police?"
At this she looked up at me, obviously speechless at my stupidity. "Perhaps not, then," I said, and edged out into the hall. "I suppose I should go, and leave you to interpret - "
I was almost home free when I heard a man's voice from the alley behind the apartment building, coming through the open kitchen doorway. As I said, I know little Czech. But even I could tell from the tone of the shout that the man had found something appalling out there, four floors down. And suddenly I knew what had happened to Watcher Kundera.
My head jerked towards Miss Post. She must have seen something in my expression, and her eyes narrowed. "No," she said thoughtfully, "I think you'd better stay."
And that was when I broke and ran. </ljcut>
***
And this, Pamela, is unfortunately when I have to break and run again, if I'm to make it to the theatre, but I assure you there's not much left to the story, and I'll finish it for you tomorrow. Rudi and I will be down not this weekend but next, for the New Moon, for father's ritual, now that mother's decided to go ahead. Please stay well until then.
love, Lydia
August 22
Dear Pamela,
I'm meeting Alison (you remember, my roommate at Cambridge) in an hour to see "My Best Friend's Wedding" - the one with that annoying American with the big teeth, but it also has Rupert Everett and Alison insists that makes it bearable - so will have to keep this short.
(Rudi's out in Kent until late this evening, following up on a reported Gnarrl sighting. I doubt that's what it was, they're supposed to be extinct, but of course he wants to be sure. Though I suspect that if he hadn't been called to Kent his bathroom grouting would have required urgent attention and he still wouldn't have come to the film - Rudi is a prince among men, but there are things one should not expect a man to do.)
So I'll keep this as brief as I can, though it's a bit involved.
And allow me to say, in passing, that I understand your misgivings about my research methods, since when I broke off my story I was hiding behind a shower curtain in Prague as who knows what demonic force or homicidal maniac broke into the apartment. But this truly does not demonstrate any lack of caution on my part; it was only when I was unable to contact the local Watcher that I decided to look at the murder scene myself, and how was I to expect demonic summoning diagrams on the bathroom wall, when they had been omitted from the only reports I could access?
I admit that it's true I could have got the Watcher's address from the Council. But a) they wouldn't have given it to me, and b) if I had asked it would have tipped them off and I would have been prevented from visiting Prague entirely.
Yes, I know that's your point. But my point is - never mind. It must surely be clear.
In any event. To continue. Naturally the intruder into the apartment ignored my prayers and came straight into the bathroom. I barely breathed. Fortunately she was making no attempt to mute her activities, and her rustling and banging masked whatever slight sounds I could not avoid. I could see her in the mirror, through a small hole in the curtain; luckily I was not backlit so she could not see me. I hoped. She appeared human, and since I could see her reflection I knew, at least, that she was not a vampire, and I relaxed a little. I suspected she was either the landlady or a member of the police force, neither of them an immediate threat to life and limb. Still, it would have been at the least embarrassing to explain my presence in the bathtub, and I hoped I would not be discovered.
She checked her hair in the mirror automatically as she came in and I had the chance to look her over. She was quite nice-looking, rather in the style of that actress in "The English Patient" last year, Kirsten something. She was wearing a tweed jacket and had her hair tied back in a roll at the back of her neck, rather the way I wear mine in summer, for convenience in the heat. In fact had I not known better I would have thought she was English. But what would an Englishwoman be doing here?
She finished tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear and turned to the poster behind her. I gave fervent, if silent, thanks that I had taped it back into place. Without pausing for a moment she took it down and laid it on the floor beside her, then reached into her handbag and removed a plastic bag wrapped around what proved to be a margarine container, which she set on the floor under the diagram. From the side pocket of her handbag she drew out a fine-pointed paint brush. She opened the container, dipped the brush into dark liquid inside, and began paint in the unfinished portion of the diagram.
I was too stunned for a second to take in what I was seeing. The dark liquid must be blood, I realised. But - I had a hundred questions. Who was she? was perhaps the least important, but nevertheless it took up residence in the front of my mind as I watched her in the mirror, humming tunelessly (actually it sounded a little like "Yellow Submarine", but that may have been accidental), head bent in concentration, carefully painting intricate runes in the blanks of the design. We remained in our positions, she at the wall, I holding my breath in the shower, for a good ten minutes, while I wondered what to do.
