Butterfly Catchers – Part VII

The panes in the window were old, the glass sagged and smeared with time, so his view was obscured, as if he were watching through a mist and from much further off, but he could see enough.

Books of music on the shelves, manuscript paper on the battered fly-leaf table, and against the longest wall there was just space for the upright piano. It was black, heavily carved, with a candle in only one of the pair of brackets, just enough to throw a golden glow on the earnest young face and set a shimmer of life in his curls as he bent over the keyboard.

Scales. Steadily advancing and retreating as they had been for the last half hour, and still the boy showed no sign of tiredness or boredom. It was as if with each reiteration he found something new to perfect in the notes. Not hammered, not drummed out, but rippling from his fingers as living and thrilling as a heartbeat. Angelus ran his tongue slowly over dry lips, smoothed down the stiff cloth of his coat.

In the small room at the back the boy’s mother would still be sewing, as she was every night. Across the table from her, Ashworth himself would be sitting, bent over papers that he studied every evening, scanning them as if they contained some great secret, every now and then his hand raising the pencil to scratch a furious mark, often as not only to cross it out, frowning, a few moments later. Some day soon Angelus must get hold of those papers to find out what they were.

The great cathedral clock started to chime the quarter. Every night at exactly this time, as the clock tolled the last note of the quarter hour, James would stop playing. Sometimes he would go through to the little parlour and kiss his mother, bid a solemn ‘Good night’ to his stepfather and obediently head straight up the stairs to bed. And sometimes – sure enough, Ashworth’s face appeared at the parlour door. But tonight the boy did not stop immediately. His face frowning still with concentration he played on steadily. Note after perfect rippling note.

‘It is time, James.’

‘Yes papa.’ The boy withdrew his hands, staring at the keyboard afterwards as if his fingerprints could still be seen there, little ovals on each ivory key. Then he pushed himself up and turned to his stepfather so Angelus could no longer see his expression.

Ashworth was fussing, wrapping a blue scarf about the boy’s throat, enquiring if he needed a cool drink. ‘The cold air is good for you, it builds your lungs, but you must keep your throat warm. Not too warm or it will relax.’

‘Yes papa.’

‘Have you got your gloves, my darling?’ his mother asked.

‘Never mind those, they don’t matter. Hurry now, James.’ Ashworth steered him to the door.

His mother clasped her arms around her waist, as if holding herself close. ‘Good luck, my darling.’

James flashed her a smile of pure sweetness, the smile that Angelus had drawn and redrawn. Ashworth pushed him through the door, tearing him from his mother as she settled his cap on his head. Angelus slipped back, deeper into the shadows.

‘Don’t wait up.’

‘No.’ His mother kissed James and again whispered, ‘Good luck,’ then withdrew into the house.

Ashworth rested his hand on James’s shoulder. ‘You must do your best. Your very best.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘What did you say?’

‘Yes papa, I meant, yes papa.’

Ashworth looked at James for a moment, as if about to say something more, and James looked back at him politely, waiting, but Ashworth only nodded and started to hurry down the path, past the little hedge of lavender bushes and onto the gravel walk that crossed the close.

On the first occasion they had gone to the party at the deanery, where James had sung to a circle of simpering females and bored looking men. On the second it had been the back room of the Three Feathers inn and an audience of gentlemen farmer’s and their not-quite-lady wives. The third time they had walked all the way across town to the tin hut where the Methodists sat on hard wooden chairs in an atmosphere steaming with the tea urn and unwashed farm hands, who gawped whilst James transported their minds to a world far beyond their own pettiness.

Now, as Ashworth once again steered James along the frozen streets, Angelus followed with a black heart. That a creature as delicate and rare as James should be displayed before these oafs and provincial clodpolls was unbearable. When Ashworth’s death came, it would be slow, and as he screamed he would be taught just what he was paying for.

Angelus matched his speed to theirs, pacing behind them beat for beat. They moved up hill, to where the largest houses were. Stone built, with fiercely polished brass-work on the doors and lights blazing from every window. Ashworth hesitated, checked a piece of paper in his pocket and then squared his shoulders.

‘Here we are.’

‘Yes papa.’ James’s voice was low, his eyes downcast, and his little hands, twisted in front of him, looked cold and white.

‘Do do your best, James. This is so very important. If Mr Harmonia likes you then it could lead to great things – very great things. Maybe even London.’

‘Yes papa.’

Angelus carried on slowly past them, his steps echoing hollowly on the cobbles so that Ashworth turned and watched him uneasily for a second, before turning back to the door. Angelus slipped into the shadow of a small, bow-walled church, its black flint walls a dark vacuum in the white Georgian stonework of the street.

Harmonia. He had heard the name before but couldn’t recall where.

Ashworth knocked.

The door opened and a tall and impeccably dressed manservant sneered down his nose at what he saw. ‘Yes?’

