Bloodcircle - Chapter Three
May. 17th, 2022 11:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kalinara posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
i_read_whatSo last time, Jack and Escott made it to New York City to start the investigation. We'd left off when Jack smelled something delicious. Let's find out what it is!
So we rejoin Jack as he's crossing "nine long blocks" to get to Central Park. We're told that there are stockyards in New York, but not something that can be compared to the "huge landmark" in Chicago. There's an interesting side note about how cattle gets shipped in by rail each day to be slaughtered, many of which going to feed the Jewish population (because of kosher requirements), and Jack tells us that Maureen had taken him there once.
I kind of feel like this paragraph is a little bit "look at this cool thing I learned in my research" but I can't really begrudge Ms. Elrod.
Anyway, Jack isn't going there. He's going to Central Park, where there are pony rides and horse drawn carriages. Apparently horses are fucking delicious. Jack, having grown up on a farm, is more than capable of keeping one calm and munchable. Jack makes a note to bring an apple or sugar cube next time.
So we jump ahead to the next night. We're told that Escott shows "no ill effects from his sedate debauch". Jack asks how things are going: Escott notes that the London Times has finally dropped its pro-Hitler policy. But more seriously, Escott's been doing some research on the shipping heiress.
One particularly interesting fact is that Emily Francher became sole heiress of her estate when her mother died in 1931 - the same year that Maureen went missing. And there's more, which Escott will tell in the car.
Jack and Escott are still practically married:
“If they made safety razors out of wood, you’d need stitches,” said Escott from the other room.
“How the hell did you know I’d cut myself?”
“By the timbre, volume, and quality of your language. Far be it from me to laugh at another’s pain, but you are most entertaining when you choose to express yourself.”
“Next time I’ll charge admission,” I grumbled.
So they eventually talk more about Emily. She was a debutante in 1913, married a socially acceptable husband (poor but with a fancy English title), who ended up dying in a steeplechase that same year. Poor girl was sent back home sans title. Her father died in 1915, and her mother took over the business quite well. Emily herself had "what we would now call a nervous breakdown" and was almost married off again to a bigamous con artist passing himself off as french.
I find myself amused by the "what we now call" line. Obviously NOW, we don't use the phrase "nervous breakdown", but this was set in 1936 and I find the progression of appropriate language interesting.
Anyway, the daughter bought a house in Long Island, the mother retired after the stock market crash cost her the business, and moved in with the daughter. (The daughter had a separate house on the property.) Sadly, the one house burned to the ground in April 1931 with the mother inside.
Jack wonders if Emily caused the fire. Escott isn't ready to speculate, since they don't have enough facts. There was an investigation that ruled it an accidental death at least. Emily herself is still very rich, having put her money away in safe-deposit boxes rather than bank accounts. Now she's a veritable hermit.
Escott hasn't been able to find out anything about the man who answered the phone. He has ascertained that there isn't an obvious connection to Maureen. Too bad.
Eventually, they get to where they're going:
On the left was a fifty-yard stretch of brick wall, broken by a fancy gate with the name FRANCHER arching over it in white painted ironwork. Inside stood a very solid brick gatehouse, showing some muted lights. A white gravel drive twisted out of sight into the trees beyond. Escott tapped the brake, parked the nose of the Ford next to the gate, and hit the horn a few times.
They're greeted by a gardener, who is less than helpful, and then a maid who seems to be the gardener's wife. The maid doesn't want to let these strange callers in after dark, but Escott gives her a message to pass along: a request to talk about Maureen Dumont. Escott notes that it tips their hand, but is pretty much unavoidable.
If Emily isn't willing to talk, there's always plan b:
“Then we apparently drive away. You can quietly return later.”
“And tiptoe up on her for a private interview?”
“You’ve acquired some experience at breaking and entering by now, and I know you have very little trouble persuading people to talk once you’ve gotten their attention.”
“Yeah, but I’d rather go through regular channels, if you don’t mind. I hate scaring people.”
“With that attitude, you could give vampirism a bad name.”
Hee.
