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  “Thank you, Vicar,” I responded modestly. “It really is good of you to invite a stranger to take part in village life. I knew from the first moment that I set eyes upon it that Snupperton Mumsley was the home in England for which I had always longed. I trust I will be able to make my contributions to the life of the village.” I can smarm with the best of them, in case you hadn’t noticed already. And I’m sure the potential size of my bank balance had as much to do with my presence here today as my charming personality.

  “Oh, well said, well said.” The vicar continued beaming at me. “Now, all of you, I’ll expect to see you tomorrow night at our joint meeting with the board of directors of the dramatic society, what?”

  After assuring him that we would all be there and thanking Letty Butler-Melville for the insipid tea, we all made our way down the cramped and dim hall of the vicarage to the front door, retrieving hats and other accoutrements as we went. Lady Blitherington, Giles trailing in her wake, was already marching off down the lane toward the ancestral manor, Blitherington Hall, which stood on extensive grounds just outside the village. Abigail Winterton snorted her goodbyes and loped off toward the post office. Jane Hardwick paused to speak to me.

  Out in the sunlight of the late August afternoon, I had my first really good look at Jane Hardwick. She could be anywhere between forty and sixty, with neatly cut and styled gray hair, the standard twin set and pearls, sensible shoes, and a capacious handbag. Her bright eyes sparkled with intelligence, mischief, and humor. She looked like anyone’s favorite maiden aunt or a slightly junior version of Miss Maud Silver.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Dr. Kirby-Jones,” she said, “I think there are a few things we should discuss. Things that would be of mutual benefit.”

  “Certainly,” I said, gallantly offering her my arm. “I had been hoping to further our acquaintance.” As we talked, she led me across the lane to her cottage.

  “Thank you,” she said, glancing up demurely into my face. “After all, our kind should stick together, don’t you think?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  At Jane Hardwick’s calm announcement, I nearly stumbled—a reversion to the less graceful days when I was human, and a klutz. My mind scrambled furiously for a moment, trying to settle on which “kind” she meant. For the moment, I could think of nothing to say.

  With a serene smile at my momentary speechlessness, Miss Hardwick directed our footsteps toward her gate, fifty yards or so down the lane from the vicarage. My own cottage stood another few yards down, at the north end of the village.

  As the gate closed behind us, Jane broke the silence. “I’m not a lesbian, Dr. Kirby-Jones.”

  “How did you know, then?” I demanded, my voice rougher than I intended. While waiting for her reply, I observed her garden with interest. Her garden had well repaid the time and care she had evidently lavished upon it, to judge by the elaborate and extensive beds of flowers. The colorful profusion dazzled my eyes and made me ruefully aware of my own neglected garden.

  Jane Hardwick unlocked her front door and motioned me inside. Before answering, she took my hat and placed it on an ornate stand near the front door.

  She then glided through the narrow hallway into what I presumed was her sitting room. I found a seat on a plush high-backed sofa near her chair while she arranged herself comfortably, regarding me quietly all the while.

  “How could you tell?” I asked her, impatiently breaking the silence. “I mean, I thought there was something oddly familiar about you, but I didn’t know what.”

  “You are rather new at this, aren’t you?” Jane inquired, and I nodded. She laughed, a bit patronizingly, I thought. “Mainly it’s the skin tone. Once you’ve been around as long as I have, you can spot another vampire just from the skin alone. But there are other things,” she told me. “The eyes, for one. I can always tell by looking into someone’s eyes. You’ll understand what I mean in time.” She laughed again, and I rankled slightly at the sound. “And the other clue, I must admit, was the fact that you are living in Tristan Lovelace’s cottage.”

  I sighed, relaxing a bit. “I might have known.” Tristan Lovelace, that dashing, gorgeous vampire, who also just happened to be my dissertation advisor in graduate school, had given me the cottage a few months ago. As far as anyone in the village knew, however, I had bought the cottage from Tris. He had told me about the cottage itself, but he had neglected to tell me anything about Jane Hardwick or the other folk in the village. He simply had assured me that I’d enjoy Snupperton Mumsley immensely. I thought I was beginning to see what he had meant.

