The matron shook her head and smiled
condescendingly. “The doctors don’t believe her ravings – vampires indeed!” She
eyed the wan Elena. “That’s more of a central European folklore tale than from
the Mediterranean, or so Dr. Soldanis says.”
“I
see.” Attard introduced Maria and added, “Miss Caruana would like to ask Elena
a few questions. Is that all right?”
“Please
yourself, Sergeant. But you won’t learn anything new. She’s barking.”
Though
she was incensed by the matron’s attitude, Maria let that last comment go and
leaned forward to make eye-contact with Elena. They began by chatting about
clothes and family. After a few minutes, Elena seemed comfortable talking.
Maria continued to probe gently.
Haltingly,
Elena told her story about the wedding and the honeymoon in St. Paul’s Bay, and
of that terrible night. “My Carmelo fought the creature so bravely...” She
sighed. “But nobody believes me! They think I killed my Carmelo!” she
ended forlornly, her hand going back to the neck-wound.
“I
believe you,” Maria said earnestly.
Behind
Maria, Attard whispered, “Try getting a description of the man – the vampire.”
She
nodded. “I know the memory hurts, Elena, but we must find this monster, and
lock him away. Can you tell me what he looked like?”
Screwing
her eyes tight as she thought, Elena said, “He was tall, very tall. He towered
over me – and he had gray
eyes, eyes that seemed to shine. And a –
a hooked nose. V–very pale skin–” She cried, shaking, and clasped her
arms round her bony frame, as if trying to hold in what little self she had
left. “Smooth, gentle hands. Black hair, swept back – long and curling at the neck, I
think...” She started, grabbed Maria’s arm, her fingers digging in. “His face!
I’ve just remembered!”
“What
about his face, Elena?”
“Carm
threw that vile bat at him – it
cut his cheek!” She shuddered, eyes wide and red-rimmed. “There was so much
blood! He must have a scar–”
And Elena touched her right cheek. “Here, it bled so much!” She shuddered at
the memory.
Experiencing
a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach, Maria said in a voice that had
suddenly grown deeper, “That’s very good, Elena. Thank you.” She stroked the
distraught girl’s tear-streaked cheek and unthinkingly touched her own. Then
she stood up and turned to Attard. “When did this happen?”
“A
month ago.”
“So
his scar wouldn’t have healed yet?”
The
matron had been attentive throughout. Now she said, helpfully, “Most likely the
scar would still be pronounced. If there ever was such a person, of course.
Vampires, werewolves, goblins, many of our inmates have seen them all, I can
tell you! Some even think they are these creatures!” She made a sound at the
back of her throat, as if about to spit. “You’d think in this day and age they
wouldn’t believe all this superstitious nonsense! Our doctor says the myth of
vampires all started in the Middle Ages when the medical profession was
inadequate – they couldn’t really determine death properly. Sufferers of
catalepsy and other strange ailments were consigned to a premature burial.
Grave robbers often found the graves scratched and bloodied by the poor person
who’d been buried alive.”
“Is
that so?” Maria responded woodenly. Shaken, she walked to the window. Elena’s
description of her husband’s murderer could fit almost anyone. Yet the image
Elena conjured up closely resembled Michael Zondadari – even to the scar on his cheek. His scar
was still fresh.
“Anything
wrong?” Attard asked, his tone full of concern.
Her
mind in turmoil, she composed herself and turned, shook her head. “No – it’s just this place,” she whispered,
truthfully enough. “It gives me the creeps.”
For
some reason best known to her darker inner self she kept quiet about her
thoughts and fears concerning Michael Zondadari. She would not betray him. Had
he hypnotized her? No, she was convinced that her thoughts were her own – though now she was doubtful if her
heart was.
“Can
we leave, please? I need fresh air.” Absently, she touched her mother’s
crucifix around her neck.
- Chill of the Shadow by Nik Morton (p140)
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