Happily, Emily seems to be willing to talk, and our heroes are permitted inside. As they drive, they spot the location of the burned home, which Escott tells us had been traced to some worn-away insulation on a table lamp, which shorted out and set fire to a rug. The mother, asleep in bed, probably died of smoke inhalation without ever waking up. Oof. Well, at least the poor woman didn't feel it.
Then we get to see the house proper:
Another turn, more trees, and then a glimpse of buildings made of white stone with cream-colored trim. I made out a two-storied garage separated by the gravel drive from a much larger structure. The trees parted. Maybe it was modest when compared to some of the other houses in the neighborhood; it couldn’t have had more than fifteen or twenty bedrooms at the most. Lights were showing on both floors and at the pone cochere-style front entrance. The truck stopped beneath it and so did we. The gardener escorted us to the open double doors, handing us over to a younger woman uniformed as a maid. She smiled a neutral welcome and gestured us inside.
The entry hall was only a little smaller than Grand Central and furnished with slick Italian marble and Impressionist paintings, which caught Escott’s immediate attention. Beautifully framed, labeled and perfectly lit, I didn’t have to ask if they were genuine; they wouldn’t dare not be.
Swanky place.
And we get to meet Emily herself:
Under a single lit lamp by the fire, a woman on the young side of middle age sat in a massive red leather chair. She had crisp, shiny black hair, cut short and dressed in perfect waves along her skull. Her skin was sallow and just starting to bag along the jaw and stretch at the neck. She wore a long red velvet dress that clashed with the chair leather and enough diamonds to set the country’s economy straight again. Hundreds of them hung from her neck and arms, catching the glow from the fire and throwing out glints and sparks like the Fourth of July. In full sunlight she’d have been blinding.
She watched our approach with a mixture of wariness and interest.
So Emily hears them out, but unfortunately neither the name or description of Maureen Dumont are familiar. She suggests that either a mistake was made with the telephone number or that a number of her staff might be involved. She suggests that her secretary can help them. And well...
He was too handsome to be real, that’s how he struck me at first glance. His dark hair was perfectly combed, his features just uneven enough to be interesting and arresting. He didn’t have to smile for me to know his teeth would match the rest of him for a correct turnout. He wore a sober, well-cut suit with a subtle stripe that picked up the color of his blue eyes. He was tall, with a good spread of shoulder and not much hip, just the type to have to beat women off with a club. Some twenty years younger than his employer, I could guess that he was secretary in name only. If rich men felt entitled to have mistresses, I supposed rich women could have their gigolos as well. It was no skin off my nose.
So, if Emily was a debutante in 1913, that'd make her likely about five to ten years older than Jack or Escott. So likely her early forties. Twenty years younger than that would be early twenties. Hm.
This fellow also has an interesting accent: almost English, but not quite.
They're taken to an office, while there, they catch a glimpse of a blond girl using the swimming pool. That's Emily's cousin, Laura.
It's pretty funny that Jonathan gets a more detailed description than either of the women. And in fact, we get more;
On closer look, and in better light, he was still a remarkably handsome man. His dark hair and expressive brows accentuated his pale complexion, and slender blue veins were visible under the fine-textured skin of his long hands. He suddenly seemed out of place in his fashionable suit and modern surroundings. He should have been on a movie screen swinging a sword around and romancing Merle Oberon or Greta Garbo.
Jonathan had heard their conversation with Emily, and in fact, he'd been the one to persuade her to let them in. He does, in fact, know Maureen. Though he hasn't heard from her in five years. He's curious about them. Escott is forthcoming.
Too forthcoming:
He dragged his eyes from me to Escott. “Possibly, but I would first like some information about the two of you.” Now his full attention was focused on Escott. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
“My name is Charles W. Escott. I am a licensed private investigator from Chicago and this is my colleague, Jack Fleming. Mr. Fleming was a very close friend of Miss Dumont. In August of 1931, Miss Dumont disappeared. This took place within a few hours of her sister Gaylen’s escape—”
“Charles,” I warned.
He stopped abruptly and shook his head a little. I thought he was trying to put me off.
“Go on,” said our host, leaning forward.
“… escape from a private sanatorium in—
I looked at Escott—really looked at him—and the skin on my scalp started crawling every which way.
