"I died from a knife thrust. Tom never recovered from the rack. Justin was. .h.i.t by a Brigantine arrow. We died. Then we became vampires." He wiped her damp cheeks with the pads of his fingers. "Don't get any drastic ideas."

She might be brokenhearted and miserable for the rest of her born days, but she wasn't ready to end it all on his account.

"You've got to go. After all this, you have to promise to live for eternity."

"I won't just live. I'll love you forever. Never forget me, Dixie."

Before she could reply, before she could even think of replying, he was perched on the window ledge. A dark blur shot though the open window and faded chintz curtains blew inward in the night air.

Dixie set the kettle on the Aga. The hollow thud suited her mood. She sincerely doubted caffeine would heal a broken heart, but it was something to do. If she kept busy, maybe she could pretend it didn't hurt.

Mail arrived as she poured her second cup. Among the offers of credit cards, villa holidays, and a seed catalog addressed to her aunts was a postcard from Stanley Collins reminding her this was the weekend he needed the car. Would she mind dropping it off first thing on Friday? That she'd do, and maybe spend the day in Guildford. She needed to check flights. She'd promised Christopher. Was she really ready to go? But why stay?

The stone flags chilled her feet through her light slippers. She s.h.i.+vered. Was it really that cold? This was June, for heaven's sake. Had she lost more blood than she thought last night? Or did heartbreak cause hypothermia?

Physical activity would warm her up. She had nothing left to polish. Gardening? Cleaning closets? The sealed cupboard caught her eye. She'd been meaning to open it for weeks. Ten minutes with a screwdriver or chisel would warm her up and unstick the door.

It took over an hour.

Some deranged Philistine had actually painted the door shut. Dixie poised the chisel in the groove between door and frame, and hammered. She cracked about two inches of thick paint. Slowly she worked her way round, inch by inch. She let her coffee get cold as she soldiered. It had become a personal thing between her and the door. Ridiculous, when all she'd probably find was a collection of antique mops or perhaps a disused entrance to the bas.e.m.e.nt. But it beat moping for a love that had, literally, flown away.

She finished at last, at the cost of several broken nails and a gouge in the back of her hand from when the chisel slipped. A few good taps with the hammer and the iron latch lifted. A bit of pressure and the old hinges grated as Dixie forced the door open.

A smell of stale, damp air came at her like a decaying breeze.

She stared into the dank s.p.a.ce too large for a closet, and saw steep, dusty stairs. Another bas.e.m.e.nt entrance? No, they didn't lead down, they rose up to the dark.

Dixie took a step up and fumbled for a light switch. Her fingers tangled with cobwebs and something scrunched underfoot.

Unwilling to climb stairs in the dark, Dixie grabbed the flashlight from the windowsill. The beam lit up the steep, narrow stairs.

A carpet of dust covered the treads, and the curled body of a long-dead mouse reminded Dixie to look before she trod.

She counted eleven steps straight up from the turn at the bottom. The roof rose to a peak overhead and dark roof beams protruded through the flaking plaster. The flashlight lit up an old table, a couple of chairs and several dust-covered boxes covered with faded marbled paper. Sneezing from the dust, Dixie pulled one open. Yellowed pages and dog-eared manila folders smelled of damp and age. Old file boxes? Was this what the intruder had been after? Why? Whatever they were, her aunts had concealed them well. What was in them that had been worth the trouble of painting up the door?

A naked bulb and socket was stuck sideways in one of the beams. Dixie pulled the attached string. The harsh, unfiltered light accentuated the general squalor. Dust and mouse droppings did nothing to improve the ambiance.

A second room led off the first-a small laboratory. Shelves filled with gla.s.s jars lined two walls and across the room, near the sink, stood a retort and a series of tubes and various gla.s.s vessels that Dixie recognized as a makes.h.i.+ft still. Surrey moons.h.i.+ne?

Hardly likely. Or was it? She studied the yellowed labels on the dusty jars; "Heartsease."