We must have stayed in this position, I motionless and practically breathless behind the curtain, she with all her attention bent on her work, for ten minutes or more. Finally she took a momentary break, setting the paintbrush down on a scrap of paper by the dish and rolling her shoulders to release the strain of her cramped position. As she did this we both heard footsteps coming down the hallway outside. She did as I had, and sat without moving, head cocked to listen, until it was clear that they were slowing down outside the door. Then she moved with swift economy, wrapping the paintbrush in the paper, clipping the lid back on the container, stowing both in the plastic bag and tucking them into her purse. She rose from her knees and taped the poster back up over the diagram. She finished just as I heard the lock snick open and the doorknob turn, followed by a creak as the next visitor pushed open the door.
For a moment I was terrified that she was going to turn to hide behind the shower curtain and find me, but she walked unhurriedly out of the bathroom and I heard her say, "Janna?"
Another voice came from the front of the apartment. "Gwen? What are you doing here?" The English was idiomatic, but faintly accented.
"I thought I'd go over the apartment again and have another look for trace evidence," said 'Gwen' in perfect Oxbridge. Either English, as I had guessed from her appearance, or had had excellent language tutors. "I wondered if the German hitchhikers might have found their way here."
"The two from Mainz?" There was a pause, and when Janna, presumably the Prague Watcher, spoke again, she sounded doubtful. "There's no evidence that they were even in the city," she pointed out.
"I thought it worth a look," said 'Gwen'. "Thoroughness is always a virtue." And not one you'd know much about, her faintly condescending tone fairly clearly implied. I felt instantly sympathetic towards Janna.
Perhaps Janna was not equipped to decipher Oxbridge voice colourations, however, for she took this platitude at face value. "It cannot hurt, I suppose. Did you find anything?"
I assume 'Gwen' shook her head; at least I was quite sure she hadn't investigated anything in the apartment beyond the bathroom wall. "What brings you here?"
"The police are closing the investigation," said Janna. "And the landlord would like to clean out the apartment next week, to repaint and re-let. I wished to take a final look around it while opportunity still existed." Her voice was coming closer as she spoke.
I heard Gwen move out of the bathroom a few steps, neatly intercepting Janna in the hallway, and saying "I was about to make tea, would you like a cup?" Nicely done, I thought. Distract Janna from what she was doing in the bathroom, and establish herself as the dominant party, householder of the murder scene, as well. I heard Janna murmur thanks and both sets of footsteps receded towards the kitchen.
"You were unable to delay the police any longer?" said the frosty Oxbridge voice, contriving by its tone to hold Janna personally responsible. No question that Gwen was a bitch. I would have thought so even if I had not known she was deeply involved in the Black Arts.
"One cannot blame them, Miss Post." Her tone seemed to be getting through to Janna after all, from her retreat to formality. "It has been two months after all."
I couldn't hear the other's reply over the water pouring into the kettle in the kitchen, and seized the opportunity to clamber silently out of the tub, shoes in my hand. I did not think she would return to the bathroom while Janna was here, or allow the Prague Watcher to use it, and I wanted to be ready to bolt for the door as soon as opportunity offered. At the same time I didn't want to leave the nearly-completed diagram intact on the wall. I looked around. Gwen Post, whoever she was, had left her handbag in the bathroom. I reached into it as silently as I could, and retrieved the carrier bag and its contents, the margarine container full of blood. I slipped them into my own handbag. This would at least delay her. Now how to get out?
The two women in the kitchen supplied the answer for me. I think Miss Post wanted to get Janna out of the apartment entirely; at least I overheard her suggesting to the Watcher that they drink their tea on the "balcony", the fire escape off the kitchen, and discuss the case out there. "It's so gloomy in here," I overheard as she opened the back door. "Almost haunted."
I waited until I heard both of them move onto the fire escape, from which they could not see the front door, then tiptoed out as speedily as was consistent with stealth, gently snicked open the door and slid out, pulling the door quietly to behind me. I heard Janna, I think, saying "did you hear something?" and the conversation drop briefly just as I pulled the door shut, but felt I could count on Miss Post to quell any impulse the Watcher might have to investigate anything at all in that apartment. I was safe.
I sagged against the wall outside the door and closed my eyes in relief. I pulled my shoes on and considered my next move. The blood Miss Post needed to complete her diagram, whatever it was for, was safely in my handbag. Presumably she could replace it, but I hoped not immediately. If the landlord was coming in to repaint this weekend she might not have time to complete it at all. But could I count on this?