  “Yes, dear Tristan,” Jane said, grinning wickedly. “When I heard his cottage had been sold, I was expecting someone like you. Tristan’s outstanding good taste never falters.”

  I blushed. (Yes, we actually can, though it’s not as noticeable.)

  “At some point, we should have quite a long talk about Tristan,” Jane continued. “He and I have much in common, including our taste in men.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I think.”

  Jane laughed. “You must call me Jane, and I’ll call you Simon. No need to be formal, I think.” She inclined her head toward me, and I nodded.

  “Have you spoken to Tristan lately, Simon?” she went on. “I’ve not heard from him in simply ages.”

  “No,” I said, “Tris and I aren’t that close any longer. We rarely talk these days.” No need to go into all that with Jane, no matter how well she knew Tris.

  “A pity.” She smiled, a bit wolfishly. I was momentarily taken aback. “There is one thing I must ask you right away, however,” she continued.

  I forestalled the question. “No need. I don’t follow the old ways.” I shuddered at the thought.

  “No,” Jane said. “I thought not. Nor do I.” She paused. “Usually.” I had a terrifying glimpse, only the briefest flash, of another Jane, and I shuddered again.

  By now, no doubt, you are wondering about vampires who walk around in the daytime and partake of tea at the vicarage, no less. The secret lies, you see, in some very special medication. The budget-watchers in Congress back home would have a fit if they knew about it, but there’s one laboratory at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda in which all of the scientists are vampires. They took research on a failed drug for hemophilia discarded by scientists in another unit and, on the sly, came up with something that has completely changed vampire life. Thanks to their ingenuity, via the marvelous little pills I take twice a day, I no longer have to hide at the first hint of daylight.

  The pills are quite a decent substitute for all that nasty bloodsucking vampires used to have to do, and the fact that I don’t have to spend roughly half of every twenty-four hours hidden away certainly increases my literary productivity. Vampires also don’t need much sleep, you see. Two or three hours in any twenty-four are more than sufficient for my needs.

  Mind you, there are those vampires who cling stubbornly to the old ways. Attacking mortals, sucking their blood, then scurrying away to bury themselves in mausoleums or hide themselves in dank, dark cemeteries at light of day. But there are groups within our ranks to take care of rogue vampires who become too destructive, thankfully.

  I think all that’s a bit disgusting, myself, but you know how stubborn people can be when they cling to traditional values. Afraid to try anything new. In my own case, I can heartily testify to the fact that the pills have made my life in death that much more enjoyable.

  Since I don’t have to worry about finding my daily ration of blood, I can give thought to other matters. Instead of haring around, looking for a tempting neck to bite (or, horror of horrors, making do with the nearest cat, dog, bunny, or cow), I can spend my “hunting” time in more pleasurable ends. Another myth you may have heard is that vampires can’t have “relations,” shall we say, in the accustomed human manner. Total bunk, I’m quite happy to report. I wouldn’t have given that up, let me tell you!

  Jane Hardwick was apparently one of the New Age vampires
like me. Which was just as well. Those bloodsuckers make me nervous.

  “Snupperton Mumsley is, on the whole, a quiet village, and I would rather see it stay that way,” Jane said. “Before”—and I knew she meant before the advent of our little pills—“I used to lead such a rackety existence, and the folk here thought I was more than a little eccentric. But the last ten years have been marvelous, and I’ve been able to take part in so many more village activities.”

  “The Church Restoration Fund, no less,” I said, my voice dry.

  Jane laughed merrily. “Exactly. No doubt there are those in the village who believe I must have had some sort of conversion experience when, after living here a decade, I suddenly became an assiduous churchgoer and indefatigable worker for all sorts of causes.”

  “A blinding light on the road to Bedford?” Bedford was the nearest town of importance, only a few miles away. Jane affected not to notice the tone of subtle mockery in my voice.