Interesting to see it from the outside, isn't it Jack.
Hardly knowing what I was doing myself, I lunged at the secretary and hauled him from his chair and slammed him against the nearest wall. Escott’s voice trailed off and stopped. An instant later the man’s arm shot up and he caught me in the soft spot right under the rib cage. If I’d been breathing I’d have doubled over. As it was, the force of the blow surprised me and sent me staggering back into his chair.
I went right over in a crash and tangle, bruising my arm on an unpadded wooden edge. He started to come after me, but stopped short, as though undecided whether to help me up or belt me again.
Woo, fisticuffs.
“Easy now,” he said, holding his hands with the palms out. I’d spoken the same way to that horse last night to keep it calm. We glared at each other for a few long seconds, and then I glanced at Escott. He was still on the couch and oblivious to what had just happened.
The man said nothing when I looked back at him. He was on guard, his white teeth showing in the kind of non-smile you see on a wolf. When I didn’t leap up for another attack, he cautiously extended a hand down to me.
I mean, dude, you DID mindwhammy Jack's friend in front of him. So it's not really surprising that Jack reacted badly. He demands that Jonathan pull Escott out of the trance. Carefully. Jonathan does so. Because, of course, he's a vampire.
Specifically, he's Jonathan Barrett. The dude Gaylen mentioned: the dude who made Maureen into a vampire.
And I'm reminded that this series is a little unique among vampire books in that, so far at least, we haven't seen much, if any, indication of a vampire society. And I suppose that makes some sense. As we've seen, vampirism is one of those things that stays dormant in the blood until death, and that death can be years later. There's plenty of time for people to go their separate ways.
Jonathan is the first real vampire we meet, after Gaylen - who was made by Jack himself, so it will be interesting to compare and contrast. Jonathan was also my first glimpse into this universe, as he is, or will be, the star of his own set of spinoff books set during his origin. I'm fairly sure I read his first book before I read Bloodlist. I don't remember much at all, but I think they were reasonably whumpy, and they didn't turn me away from the Vampire Files books, so they must at least have been readable. It might be fun to revisit them someday.
But sadly that's a reminiscence for another day as the chapter ends here.
So we rejoin Jack as he's crossing "nine long blocks" to get to Central Park. We're told that there are stockyards in New York, but not something that can be compared to the "huge landmark" in Chicago. There's an interesting side note about how cattle gets shipped in by rail each day to be slaughtered, many of which going to feed the Jewish population (because of kosher requirements), and Jack tells us that Maureen had taken him there once.
I kind of feel like this paragraph is a little bit "look at this cool thing I learned in my research" but I can't really begrudge Ms. Elrod.
Anyway, Jack isn't going there. He's going to Central Park, where there are pony rides and horse drawn carriages. Apparently horses are fucking delicious. Jack, having grown up on a farm, is more than capable of keeping one calm and munchable. Jack makes a note to bring an apple or sugar cube next time.
So we jump ahead to the next night. We're told that Escott shows "no ill effects from his sedate debauch". Jack asks how things are going: Escott notes that the London Times has finally dropped its pro-Hitler policy. But more seriously, Escott's been doing some research on the shipping heiress.
One particularly interesting fact is that Emily Francher became sole heiress of her estate when her mother died in 1931 - the same year that Maureen went missing. And there's more, which Escott will tell in the car.
Jack and Escott are still practically married:
“If they made safety razors out of wood, you’d need stitches,” said Escott from the other room.
“How the hell did you know I’d cut myself?”
“By the timbre, volume, and quality of your language. Far be it from me to laugh at another’s pain, but you are most entertaining when you choose to express yourself.”
“Next time I’ll charge admission,” I grumbled.
So they eventually talk more about Emily. She was a debutante in 1913, married a socially acceptable husband (poor but with a fancy English title), who ended up dying in a steeplechase that same year. Poor girl was sent back home sans title. Her father died in 1915, and her mother took over the business quite well. Emily herself had "what we would now call a nervous breakdown" and was almost married off again to a bigamous con artist passing himself off as french.