‘How do you do?’ Ashworth said in a rush. ‘My name is Ashworth, organist of the Cathedral. I am here to see Mr Harmonia.’ The last part sounded more like a question than a statement and the servant’s sneer deepened.

‘Mr Harmonia is not at home.’

‘But it has all been arranged! I wrote to him when I heard he was here!’ Ashworth flapped one hand, miming writing, as if this was somehow helpful, the other gripped James’s shoulder.

‘I have not been made aware of any arrangements.’

‘No, but… can’t you please ask him. The boy has been prepared very carefully.’

The servant’s gaze travelled to James and back. ‘How regrettable that there has been a misunderstanding,’ the servant said calmly. ‘Mr Harmonia is not at home.’

‘Wait!’ Ashworth actually put out a hand to prevent the door closing. ‘He sent a man – to evensong, to listen to my boy. He can tell Mr Harmonia about James. He gave me his card.’

The servant paused, one eyebrow raised, whilst Ashworth frantically searched his pockets.

‘Here!’ He held a card up triumphantly. ‘Give that to Mr Harmonia. He came and listened, and said that Mr Harmonia would be interested in a private performance. Tell Mr Harmonia that this is James Grayling. The boy Mr Aurelius wanted him to hear.’ Ashworth beamed, the servant took the card with a puzzled frown, and Angelus dropped his head back against the knobbly flints of the little church and tried not to laugh out loud.

‘I see. I will make enquiries.’ The servant held the door open the barest crack and Ashworth, his face white, edged inside. James followed him trustingly.

‘Wait here,’ the servant commanded, and then the door closed. Angelus listened to the servant’s footsteps retreating over a hard surface, and then James’s voice, sounding very small, muffled by the door. ‘Doesn’t he want to hear me sing, papa?’

‘Yes of course he does. It is just a silly misunderstanding with the servant.’ Ashworth cleared his throat. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

‘Yes papa.’

Angelus considered for a moment, turning over the possibilities, then he looked up, judged the height of the dark flint walls of the church, and made a clean leap twenty foot up to the roof. He worked his way back along it, looking down on Harmonia’s house beside him.

Many tall windows overlooked a rigidly formal garden, stiff in its winter tidiness. From the first floor, light spilled out, and with it came the sound of singing. Strange singing. Not quite a soprano, not quite a countertenor, a high but full, rounded tone the like of which Angelus had never heard in England before.

‘Va tacito e nascosto, quand’ avido è di preda, l ‘astuto cacciatore.’

It was a sound that stirred in him memories of sultry Italian nights and the fierce pointless feuding of the claques. Of a time when he had seen a long-stalked prey stabbed by a rival Tenor just before opening night. And again something nagged at the back of his mind about the name Harmonia.

Other lights flickered through the cracks in the shutters below stairs, but the ground floor was dark and presumably deserted apart from Ashworth and James. He jumped down into the garden, gravel crunching under his feet, the chill sweep of box trees stiff with frost brushing at his legs. There was a pair of glass doors in front of him, giving onto the garden from what looked like a small breakfast room. On a whim he stretched his hand out, palm flat, feeling for the resistance, the push of rejection that barred him from any home.

Well, wasn’t that interesting.

He smiled to himself and smashed his hand down on the door handle. The flimsy metal gave instantly and he swung the door open and strode inside.

He quickly removed gloves, hat and coat, hanging them over a convenient chair, and straightened the rest of his dress. Then he walked calmly out into the house.

There was a hallway of plaster painted to look like marble and gold leaf, sparsely furnished but lit by a full chandelier of candles, and sitting against one wall on uncomfortable looking chairs were James and Ashworth. Angelus paused and Ashworth shot to his feet.

‘Mr Aurelius!’ He seemed incapable of anything more, standing wringing his hands, but Angelus couldn’t care less because James had lifted his head and was looking straight at him from under long lashes. That perfect little face, a soft blush from the cold night air just creeping across his cheek, the fine hair seeming to glow in the light of the chandelier. He looked at Angelus for one long, wonderful second, and then he dropped his gaze.

Angelus cleared his throat and strode straight across to the staircase.

‘Mr Aurelius!’ he heard Ashworth call as he climbed. ‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding. If you could just speak to Mr Harmonia for us. Please, sir!’

Angelus turned the corner of the landing and closed his eyes for a second, clenching and unclenching his fists.

When he opened them a servant was coming towards him, bearing a tray of drinks and a puzzled frown. ‘Who are—?’

‘Ah, at last, a man could die of thirst.’ Angelus snatched a champagne flute and emptied it. ‘Well show me through, man. I don’t want to wait out here all night.’

‘Er, no, of course not, sir, I do beg your pardon.’ And the servant held the door beside him open, not demurring when Angelus took another glass in passing.

‘E chi è a mal far disposto, non brama che si veda l’inganno del suo cor.’