  “You should have little trouble fitting into village life,” Jane said. “As long as you’re discreet, that is. There are some rather nosy folk in this village.” She smiled again. This time I took it as a warning. “After tea at the vicarage today, no doubt you could see how clueless our vicar is—I believe that is the correct American expression, is it not?—and poor Letty, as you witnessed, sees little beyond the vicar and her own good works about the parish. Prunella Blitherington is so massively self-absorbed that she notices only that in others which might have some effect upon her and hers.”

  “That reminds me. What is the story between her and the unfortunate person who runs the village store?” Now perhaps we could get to the really good stuff.

  “Ah, yes, dear Abigail,” Jane purred. “Once upon a time, Abigail Winterton and Prunella Ragsbottom (and, yes, that was really her name) were the best of friends. All through childhood, school, and so on. Both were the daughters of tradesmen, though Prunella always glosses over that fact Mr. Ragsbottom was a greengrocer with pretensions, and Abigail’s father ran the shop before her. You might not be able to imagine it now, but years ago, the two of them were quite lovely young women. Lovely enough, that is, to attract the dubious charms of the only son of the local baronet. The late Sir Bosworth Blitherington fancied himself a ladies’ man, as men of that class unfortunately are wont to do at the slightest encouragement and ever with an eye to the main chance, Prunella waged an all-out campaign to become the eventual Lady Blitherington. Abigail, who actually might have loved the poor old sod, rather bitterly had to concede defeat in the matrimonial stakes, and the two have been enemies ever since. Poor Bosworth Blitherington never had a chance, once Prunella set her cap at him.”

  “The mind boggles,” I responded weakly, warding off visions of the youthful Prunella and Abigail. “That must have been thirty years ago or more,” I reasoned. “Were you already living in the village?” My own discreet way of pumping Jane for a bit of her history.

  Ah, but she was much too fly for such a simple ruse. “My dear Simon, one thing you should learn right away. Be direct with me. Knowing Tristan, he never even mentioned my name. I’m sure he wanted to surprise you.” She smiled again, and I squirmed in my chair. She was a bit terrifying. The steel magnolias I had grown up with had nothing on Jane. “Don’t pussyfoot around with me. I really don’t mind answering a direct question. At least not for you.”

  I pondered this for a moment. “All right, then, just how old are you?”

  Jane laughed. “If I tell you I was first presented at the court of Elizabeth Tudor, what would you say?”

  “Absolutely smashing!” I said before I could stop myself. Good Queen Bess had ever been one of my favorites, and the chance to talk to someone who had actually seen her in the flesh thrilled me no end. Not to mention the details I could glean for my next historical romance.

  “To go back to your previous question,” Jane said, smiling at my enthusiasm, “I’ve lived in Snupperton Mumsley for about twenty years. Though I was unfortunately not present to witness the matrimonial campaign, I have my sources among those who did. Suffice it to say, Prunella was every bit as shrewd as dear Bess was when it came to manipulating men.”

  “My dear Jane,” I said happily. “We’re going to be great friends.”

  “Yes, Simon,” she replied, staring intently at me, “I do believe we are.”

  What was it that Alice Roosevelt Longworth was reputed to have said? “Come and sit by me, if you’ve got any good dirt, that is.” Oh, yes, Jane and I would get along like houses afire.

  “Now, tell me,” I said, reverting to an earlier subject, “more about Prunella and Abigail. Do they often ... erupt like they did today at the vicarage?”

  Jane frowned. “No, actually, they don’t. That was a bit odd, now that I think of it. Most of the time they simply ignore each other as much as possible and speak in icily polite tones when they can’t avoid talking. Something must have happened to upset their nasty little acid balance.” She looked thoughtful. “Frankly, I’m surprised that neither of them has been murdered before now. They’re both unpleasant. Prunella tries to interfere in everyone’s business, but she does it openly. Abigail, on the other hand, is rather sly and prying. They battle constantly over the running of village affairs, while Letty Butler-Melville tries to keep the peace and does most of the actual work.” She laughed. “But that’s life in the village for you. Snupperton Mumsley, at any rate.”

  “It certainly sounds to me like there’s something brewing over the choice of a play. Do they get this worked up over everything?”