I find myself amused by the "what we now call" line. Obviously NOW, we don't use the phrase "nervous breakdown", but this was set in 1936 and I find the progression of appropriate language interesting.
Anyway, the daughter bought a house in Long Island, the mother retired after the stock market crash cost her the business, and moved in with the daughter. (The daughter had a separate house on the property.) Sadly, the one house burned to the ground in April 1931 with the mother inside.
Jack wonders if Emily caused the fire. Escott isn't ready to speculate, since they don't have enough facts. There was an investigation that ruled it an accidental death at least. Emily herself is still very rich, having put her money away in safe-deposit boxes rather than bank accounts. Now she's a veritable hermit.
Escott hasn't been able to find out anything about the man who answered the phone. He has ascertained that there isn't an obvious connection to Maureen. Too bad.
Eventually, they get to where they're going:
On the left was a fifty-yard stretch of brick wall, broken by a fancy gate with the name FRANCHER arching over it in white painted ironwork. Inside stood a very solid brick gatehouse, showing some muted lights. A white gravel drive twisted out of sight into the trees beyond. Escott tapped the brake, parked the nose of the Ford next to the gate, and hit the horn a few times.
They're greeted by a gardener, who is less than helpful, and then a maid who seems to be the gardener's wife. The maid doesn't want to let these strange callers in after dark, but Escott gives her a message to pass along: a request to talk about Maureen Dumont. Escott notes that it tips their hand, but is pretty much unavoidable.
If Emily isn't willing to talk, there's always plan b:
“Then we apparently drive away. You can quietly return later.”
“And tiptoe up on her for a private interview?”
“You’ve acquired some experience at breaking and entering by now, and I know you have very little trouble persuading people to talk once you’ve gotten their attention.”
“Yeah, but I’d rather go through regular channels, if you don’t mind. I hate scaring people.”
“With that attitude, you could give vampirism a bad name.”
Hee.
Happily, Emily seems to be willing to talk, and our heroes are permitted inside. As they drive, they spot the location of the burned home, which Escott tells us had been traced to some worn-away insulation on a table lamp, which shorted out and set fire to a rug. The mother, asleep in bed, probably died of smoke inhalation without ever waking up. Oof. Well, at least the poor woman didn't feel it.
Then we get to see the house proper:
Another turn, more trees, and then a glimpse of buildings made of white stone with cream-colored trim. I made out a two-storied garage separated by the gravel drive from a much larger structure. The trees parted. Maybe it was modest when compared to some of the other houses in the neighborhood; it couldn’t have had more than fifteen or twenty bedrooms at the most. Lights were showing on both floors and at the pone cochere-style front entrance. The truck stopped beneath it and so did we. The gardener escorted us to the open double doors, handing us over to a younger woman uniformed as a maid. She smiled a neutral welcome and gestured us inside.
The entry hall was only a little smaller than Grand Central and furnished with slick Italian marble and Impressionist paintings, which caught Escott’s immediate attention. Beautifully framed, labeled and perfectly lit, I didn’t have to ask if they were genuine; they wouldn’t dare not be.
Swanky place.
And we get to meet Emily herself:
Under a single lit lamp by the fire, a woman on the young side of middle age sat in a massive red leather chair. She had crisp, shiny black hair, cut short and dressed in perfect waves along her skull. Her skin was sallow and just starting to bag along the jaw and stretch at the neck. She wore a long red velvet dress that clashed with the chair leather and enough diamonds to set the country’s economy straight again. Hundreds of them hung from her neck and arms, catching the glow from the fire and throwing out glints and sparks like the Fourth of July. In full sunlight she’d have been blinding.
She watched our approach with a mixture of wariness and interest.
So Emily hears them out, but unfortunately neither the name or description of Maureen Dumont are familiar. She suggests that either a mistake was made with the telephone number or that a number of her staff might be involved. She suggests that her secretary can help them. And well...
He was too handsome to be real, that’s how he struck me at first glance. His dark hair was perfectly combed, his features just uneven enough to be interesting and arresting. He didn’t have to smile for me to know his teeth would match the rest of him for a correct turnout. He wore a sober, well-cut suit with a subtle stripe that picked up the color of his blue eyes. He was tall, with a good spread of shoulder and not much hip, just the type to have to beat women off with a club. Some twenty years younger than his employer, I could guess that he was secretary in name only. If rich men felt entitled to have mistresses, I supposed rich women could have their gigolos as well. It was no skin off my nose.