The strange voice twisted through the air, seeming to writhe on the hot, foetid atmosphere of the room. Everything was slickly white and gold, the walls and ceiling festooned with fat plaster cherubs dangling bunches of grapes, their undersides streaked with lines of soot from the guttering candles. And it was crowded with men, rank sweat prickling at the stiff collars of their evening suits. They stirred and shifted continuously as they stood, fidgeting with their champagne glasses, with collar and cuffs, as if not one of them were entirely comfortable, but nor could any of them take their eyes off the youth in the centre of the room.

He stood in the swell of the grand piano, tall, barrel-chested, ludicrously dressed in a skimpy tunic and gilded laurel wreath, one hand resting lightly on the ebony wood, the other raised as if to declaim as he sang. But his heavy, kohl smeared eyes kept returning to the man seated before him, each time with a downward tilt that parodied coyness, his red-smeared cheeks resembling a blush. And the man in the chair shifted, spreading his legs a little wider, his eyes feasting on what was before him.

Higher and higher the notes soared, higher than nature should ever permit.

‘Va tacito e nascosto, quand’ avido è di preda, l ‘astuto cacciatore.’

The youth threw his head back as he concluded and the audience broke into instant applause. Apparently oblivious, the youth pouted and flounced over to the chair, making the filmy material of his tunic bounce.

‘Ah, my Pedrolino,’ the man in the chair reached up and patted his cheek. ‘Bravo, bravissimo.’

The youth’s pout deepened and he stuck one leg forward, as if striking a pose. ‘I need a proper orchestra. That fool plays like cobbling shoes.’ His voice was simpering, high as a girl’s, and rose almost to a shriek at the end. ‘And they fidget. How can I create art when they fidget!’

The man only smiled indulgently and patted his cheek again. ‘You shall sing again in a little while and they shall be still as stones.’ He turned and glared about him. ‘Won’t they?’ And as he said it his eyes flashed red.

The others froze under his glare, and then there was a chorus of assent, of wonder at the perfection of the performance, of assurances that Mr Harmonia provided the very best of entertainments and they would not so much as breathe through the rest of the concert if they might only be permitted to remain to marvel. Harmonia smiled. Pedrolino only pouted deeper. ‘I need a horn.’

‘Of course you do.’

The butler appeared and threaded his way through the crowd. Angelus stretched his ears, slipping a little closer through the jostling ranks of men, always keeping his eyes unfocused, his face blank, so that none should feel the force of his gaze. Nobody so much as glanced in his direction.

‘The cathedral organist is here, sir,’ the butler said softly. ‘With James Grayling.’

Harmonia inclined his ear, and as the butler spoke a flickering, fat tongue slid out from between Harmonia’s teeth and darted back in.

‘Who is this Grayling?’ Pedrolino sneered, his lower lip stuck out in what he possibly considered a pretty pout. ‘What do you want with him?’

‘Now, now, you must not be jealous, Pedrolino. Come, sit on Papà’s knee.’

The youth scowled for a second, then plumped himself down, picking moodily at the hem of his tunic.

‘We’ll make them wait a little longer, I think,’ Harmonia said. He set one finger on Pedrolino’s thigh and traced a little circle. ‘Make them wait.’ Another little circle. ‘Then tell them to go away.’ Pedrolino smiled. And as Harmonia’s hand drifted higher, under the flimsy material of the tunic, Angelus could see that there was nothing there. Pedrolino was as smooth and featureless as a young child, only the shiny scar tissue showing what had been done to him.

‘And you, my Pedrolino, must sip some water and get ready for your next aria. Very little sips.’ Harmonia patted Pedrolino’s thigh and Pedrolino rose with a self-satisfied smirk and flounced off. Harmonia leant towards the butler. ‘Tell them to come back tomorrow night.’

‘Very good, sir. But Ashworth gave me this.’ And Angelus saw his own card again, this time presented on a silver salver. ‘Ashworth claimed that this gentleman attended evensong on your behalf.’

Harmonia raised his eyebrows and turned slightly. ‘Cotesia, did you give Ashworth your card? You were not told to do so.’

‘No, Mr Harmonia.’ One of the men worked his way through the crowd – tall, thin, and with eyes that glowed red and yet still looked cold and black. ‘I listened to the boy and then came away. I did—’ He cleared his throat and Angelus fought down the growl in his chest – it was the coughing idiot from evensong. ‘I did not speak to anyone.’

Harmonia waved at him dismissively and picked up the card. ‘Well, well – Angelus of Aurelius.’ There was instant silence. Harmonia turned the card over, examining it closely. ‘So, he is in the city and he wishes me to know it. Cotesia, do we know of this Angelus?’ He mispronounced it, as if the Scourge of Europe were to be confused with a devotion of the church.

