It seems to me they are everywhere nowadays — in the entertainment world, I mean, and besides,” she added, “you’re not, are you?” She laughed and held up a clove of garlic, and Hugo playfully shrank away from her in jest. Hopefully in jest.
“Interestingly enough, they don’t play a significant part in Guernsey folklore. Werewolves, yes, but no vampires. Of course, that could be why, because the werewolf is the sworn enemy of the vampire. But you’re right. They are everywhere.”
“Literally?”
The most troubling thing about Gandalf, thought Elodie, is that he is absolutely straight-faced about this stuff.
“Who knows. But he, or she, is an archetype, and we humans love archetypes. And we all know people who feed off the emotional energy of others.” Hugo reached for the bottle of olive oil on the table and added some to the pan, which was already heating. He tossed the prepared mushrooms into the pan on the stove, then spread them out carefully. Faintly, they began to splutter. “But there is one overwhelming truth about vampires that has the Mrs. Maxwells of this world up in arms.” Hugo poured himself another glass of wine and took a good swig.
“And that is —?”
“Sex. The vampire, above all, is an erotic metaphor. The vampire, Elodie, is always about sex.”
Hugo Shawcross turned and fixed a piercing gaze on Elodie. Just at that moment, mercifully, she heard the sound of Liz’s Figaro in the driveway.
They sat around the kitchen table to eat, and the meal was delicious. Liz was starving, so she ate and watched Hugo Shawcross, allowing her aunt to do the questioning. All she had to do was listen, and the wine had loosened Hugo’s tongue, which probably didn’t require much loosening in the first place.
“Are you a vampirologist? I believe that’s what they’re called — people who study the phenomenon?”
“Well, that is part of the project I am involved with right now, so maybe I am!” Hugo chuckled through a mouthful of garlic bread, and helped himself to more. “I was originally a university lecturer with a particular interest in European folklore, and I was able to devote myself to it after I took early retirement. I am now working with a group of researchers on a project dear to my heart.”
Liz allowed herself a question. “About vampires?” she asked. It was all she asked, but Hugo Shawcross gave her an impatient glance as if she had interrupted some private moment, and turned back to Elodie.
“Have you heard of the Malleus Maleficarum?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “Not many have, so let me explain. It is a fifteenth-century Latin text on the hunting of witches. In English, the title means ‘The Hammer of Witches.’ At one time, there was much heated discussion in the Catholic Church about its validity as a part of Catholic doctrine, but the twentieth century more or less threw it out the stained glass window.” He chortled at his little bon mot. “We, a group of us, feel it’s time to take another look at it.”
Elodie got up, took Hugo’s plate back to the stove for another helping of lamb. His back was to her and, above his head, she threw a glance at Liz and grimaced. “Sorry, Hugo, if I’m being a bit slow here, but does this book have anything to do with vampires?” She brought the plate back to the table and placed it in front of him, then reached out for Liz’s plate.
“It’s okay, El. I’ll get my own, thanks. This is just delicious.”
Cutting into her remark, Hugo went on. “Not directly, but the man who first translated it from the Latin was indeed a vampirologist. His name was Montague Summers. A much misunderstood man, in my opinion. I became interested in him, and thus interested in vampires.”
“Hence the subject matter of the play.”
“Oh yes! The perfect topic to bring in a younger audience, and to recruit new talent to the group. A dramatic theme.” Hugo wiped a piece of bread around the last juices on his plate.
“A melodramatic theme.”
Standing behind him, Liz could not see the expression on Hugo Shawcross’s face at her observation, but she saw Elodie’s eyes widen. She picked up her plate and walked back to her seat. As she passed him, he grasped her arm, nearly knocking the plate out of her hands.
“Wrong, little lady, wrong. Serious theatre. I will not allow it to be played any other way.”
Looking down into his eyes, Liz saw malevolence — or was she now being melodramatic? She pulled her arm away.
“Sorry I spoke.” She resumed her seat and her meal as if nothing much had happened.
“But there is the chance nothing will come of this, because of Mrs. Maxwell’s opposition.” Elodie poured herself the last of the wine from the bottle on the table. She could hear the wind getting up and starting a gentle moaning in the chimney, the defruited elderberry tap-tapping against the kitchen door. They were usually familiar, soothing sounds, but the conversation around the kitchen table gave them a disturbing quality.
“Exactly. I think I played my cards wrong there. Any advice as to how I can appease the lady?”
“Yes.” Elodie got up and started clearing the dishes. “Write a part for her she cannot bear to refuse. There are always more women than men in community theatre, and more competition for roles. Is there a good role for her in the play?”
She laughed, and removed the empty wine bottle from the table. Hugo had demolished most of it, also the first, and was now at the stage where his tongue was having difficulties shaping itself around his words. He was looking thoughtful.
“Not yet, but I haven’t started Act Two. “ His face lit up. “But I have the perfect role for her daughter!”
Liz, who was beginning to wonder when she could take her departure, but also whether she should leave her aunt with this weirdo who clearly wanted nothing more than to be left on his own with her, started to pay attention.
“Marla Maxwell?” Elodie asked. “Stunning girl, and quite a handful, from what I hear. Marie Maxwell might be very happy to have her occupied where she can keep an eye on her. Coffee?”
Liz settled back in her chair.
“Wonderful!” Hugo Shawcross slumped back in his seat, rocking his chair perilously as he stretched his arms over his head. “Mama can be good, and the daughter can be ba-a-ad!” It came out as a bleating noise, sheeplike rather than sexy, which from the glance he gave Elodie was what was intended.
“And what is this perfect role?” Elodie began loading the dishwasher as the coffee brewed. Her guest swivelled his chair around to face her.
“Lilith,” he said, with some difficulty. “Lilith, the greatest demoness of them all. Lilith!”
“Ah, Lilith.” Liz’s clear, resonant singer’s voice floated over the heads of Elodie and Hugo Shawcross. “Just about the oldest-known demon in folklore.”
Always nice to turn heads, thought Liz, and both Elodie and Hugo were now staring at her in surprise. She had her audience, so the little lady decided to hold forth.
“Of course, that is how men want to see her, as the betrayer of Adam left on his ownsome in the Garden of Eden, the baby-blood-sucking killer, seducer of men with