"Henbane" and "h.o.r.ehound," sounded like ingredients of a magic spell. Dark curled petals in the "Marigold" jars resembled the flowers Gran had grown in her garden, but the dark, twisted roots labeled "Mandrake" looked like something growing in a science fiction story.

This was a witch's kitchen for mixing spells and simples. And the other room? Dixie pulled a rickety chair over to the desk, brushed the dust off the ancient filing cabinet, opened the drawer marked "Current and Possible," and flicked through the files.

The name "Caughleigh, Sebastian" caught her eyes. She pulled out the manila folder and spread it open on the ink-stained surface. Could this possibly be true? Had he fathered three children? Lists of dates, letters and a couple of birth certificates implied that he had. A copy of an agreement to pay a monthly sum for eighteen years to a woman in Guildford looked like hard proof.

This beat the tabloids at the grocery store checkouts. The vicar's wife had an arrest for possession of marijuana during her student days, and a certain Juliet Bleigh had a history of shoplifting. A bundle of faded letters doc.u.mented a thirty-year-old affair between a Mary c.o.x and a John Reade. Dixie stared at the spread pages in horror. Some of these doc.u.ments had to be illegally obtained. She didn't know much about the laws in England, but surely court records were confidential? And private correspondence; how had that found its way here? Why? Should she call Sergeant Grace and tell him about this? Or was the fire the best place for it?

Then she found the black ledgers on the shelf over the desk. Her aunts, and their father before them, had generated a steady income from blackmailing half the county. From l/6d, whatever that was, from a parlor maid who dallied with a married milkman, to several thousand pounds from a "Mr. Wyatt of Fetcham" in exchange for "photographs." The same Mr. Wyatt paid another sum for "negatives" not six months later.

It sickened Dixie. This little collection was enough to kill for. Her heart slowed and quickened. Kill for! How had her aunts died? Sebastian's explanations of a heart attack and a stroke seemed feasible at first telling. Hope's stroke had happened at the rectory front door. Had she gone there for help? And how had Faith died? There was a killer in the village, that much she knew already. Vernon had died. Had her great-aunts been the first victims? How she wished she had Christopher to talk to.

"We're going to be late," Sally snapped. "You said you'd be ready."

"We can wait ten minutes," Emma soothed. "It won't take Dixie long to get ready."

It didn't. Dixie toweled her hair dry and slipped on her sandals. She'd spent longer than intended reading her great-aunts'

record books, and barely had time to wash off the grime and dust before Sally drove up, agitated, and anxious to be off. What was wrong? Sally seemed stressed to the limit, just as she had the night of the Whist drive.

Emma tried calming her, and gave up to chatter. "Have you heard the latest about Dial Cottage? The body in the bedroom wasn't Christopher's. The police think it was Vernon from the Barley Mow. Seems there was an orgy or something going on and it got out of hand.""Doesn't that sound a bit far-fetched?" Dixie asked. Anything to unsully Christopher's reputation.

Emma turned around. "When you've lived here as long as I have, you'll know nothing's far-fetched. Mother worried about my going off to college. I never had the heart to tell her I'd seen it all in Bringham. Mind you, I would like to know what really went on. That place was burned to a sh.e.l.l."

"Can't they figure out what happened?" Dixie didn't believe it. That detective she'd met was no fool.

"It seems the last time anyone saw Christopher alive was the Parish Whist Drive. What a headline that would make in the Mirror! 'Man Leaves Parish Social for s.e.x Orgy.'"

"Oh, please! I can't see Christopher being like that."

A slow grin curled up the corners of Emma's mouth. "You've got a soft spot for him!"

Soft in the heart and tender everywhere. "What makes you think that?"

"He was eying you at the Whytes' as if he were a wasp and you were a nice ripe plum."

"Please, Emma."

"Of course you fancy him. We all do. He's been voted the most bedworthy man in the village. That mysterious eye patch and his one, smoldering eye. He must have all sorts of deep, dark, secrets."