Cotesia cleared his throat again. ‘Angelus of Aurelius, Mr Harmonia.’ The idiot mirrored Harmonia’s pronunciation. ‘He is the Master’s grandchilde and considered highly favoured by him. He became notorious for displays of violence and adopted the name of the Scourge of Europe, but he hasn’t done anything worthy of note for years.’ He sneered. ‘The last I heard of him was in sixty-seven when he killed a few nuns.’

‘Ah these vampires, always flamboyant. ’ Harmonia tossed the card back onto the salver. ‘Well we will not worry unduly about one vampire. Even one of the Master’s most favoured.’

There was a burst of sycophantic laughter, and Harmonia dismissed the butler with a wave. But whilst the others sniggered about how one became a most favoured amongst the Aurelians, Harmonia crooked a finger and Cotesia bent down to him. ‘Find him. Find out what the Master wants,’ Harmonia hissed, and the man nodded and slipped away.

Harmonia sprawled back in his chair, a small smile playing on his lips, his pink eyes flipping lazily around the room. Released from the immediate need to be sycophantic the others had settled into a babble of conversation. Glasses chinked, the champagne was refilled, and the heat and noise in the room began to make Angelus consider leaving. He circulated slowly, eavesdropping on as many conversations as possible, always keeping a distance from Harmonia. Then on the far side of the room he found himself face to face with Pedrolino, who glared at him, took a deep swig of champagne, and demanded ‘Who are you?’

‘Oh, just a friend of Harmonia’s’

‘I have never seen you before.’

‘No, well I’m not a very good friend. So, tell me, how long have you sung for him?’

‘Do you not know who I am?’ It was said loud enough that a couple of others turned in their direction. One of them was Cotesia.

‘An interesting question,’ Cotesia said, and he deftly removed Pedrolino’s glass while he eyed Angelus.

‘Ehilà, non fate così!’

‘Oh, I didn’t take it, Master Pedrolino, indeed no,’ Cotesia said smoothly. ‘Because you aren’t allowed champagne, so you can’t have had it for me to take.’ He ignored Pedrolino’s glare and tilted his head as he examined Angelus. ‘So, Mr…? I issue all of Mr Harmonia’s invitations, how unforgivable that I can’t recall your name.’ He coughed.

‘Smith,’ Angelus said. ‘James Smith. Is that the time? Well, it’s been most—’ A heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder and he risked a glance. A fat thug, about the size of a prize-fighter, looked back at him impassively with crimson glowing eyes above long tusks. Angelus sighed and punched him.

The demon grunted.

Someone seized Angelus’s arm, twisting it down before he could get in a second blow. Someone else took the other one. The demon in front of Angelus drew his fist back and pounded it into Angelus’s stomach, an explosion of pain driving up into him. Another came from behind. Then another from the front.

Angelus was vaguely aware of squeals as people retreated, of shouts, of Pedrolino shrieking with outrage.

Every punch felt like the hit of a flail. As they came down again and again it was like being in a threshing machine. His belly was a furnace of agony, his hearing fading, his sight turning black with the pain.

As a blow crashed against his back he stumbled forward, tipping the demons holding him off balance. Angelus exploded upwards with a roar, changing into his true face, somersaulting over the demon behind him, seeing red eyes and long tusks flash below.

He landed to find himself staring at a gape mouthed Pedrolino.

‘Stake him,’ a voice said loudly but calmly.

Pedrolino screamed and smashed his champagne glass against Angelus’s temple.

Angelus grabbed Pedrolino’s wrist and twisted, the jagged stump of the glass dropping neatly into his own hand even as he twisted Pedrolino round and clamped him to his chest. He thrust the broken glass at Pedrolino’s throat.

The room froze into silence.

‘Stand back, all of you,’ Angelus shouted.

He had only to flick the glass slightly and it would slice Pedrolino’s gullet.

Angelus was facing a rank of demons, heads lowered, long tusks flaring up at him from snarling mouths, red eyes darting from side to side as they searched for an opening.

Pedrolino squirmed, gasping like a landed fish.

‘Stand back!’

The demons exchanged uncertain glances, then Cotesia barked ‘Do as he says’ and they shuffled back a few inches.

‘Harmonia?’ Angelus called.

‘Oh I am here, vampire. And I have a message for your Master.’

‘I’m nobody’s minion! And if you want your Pedrolino’s throat intact, you’ll—’ He just caught the flicker of movement from the corner of his eye and jerked sideways, the crossbow bolt thudding into the wall behind him.

‘Don’t you people understand what a hostage is!’ He bowled Pedrolino at the crowd and leapt for the window. Then the familiar sensation of rushing wind and splintering glass surrounded him, slashing his skin even as he fell, and finally the cobblestones jarring through every bone. He coughed blood and staggered to his feet.

‘And I want my bloody hat and coat back, you bastards,’ he yelled up at the house. Nobody bothered to reply.