  “Unfortunately, they nearly always do.”Jane frowned, thinking. “But I’m rather surprised that Abigail is being so coy about the author of the play she wants us to stage. There is most definitely something afoot, and I’ll have to rely on you to give me all the details after the meeting tomorrow evening. I have a previous engagement, so I won’t be able to attend the joint meeting.” After assuring Jane that I would be delighted to report back to her, I soon took my leave and meandered down the lane, to my cottage. Though it was now going on six P.M., the sun was still hanging high in the sky. Ah, summer in England!

  I pushed open my gate and walked up the path to my front door. My front door, I thought. My front door! I still couldn’t quite believe that the cottage was mine, that I was really here in England. I reached out a hand and touched the reddish brown brick in wonder. I had seen similar brick farther east, along the coast of East Anglia, where Flemish influence in building was strong. In the evening sun the brick glowed with warmth.

  “Cottage” was actually something of a misnomer for this building, because it had once upon a time been two laborers’ cottages. Sometime in the late nineteenth century the two cottages had been knocked together and the whole renovated extensively to turn it into Laurel Cottage, a suitable country residence for a Victorian gentleman of ample means. The brick had been added then, as had a kitchen and pantry across the back, and the roof covered with pantiles. During his ownership (and I had never asked him just how long he had owned it) Tristan Lovelace had updated the plumbing and electricity. I had lots of Olde World charm but with few of the inconveniences.

  While fiddling in a pocket for the latchkey, I glanced around the garden. I definitely needed someone to take care of the grounds. Jane Hardwick’s garden put mine to shame.

  As I let myself into the cool dimness of the cottage, I flicked on the lights in the small hallway. I hung up my hat, then proceeded upstairs to the bathroom. It was time for my medication, and I didn’t like to miss a dose. The complications could be a bit uncomfortable.

  I downed my magic little pill with a glass of water and glared at my reflection in the mirror. (Sorry to shatter another illusion.) If I grimaced just right, I could see my fangs. I think they give me rather a rakish look. Ordinarily I’m not a vain person, but I have to admit that I make a distinguished appearance. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a dark, short-trimmed beard give me an enticingly mysterious look, I think. And one other good thing a
bout being a vampire—I no longer have to worry about a weight problem. Though I do eat and drink, the amounts are minimal compared to what I used to consume when I was alive.

  Back in my bedroom, I stripped out of my tea party duds and got comfortable in a worn T-shirt and a pair of jogging pants. I had quite a bit of work ahead of me tonight, and I might as well be comfortable in front of the computer.

  Downstairs, in my study-cum-office, ignoring the stacks and piles of papers and boxes that needed attention, I turned on the lamps, got the computer started, then plopped myself down in front of the screen. I had to finish the final chapter of the latest magnum opus by Daphne Deepwood. When I last left them, the hero and heroine of Passion in Peru were about to be thrown over a cliff by the bad guys, they of the Shining Path, and I had to devise some way to get them out of this dilemma. My loyal readers, who had made my previous three novels huge bestsellers, would expect something dazzling and original, no doubt.

  The world knows me as Dr. Simon Kirby-Jones, historian and well-respected biographer. I could make a decent living (pardon the irony here) turning out popular history, but I make absolute scads of lolly churning out popular fiction as Daphne Deepwood (historical romance) and Dorinda Darlington (hard-boiled-female- private-eye novels). Besides, Daphne and Dorinda are a heck of a lot more fun than the semi-stuffy Simon. Who, by the way, was actually born about thirty-five years ago as one Sam Jones in Pleasant Springs, Mississippi. But that’s a whole ’nother story.

  For the moment, I was having trouble getting myself interested in the perils of my characters in Passion in Peru. Lisette insisted on squealing rather loudly, and Thorne was more interested in combing his hair than escaping from Shining Path guerrillas. Characters can be quite tiresome. I was tempted to let them both jump off a cliff into a pit of alligators and be done with the whole thing, but I knew my readers expected better of me. And, frankly, so did I. More than enough time to concentrate on the job at hand; the intrigues of Snupperton Mumsley could wait till later.