If only Emma knew. Dixie held back a smile.

"Get your tenses right, Emma. He's dead," Sally said.

"What makes you so sure? The body they found isn't his. Maybe he's lurking somewhere. You would tell us if he came knocking on your door asking for refuge, wouldn't you, Dixie?"

"I promise you, he hasn't knocked on my door." That much was true. Now for the lie. "The last time I saw him, he was helping Sally out with her flat tire."

As she spoke, the car wobbled close to a hedge until the wheels bounced off the bank at the side of the road. Sally muttered under her breath as she righted the car.

"What's this, Sal?" Emma asked. "s.e.xy Christopher help you out with a puncture?"

"Yes," Dixie said. "Right after the Whist drive. Sebastian took me home and Christopher stayed to change her flat."

"Ah, ha." Emma gave a deep throaty chuckle. "So you were the last one to see him alive. Did you run off with him?"

"Emma, you talk a lot of rot!"

The vehemence in Sally's words shocked Dixie. It didn't faze Emma. "Maybe. But you are the last known person to have seen him alive."

After a pub lunch and long day scouring antiques shops in a half-dozen villages that had Dixie wis.h.i.+ng she'd brought a camera, they stopped for a watercress tea in an old water mill in Gomshall. Sally insisted. "We don't have to get home yet. Our kids are taken care of and Dixie is footloose and fancy free."

Was she? Would she ever be again? The peppery tang of watercress reminded her of the taste of Christopher's kisses. The creamy b.u.t.ter was as smooth as his skin against her tongue, and the tea as hot as his touch in the night.At this rate, she was heading for a long, lonely rest of her life.

"Everything's set." Sebastian watched James's reaction.

"Our friend will fix the-er-necessary this afternoon. Sally will keep her gone for at least four hours. He needs two. It will be undetectable, but when Miss Dixie starts the engine..."

He smiled at the prospect.

James's head jerked up. "You're going too far. Nicking her wallet is one thing, even going through the house, but killing-"

"You had no problem with Marlowe or Vernon."

"Marlowe wasn't human and Vernon was a cripple."

"Too late to get squeamish. Besides, if you'd done your job properly, this wouldn't be necessary."

"I tried everything I could."

"I'm sure you did your best, but your seduction was as successful as your housebreaking."

Gla.s.s in hand, James scowled from the leather sofa. "You did no better."

Sebastian turned to the French windows. Outside, the sun shone on the herbaceous borders. He hadn't turned to admire the garden; he'd no wish to let James know he'd scored a hit. Missing getting his leg over Dixie still rankled. He'd wanted so much to hear her squeal as he kneaded her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her bounce and confidence needed flattening, but that would soon happen.

Permanently. This "expert" hadn't come cheaply, but Sebastian saw it as a capital investment.

Christopher sensed everything: the worms burrowing in the earth around him, the screech of the gulls as they dipped spread wings towards the cliff, and every wave that slapped the rocks below. And now Justin. Why?

"Come to check I arrived?" he asked as soon as Justin transmogrified.

"I knew you would, eventually," Justin replied as he smoothed the wrinkles out of his sleeves. "I came to help you rest. You must, you know. Even though you think you can't."

Christopher turned. "Easy for you to say. Every time I shut my eyes, I see her. I smell her, I taste her."

"And every hour you lie awake delays your restoration."

"d.a.m.n restoration! What use will it be? The only reason I agreed to hide was to protect Dixie. I'm a conduit for disaster. If I'd stayed, they'd have found me and destroyed her too."

Christopher made to sit up but Justin's hand held his shoulder down. He was weak. That last flight had almost finished him.

"Don't let her generosity be in vain. She gave her blood to save you. Never forget that."

"As if I could forget!"

"Do you want to forget?" Justin spoke softly, a whisper that seemed to echo in the earthen vault and the deep recesses of Kit Marlowe's heart."Never!"

"Then rest, so you remember."