The repetition of the word "worst" and the use of demonic languages made the dark forces inevitable allies of her work. So for that matter did her use of blood, which was invariably associated with the Black Arts. It could not be that she was simply working a little white magic to exorcise the evil from the apartment. And if she were she'd have had no reason to hide it from Janna.
I decided reluctantly that I couldn't rely on the landlord to scrub off or cover over the diagram before Miss Post had a chance to complete it. She was clearly up to no good and I had a duty to thrust a spoke in her wheel if I could.
I walked quietly down the hall and partway down the stairs, then turned and retraced my route as noisily as I could. When I reached the apartment door with the police tape across it I knocked loudly, waited, knocked again, then, whistling to advertise my presence in case by some mischance it had been missed, I reached through the broken pain of glass and unlocked the door for the second time that day. I walked in, slung my handbag over my shoulder, pulled out my camera, and began snapping pictures of the front room. I had run out of film by the third shot, but no observer could have spotted that.
As I positioned the stained (by what?) silk-brocade sofa in the viewfinder for my sixth 'photograph' a decidedly teed-off Oxbridge voice behind me said "who are you and what do you think you're doing here? Perhaps you missed the police tape?"
Miss Post. I wondered what had kept her so long. Had she and Watcher Kundera been huddled on the fire escape, hoping I would go away? There seemed no reason for that. I was an unauthorized intruder, they had a perfect right to chase me off.
I gave her my best clumsily eager graduate student grin. "Watcher Kundera!" I said. "I was hoping to find you. I've looked for you everywhere. I thought you might be here but when I didn't hear anyone I thought I would at least take some photographs of the scene." I gestured widely at the room, the apartment. "This is where William the Bloody and Drusilla were encamped is it not? Is that wardrobe" - I pointed - "where the body was found? Poor girl. I'd like a photograph of that too if I may."
A variety of emotions crossed her face as I spoke. Exasperation, anger, confusion, surprise when I mentioned William the Bloody, and surprisingly a touch of fear. She finally broke in as I turned towards the wardrobe, camera in hand, and crossed to block my path.
"Who ARE you?" she asked again.
"Oh, I'm so terribly sorry," I gushed. "Of course you don't know me. I'm Lydia Chalmers, Watcher-in-Training, I'm writing my thesis on William the Bloody and only heard last week that he had actually been sighted in Prague with his paramour. I came as fast as I could. I was hoping to make contact with you, perhaps you could fill me in on as many details as you could of their activities, feeding habits, companions, idiosyncracies - anything, really - it's so exciting to meet someone who has actually seen my subject!" I kept my eyes on her and watched her relax as she realised that I was no real threat. I had no idea who she really was and had simply stumbled into the apartment. All she had to do was deflect me and get me back out the door.
A thought crossed her face and she said, "why didn't you get in touch, warn me that you were coming? I could have arranged to have the relevant files put at your disposal. As it is it will take some time."
An approach towards honesty seemed to be the best bet. I contrived to look a trifle shamefaced and said, "I only heard that my subject had been in Prague while I was on a research trip in Munich last week. I would have contacted my supervisor to put me in touch with you but I suspected he would disapprove of the side trip, so I thought - "
"Who's your supervisor?" Miss Post asked.
"Quentin Travers."
Her face cleared; she believed me. She obviously knew him, then; she must be associated with the Council - or else his reputation for secrecy and need for total control of information sources had spread far beyond the ranks of Watchers. Watcher Kundera seemed to know her too, though. It seemed very likely that she was an English Watcher.
"And how did you find this apartment?" she asked.
I was actually surprised at this, and didn't have to act. "It was in the newspapers," I said. "Location of the murder scene."
"Hm," she said, but was apparently satisfied. "Well, I'm sorry you've had this trip for nothing," she said after a brief pause during which I could practically see the cogs working. "Unfortunately I have already sent all the files back to London. Mr. Travers should have them on your return."
Something told me that she was lying. Perhaps it was the fact that I knew she was not Janna Kundera, a point on which she had failed to enlighten me. I would not have put it past her to destroy the files if she got her hands on them, though I wasn't (at that point) sure why she would do so. But she didn't want me to go looking for them, that was certain.
I allowed my face to fall. "What a waste!" I said. "I should have simply asked Mr. Travers for your phone number, but I thought I'd like to see the scene for myself, perhaps have lunch with you if you had time ..."
