Jane Vows Vengeance

Jane had been given a letter of introduction by a friend, the actor George Eames. At the time, Jane thought that she might like to write for the stage, and George had suggested she speak to Runciman about perhaps working with him on some small thing. This had never happened (after reading her first attempt, Runciman had informed her that she had no ear for dialogue), but she had spent a delightful couple of weeks there filling in for a property mistress who had gone and gotten herself staked.

“As we walk up the stairs, please take note of the plaster moldings,” Enid said, bringing Jane back to the present.

She followed Walter up the stairs, her fingertips tracing the lines of the brass handrail. How strange, she thought, that she’d forgotten such an unusual period in her life. Of course, if she were human, then not so much time would have gone by since, allowing her to forget. But when your life had no end, there were always new memories piling on top of the old ones and eventually burying them. How much had she forgotten? How many old friends? How many shared moments?

She looked at Walter, walking ahead of her, and suddenly she wanted to grab hold of him and not let go. What if I forget him? she wondered. What if a hundred years after his death I have to see a photograph of him to remember him?

They had taken almost no photographs on the trip, and none of them together. Jane had to stop herself from grabbing Walter and dragging him outside so that some passerby could take their picture. She needed something besides memories—something tangible that she could hold and look at, so that when her memories faded this part of her life wouldn’t just disappear.

When they reached the mezzanine Enid led them through one of the numerous arched doorways and into the interior of the theater. There it opened up, revealing the three horseshoe-shaped galleries rising above the stalls. The seats were upholstered in a deep red velvet that matched the color of the walls and carpets, and the bountiful plasterwork was gilded. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling, the thousands of crystals radiating light.

“The theater enjoys protected status,” Enid said. “Thanks in no small part, I might add, to my work on the board of Creative Scotland. As such, nothing here may be changed, and any improvements made to things such as lighting and the sound system must be done without interfering with the architecture.”

“I have to say, I’m impressed,” Walter whispered to Jane. “Do you know how much red tape we would have to untangle to get something like this done in the States?”

“It looks just like it did back then,” Jane said, only half listening.

“Have you seen pictures?” Walter asked her.

“What?” said Jane. “Oh. Yes, I have. I forget where. In a magazine, possibly, or a book. I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Take a look at this.”

The voice was Brodie Pittman’s. He was looking at a series of photographs hung on one of the walls. Several other people were looking as well, among them Genevieve and Sam. Jane and Walter went over to join them.

“Looks just like her, doesn’t it?” Brodie said, pointing to one of the pictures.

Genevieve turned and looked at Jane. “A younger, thinner her, perhaps,” she said.

“Jane,” said Brodie, beckoning her closer. “Look what Suzu here found.”

Jane walked to the wall and looked. Brodie indicated a photograph showing the cast and crew of He Thinks He’ll Keep Her. She saw Argyll and Maisie sitting in chairs on either side of Wurrick, who was standing on a lettuce box so as to appear taller. Around them were other faces, most of which Jane didn’t recognize. And then, peering out from between the actor playing the father of Maisie’s character and the woman who had designed the hats for the show, she saw her own face. Despite the obvious age of the photograph, she looked exactly as she did now.

“Uncanny,” Brodie said. “She could be your twin sister.”

Walter put his face up to the photo. “She even has the same dimple you have,” he said to Jane. “And if I didn’t know better I’d swear I’ve seen you wearing that same necklace.”

He had seen her wearing the necklace. It had been a gift to Jane from her sister Cassie, and it was one of Jane’s most treasured possessions. She’d almost worn it today, in fact. Now she was glad she’d decided not to. The situation was already more than she wanted to deal with.

“I suppose she does resemble me a bit,” she said, trying not to sound too convinced.

“What do you mean a bit?” said Brodie. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you just stepped out of that photo there. Look, you’re making the same face she is right now.”

Jane rearranged her expression before anyone had a chance to verify Brodie’s remark. They were all staring at her anyway. Miriam, holding Lilith, looked as if she was holding her breath.

“Jane,” Walter said, sounding very serious, “is there something you want to tell me?”

“No!” Jane blurted. “I’ve never seen that woman before in my life. I have no idea who she is.”

“According to the notation on the back of the photo, her name is Beatrice Crump,” Genevieve said, peering at a notice posted beside the photo.

“That’s not right,” said Jane. “Beatrice Crump is the woman on her right. The man on the left is Grandstand Dalrymple.” Too late she realized her mistake.

“She’s right,” Enid said. “That is Dalrymple. He made his name here starring in the Scottish play. But how in the world would you know the name of the costumer?”

“Oh, you know,” Jane replied, trying to think. “She’s very famous.”

“No,” said Edith. “She isn’t. In fact, Beatrice Crump died not long after this photo was taken, and I’m fairly certain nobody ever thought of her again. The only reason I was able to identify her at all was through a mention in Wurrick Ogg Runciman’s journal. Look here.”

Enid pointed to another frame. Inside of this one was a page from Runciman’s journal. Jane recognized the handwriting.

“This is from an entry about the production of He Thinks He’ll Keep Her,” Enid explained. “Read for yourself.”

Jane’s eyes scanned the pages. Although the ink had faded, the words were still legible.

Tuesday, 07 October 1873

The play is doing well. Sold out or near every night this week. One foul review in the Scotsman but that’s to be expected given Pearle’s dislike of anything that isn’t Marlowe or Skivens. I’ve half a mind to put an end to the bastard, but A & M say it’s not worth the bother as he’d probably come back as something worse and the devil you know, etc., etc.

One bit of trouble. Beatrice Crump has left us. A victim of the needle, I’m afraid. Why any of them listen to Ratcliffe I don’t know, as it’s clear to me he’s a hunter. We’ve a plan to rid ourselves of him and are waiting for the time.

Beatrice will be sorely missed. She was a lovely girl and made lovely hats.

Tucked into the corner of the frame was a small photograph of Beatrice Crump. She was smiling, and someone had added pink to her cheeks with watercolors. Looking at it, Jane remembered the girl’s soft voice and unassuming manner. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen or eighteen, she thought.

At first she wondered why she couldn’t remember the girl’s death, but then she realized that the photograph had been taken in September, right before the show’s opening. She had left Edinburgh not long after. Beatrice must have died sometime between then and October 7.

“The needle Runciman refers to was of course morphine,” Enid said. “Morphine addiction was common at the turn of the century, particularly among theater folk. It was not unusual for certain unsavory elements to prey on those with a taste for the drug. This Ratcliffe was apparently one of them, a hunter of weak and impressionable young women, no doubt, of whom Beatrice Crump was one.”

That’s not right, Jane thought. Beatrice was a vampire. Morphine would have no effect on her.

Suddenly she remembered. She hadn’t left Edinburgh, she’d been sent away for her own safety. Someone—a hunter—had been killing vampires, and it was decided that because she was so young she would be most vulnerable. At the time she hadn’t really understood, but now she did. The needle wasn’t a simple syringe, it was