"Justin, you'd win an argument with a Jesuit!"

Justin smoothed his cuffs. "I have, several times. You must rest, Kit. You don't realize how drained you are."

"I do, d.a.m.n you! I'm weaker than a fledgling. Almost as weak as when I was mortal. But I can't rest until I know she's left.

Someone has to make sure she gets on that plane."

"Well then, Kit, you rest and I will go to our friend Dixie."

"You?" Christopher turned to face Justin. "After all your lectures about detachment and non-involvement with humans?"

Justin shrugged. "I owe a friend's existence to this human. And I agree with you, she must leave."

Christopher lay back on the soft earth. He was too weak even to sit for long. "Justin, if you can do that..."

"I know, you will owe me your eternal friends.h.i.+p." He paused. "And I always thought I'd earned that in Deptford."

"You'll go now? Be sure she's safe?"

"Soon. I'm staying out of sight for a couple of hours. The Abbey isn't empty as I expected it would be. I transmogrified without looking around and shocked a couple of campers. One fell off the cliff." He raised a hand as Christopher sat up in horror. "Not to worry. I swooped down and carried him to the base of the cliff. Luckily, he'd consumed a sufficiency of Boddingtons to have no idea what happened.

"Lucky for him I was looking outward. I could just as easily have entered without looking his way. Turned out alright. His pal was running for the nearest phone as I came back up. It's high tide; I imagine the cliffs and beach are swarming with rescue teams and lifeboats just now. I'll stay put for a few hours. No point in causing talk."

Dixie pulled a sweats.h.i.+rt over her blue jeans, but nothing could really warm her. Yesterday, she'd had pa.s.sion and Christopher's touch. Today she was alone. The company of her new friends yesterday only served to underscore her solitary state-her permanent solitary state. She'd given Christopher her heart as surely as she'd given her blood.

Trouble was, she'd had a Technicolor life the past few weeks. The quiet getaway in the English countryside turned out to be a mad whirl through fantasyland, peppered with pa.s.sion, murder, blackmail, arson, and a few vampires thrown in for good measure. If she'd wanted peace and quiet, she should have gone to New York and jogged in Central Park after dark.

But she was here and while she was, she'd go through those diaries and notebooks and piece together as much of Gran's youth as she could. She had the whole weekend ahead of her. She'd read after breakfast, take a break to run the car over to Stanley's at lunchtime and pick up some groceries on the way back, and read the rest of the weekend. Then she would call the airline.

Deep in Faith's account book, Dixie lost herself in sales of potions and elixirs and powders to half the county. The old ink had faded to brown over the past sixty years but it was still legible.

In May of 1932, Mrs. Brown of Gordon Farm came for Solomon's Seal for terrible bruises on her face. The next week a name she couldn't read bought a potion of rue and vinegar "to quiet her husband."

In the same month, Mrs. Waite wanted a potion of ergot. Dixie knew ergot wasn't just used to treat migraines. If her great- aunts had dispensed aborticides, they certainly had a hold over desperate women. She pulled open the drawer marked S-Z and fingered through the Ws. There were several Waites. But Tom, F I, and Earnest seemed less likely than Enid. Yes! Enid received "Ergot. 15/- on May 6. 1933" and paid a total of 500 between July that year and September 1953-when she'd presumably died or ceased to care about what people knew about her.

Dixie flicked back and forth from filing cabinet to account books. Her nasty aunts had a system that would appeal to Al Capone. If they couldn't find dirt, they made it by supplying potions and simples and then charging for their "discretion." The whole stash belonged on the bonfire.

The doorbell interrupted her studies. It was Stanley.

"Hope you don't mind. I was pa.s.sing and thought I'd switch cars. Save you the trouble." He shook his head at her offer of tea.

"Best be going. Can't thank you enough for obliging over this. Hope you like the Fiat."

"Let me move the car."

"No need. I left the new one in the lane. You bring that in after I move the Metro out." He handed her the new keys on a leather tag. "Cheers."