I let my voice fade, to see what excuse she would give me for turning me down. Sure enough, she said,
"I'm so sorry. I'm due to leave the city this evening, to see if I can pick up any signs of William and Drusilla's trail across Europe. There's some thought that they may have gone to America, but I am to check their usual haunts in Paris and Marseilles just in case." She was a quick thinker, certainly. She let her eyes drop, as if considering, and then offered, "I will make sure to send my findings back to the Council as I learn anything, and will ask Mr. Travers to make a copy for you, will that help?"
"Why yes, it would!" I smiled gratefully. "Thank you. I'm just sorry we won't have time to chat before you go, to get your impressions, all the things one doesn't write into a report. Unless you'd have time for coffee now?"
She was ushering me firmly to the door as I spoke. I was beginning to wonder what had happened to Kundera - why had she not appeared by now? At the entrance to the main room I turned equally firmly towards the hallway and marched down it, saying "I hope you don't mind if I use the facilities before I go," over my shoulder as I went.
This move surprised her and I got a crucial few seconds' lead before she pursued me, saying "I wouldn't, the loo's not in order, you'd be better down at the tube station on - "
"I'm afraid it's rather urgent, it's - that time of the month, you know," I said, managing to sound embarrassed without too much effort. Saying the phrase "that time of the month" is embarrassing all by itself. "I won't be a moment, and I won't use the loo", I promised, and dashed into the bathroom, contriving just inside the door to trip over her handbag, which had not been moved, and stumble against the poster, which came away from the wall as I pulled away. Well, I gave it a little help.
"Oh goodness, I hope I haven't - " I began to say, then started away from the wall in feigned surprise. (I was rather proud of that.) "Good Lord, what's this?" I said., staring at the diagram. I grabbed some toilet tissue from the roll by the commode and scrubbed away at it, ostensibly to 'clean' it so I could see it better. But I took care to start with the still-wet part she had just painted and smeared her painstaking lines and runes all over the plaster. "It's still damp!" I said. "The humidity, I suppose."
I scrubbed a little more, irretrievably breaking the lines and rendering the figures illegible. I knew enough about the Dark Arts to know that one must write it correctly the first time. The first error or smear or crossed-out line and the diagram is nullified or, worse, could backfire in a hundred very unpleasant ways if one tried to summon with it. It was unusable now; whatever she had been doing here, she would have to start it over again somewhere else. If she could.
As she rounded the corner, her face like thunder, I looked up innocently. "Did the police see this?" I asked. "It was hidden behind the poster. I wonder what William and Drusilla were up to - "
She snatched the tissue out of my hand and actually slapped me. "You stupid, stupid girl!" she said icily. "What have you done?"
She inspected the diagram as I hastily got to my feet, spouting apologies. "We'll never know now what they intended with this, thanks to your blithering idiocy," she said. I admired the speed of her recovery. "We can't read this now. Do they train you to be a fool?"
She was standing between me and the door and I stood back, hoping to encourage her to come farther into the room so I could edge around her and make a break for it if need be.
"I'm so sorry," I said. "Of course this is essential - but it's so surprising! Vampires almost never get involved in -"
"William the Bloody is an unusual vampire," she said curtly, examining the diagram. I managed to slide around her towards the door as she stood there preoccupied, obviously trying to decide if it was reparable.
"I didn't mean to - " I said. "Should I call the police?"
At this she looked up at me, obviously speechless at my stupidity. "Perhaps not, then," I said, and edged out into the hall. "I suppose I should go, and leave you to interpret - "
I was almost home free when I heard a man's voice from the alley behind the apartment building, coming through the open kitchen doorway. As I said, I know little Czech. But even I could tell from the tone of the shout that the man had found something appalling out there, four floors down. And suddenly I knew what had happened to Watcher Kundera.
My head jerked towards Miss Post. She must have seen something in my expression, and her eyes narrowed. "No," she said thoughtfully, "I think you'd better stay."
And that was when I broke and ran. </ljcut>
***
And this, Pamela, is unfortunately when I have to break and run again, if I'm to make it to the theatre, but I assure you there's not much left to the story, and I'll finish it for you tomorrow. Rudi and I will be down not this weekend but next, for the New Moon, for father's ritual, now that mother's decided to go ahead. Please stay well until then.
love, Lydia