So, if Emily was a debutante in 1913, that'd make her likely about five to ten years older than Jack or Escott. So likely her early forties. Twenty years younger than that would be early twenties. Hm.
This fellow also has an interesting accent: almost English, but not quite.
They're taken to an office, while there, they catch a glimpse of a blond girl using the swimming pool. That's Emily's cousin, Laura.
It's pretty funny that Jonathan gets a more detailed description than either of the women. And in fact, we get more;
On closer look, and in better light, he was still a remarkably handsome man. His dark hair and expressive brows accentuated his pale complexion, and slender blue veins were visible under the fine-textured skin of his long hands. He suddenly seemed out of place in his fashionable suit and modern surroundings. He should have been on a movie screen swinging a sword around and romancing Merle Oberon or Greta Garbo.
Jonathan had heard their conversation with Emily, and in fact, he'd been the one to persuade her to let them in. He does, in fact, know Maureen. Though he hasn't heard from her in five years. He's curious about them. Escott is forthcoming.
Too forthcoming:
He dragged his eyes from me to Escott. “Possibly, but I would first like some information about the two of you.” Now his full attention was focused on Escott. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
“My name is Charles W. Escott. I am a licensed private investigator from Chicago and this is my colleague, Jack Fleming. Mr. Fleming was a very close friend of Miss Dumont. In August of 1931, Miss Dumont disappeared. This took place within a few hours of her sister Gaylen’s escape—”
“Charles,” I warned.
He stopped abruptly and shook his head a little. I thought he was trying to put me off.
“Go on,” said our host, leaning forward.
“… escape from a private sanatorium in—
I looked at Escott—really looked at him—and the skin on my scalp started crawling every which way.
Interesting to see it from the outside, isn't it Jack.
Hardly knowing what I was doing myself, I lunged at the secretary and hauled him from his chair and slammed him against the nearest wall. Escott’s voice trailed off and stopped. An instant later the man’s arm shot up and he caught me in the soft spot right under the rib cage. If I’d been breathing I’d have doubled over. As it was, the force of the blow surprised me and sent me staggering back into his chair.
I went right over in a crash and tangle, bruising my arm on an unpadded wooden edge. He started to come after me, but stopped short, as though undecided whether to help me up or belt me again.
Woo, fisticuffs.
“Easy now,” he said, holding his hands with the palms out. I’d spoken the same way to that horse last night to keep it calm. We glared at each other for a few long seconds, and then I glanced at Escott. He was still on the couch and oblivious to what had just happened.
The man said nothing when I looked back at him. He was on guard, his white teeth showing in the kind of non-smile you see on a wolf. When I didn’t leap up for another attack, he cautiously extended a hand down to me.
I mean, dude, you DID mindwhammy Jack's friend in front of him. So it's not really surprising that Jack reacted badly. He demands that Jonathan pull Escott out of the trance. Carefully. Jonathan does so. Because, of course, he's a vampire.
Specifically, he's Jonathan Barrett. The dude Gaylen mentioned: the dude who made Maureen into a vampire.
And I'm reminded that this series is a little unique among vampire books in that, so far at least, we haven't seen much, if any, indication of a vampire society. And I suppose that makes some sense. As we've seen, vampirism is one of those things that stays dormant in the blood until death, and that death can be years later. There's plenty of time for people to go their separate ways.
Jonathan is the first real vampire we meet, after Gaylen - who was made by Jack himself, so it will be interesting to compare and contrast. Jonathan was also my first glimpse into this universe, as he is, or will be, the star of his own set of spinoff books set during his origin. I'm fairly sure I read his first book before I read Bloodlist. I don't remember much at all, but I think they were reasonably whumpy, and they didn't turn me away from the Vampire Files books, so they must at least have been readable. It might be fun to revisit them someday.
But sadly that's a reminiscence for another day as the chapter ends here.