Chapter 8
Tuesday: London
Jane could hardly blame Walter for being a little standoffish. After all, discovering that she had once been married—however briefly—was a shock, and that she had forgotten all about it was difficult to believe, particularly when he remained unaware of her condition. Then too there was the necessity of once again postponing their wedding.
To Jane’s surprise, and thanks largely to Lucy’s intervention, he was handling it rather well. There had been some terse words back at the hotel, but in the end Walter had accepted Jane’s sincere apologies. She in turn assured him that she would remedy the situation as quickly as possible and that Joshua would be no more than a momentary nuisance.
Unsurprisingly, Miriam was not as forgiving. She had apparently spent the hour between leaving the Tower and Jane’s return to the hotel trying to convince her son to sever the engagement and return immediately to America, where, she’d assured Walter, they could find a nice woman who would give him not a minute’s trouble. A nice Jewish woman. A nice Jewish woman who wasn’t insane, at least not beyond the boundaries of reason.
Now, seated at one end of a large table in the Lord and Lamb, Jane saw Miriam glaring at her from the other end. Miriam, catching her eye, picked up a steak knife and mimed plunging it into the table. Jane in turn picked up a roll and slowly bit into it. Unfortunately, she choked on the dry bread and began to cough. Lucy thrust a glass of water into her hand and Jane drank, avoiding Miriam’s mocking stare.
“Tell me again about the rhyme,” Lucy said when Jane had composed herself. Ben and Walter had gone to the bar to order some pints, and the two women were alone at their end of the table. Chumsley Faber-Titting was regaling Miriam and Orsino Castano with a seemingly endless story, and so it was an opportunity to discuss Jane’s encounter with the princes in the Tower.
Given how they’d gone on about it, Jane had expected the ghostly boys to tell her all about Crispin’s Needle. However, their knowledge of it had proved to be disappointingly limited, confined primarily to the sharing of a rhyme. Jane repeated it for Lucy.
Cursed creature of the night,
foul fiend with no soul,
pierce your heart with Crispin’s Nail
and be once more made whole.
Lucy selected a piece of Irish soda bread from the basket on the table and liberally applied butter to it. “That’s not much to go on,” she said. “I suppose you’re the foul fiend.”
“No doubt,” Jane agreed.
“And you’re supposed to pierce your heart with Crispin’s Needle, whatever that is.”
“Gosebourne had a bit more information about that,” Jane told her. “Apparently Crispin was a medieval monk. He dabbled in alchemy and was a bit obsessed with the occult. Somehow or other he got the idea that he could reverse the process that turns one into a vampire.”
“Unmake you, in other words,” said Lucy.
Jane nodded. “Exactly.”
“How would that work?” Lucy asked.
“That’s the problem,” Jane said. “Nobody really knows. The legend says that he invented an object of some kind—”
“Crispin’s Needle,” said Lucy.
“Yes,” Jane said. “And supposedly it’s capable of restoring the human soul.”
Lucy wiped her fingers on her napkin. “So you’re supposed to drive this so-called needle through your heart?”
“I’m guessing that’s the idea,” said Jane. “Only instead of killing you it gives you back your soul. A reverse staking, if you will.”
“No offense,” Lucy said, “but it sounds like a load of crap. My guess is that it’s a trick to get unhappy vampires to kill themselves.”
“Possibly,” Jane agreed. “But Gosebourne doesn’t think so.”
“If this thing has been around since the Middle Ages, why are you only just now finding out about it?” Lucy asked.
“Apparently it’s something of a vampire urban legend,” said Jane. “I gather that believing in it is looked upon a bit like believing in Santa Claus is. No one wants to admit they think it’s real, but at the same time there’s this fascination with it. Still, it seems that one doesn’t admit to believing in it if one runs in educated circles.”
“Good thing you don’t run in educated circles,” Lucy said.
“Indeed,” said Jane. “I was hoping the princes could tell me exactly how it works. But they don’t know.”
“Where did they learn the rhyme?” Lucy asked.
“They say they learned it from another vampire,” said Jane. “But of course they can’t remember who it was. Between us, I think they’re a little mad.”
“Did you find out how they died?” Lucy said.
Jane shook her head. “They were asleep when it happened. But there are no knife marks on their throats, so they weren’t slit. I’m guessing they were smothered.”
“So we still don’t know who did it?” said Lucy.
“Sadly, no,” Jane said. “They have some guesses, but they’re the same ones people have been making since their deaths. Again, a bit of a disappointment.”
“May I join you ladies?”
Jane looked up to see Orsino standing beside them. “By all means,” she said, indicating the seat beside her.
Orsino sat. “Thank you,” he said. “I had to get away from Chumsley. If I had to listen to one more story about what a cow Enid is, I was going to scream.”
“You like Enid, then?” asked Jane.
“Heavens, no,” said Orsino. “She’s horrible. Which is exactly why I don’t want to hear about her.” He took a sip from the glass of wine he’d carried over with him. “I prefer to discuss pleasant topics.”
“I like your name,” Lucy said to Orsino. “It’s from
Orsino nodded. “Indeed it is. My mother was a professor of literature at the Universita degli Studi di Firenze. She adored Shakespeare.”
“It’s one of my favorites of his plays,” said Lucy.
“I’ve never read it,” Orsino told her.
“Really?” Jane said, shocked. “How extraordinary.”
Orsino laughed. “I suppose it seems so,” he said. “The truth is, I haven’t read it because I fear I won’t like my namesake. How awful to go through life named after someone you don’t care for.” He turned to Jane. “For instance, suppose your mother adored Charlotte Bronte and you had been named after Jane Eyre, yet you found the character stupid and tedious.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” said Jane, earning her a stern look from Lucy.
“Of course, there are many Janes in literature,” Orsino mused. “You could always choose one of the others and pretend that she was the inspiration. There are not so many Orsinos.”
“Just the one, as far as I know,” Lucy said. “But just so you know, Orsino is a very likeable character.”
“I’m pleased to hear it,” Orsino said. “I sometimes tell people that my mother named me Orsino because in Italian it means ‘little bear.’ As you can see, I do in fact resemble the animal.” He stroked his beard and held up his hands, the backs of which were covered in the same black hair.
“Very clever,” Jane said. “I think that’s what I will call you. Little Bear.”
“Most of my lovers do,” said Orsino.
“Are you suggesting we become lovers?” Jane teased.
Orsino laughed. “I’m afraid my inclinations lie elsewhere,” he said. “I prefer the company of other
