Dangerous E-Book

Essie Fox

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 485

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

When the disgraced Lord Byron is associated with the deaths of women in Venice, he turns detective to unveil the killer and clear his name. A dazzling, riveting historical mystery by the author of the Sunday Times bestseller, The Fascination. `Brooding and brilliant´ A.J. West `What could so easily have been a risible premise for a novel becomes, in Fox's expert hands, the starting point for an atmospheric thriller´ Sunday Times `As mesmerising and charismatic as Byron himself can ever have been … a magnificent gothic tale of scandal, secrets and murder´ Janice Hallett `Evokes all the grimy charisma of eighteenth-century Venice … a mystery as sinuous as the city's alleys and canals. I was enthralled´ Elizabeth Fremantle `A dark treat … splendidly gothic and impressively researched´ Andrew Taylor ––––––– Fiction can be fatal… Living in exile in Venice, the disgraced Lord Byron revels in the freedoms of the city But when he is associated with the deaths of local women, found with wounds to their throats, and then a novel called The Vampyre is published under his name, rumours begin to spread that Byron may be the murderer… As events escalate and tensions rise – and his own life is endangered, as well as those he holds most dear – Byron is forced to play detective, to discover who is really behind these heinous crimes. Meanwhile, the scandals of his own infamous past come back to haunt him… Rich in gothic atmosphere and drawing on real events and characters from Byron's life, Dangerous is a riveting, dazzling historical thriller, as decadent, dark and seductive as the poet himself… _________ `A plot as labyrinthine as the Venice backstreets, told in dazzling prose; suspenseful, seductive stuff´ Erin Kelly `Brilliant, daring writing … a darkly delicious Venetian tale of murder and mystery´ Anna Mazzola `Essie Fox expertly weaves fact and fiction in this gloriously gothic thriller … Venice becomes the atmospheric backdrop to Byron's daring attempt to catch a killer´ Anita Frank `Sumptuous, entertaining and glorious´ C.S. Green `Fox is the queen of darkly glittering gothic fiction … a tale so compelling I devoured it in one sitting´ Louisa Treger `Many writers have tried and failed to capture the Byronic quintessence, but the brilliant Essie Fox has succeeded admirably. She proves that the poet and rake remains fascinating because he is, indeed, mad, bad and Dangerous´ Alex Larman `A heady and intoxicating brew … scandalously scintillating´ Kate Griffin `A gorgeously clever thriller´ Amanda Craig `A ravishing tale of murder, lust and thwarted ambition … a sumptuous, decadent delight´ Emma Carroll `A deliciously gothic and beautifully written historical thriller starring the ultimate bad boy hero, Lord Byron´ Frances Quinn `An incredibly evocative and atmospheric book that captures the Byronic soul in all its beauty and madness´ Victoria Dowd

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PRAISE FOR DANGEROUS

‘Brooding and brilliant’ A.J. West

‘As mesmerising and charismatic as Byron himself can ever have been. Beautifully written, accomplished in its meld of fact and fiction, this is a magnificent gothic tale of scandal, secrets and murder. I was hooked from line one!’ Janice Hallett

‘A plot as labyrinthine as the Venice backstreets, told in dazzling prose; suspenseful, seductive stuff’ Erin Kelly

‘Evokes all the grimy charisma of eighteenth-century Venice and at its brooding heart the flawed yet seductive Byron, enmeshed in a mystery as sinuous as the city’s alleys and canals. I was enthralled’ Elizabeth Fremantle

‘Brilliant, daring writing … a darkly delicious Venetian tale of murder and mystery with the deeply flawed, complex, but charismatic Lord Byron’ Anna Mazzola

‘Essie Fox expertly weaves fact and fiction in this gloriously gothic thriller, in which Venice becomes the atmospheric backdrop to Byron’s daring attempt to catch a killer and clear his name’ Anita Frank

‘Sumptuous, entertaining, and glorious’ C.S. Green

‘Fox is the queen of darkly glittering gothic fiction, and Dangerousis an electrifying mystery inspired by Lord Byron’s life – a tale so compelling I devoured it in one sitting’ Louisa Treger

‘Many writers have tried and failed to capture the Byronic quintessence, but the brilliant Essie Fox has succeeded admirably. She proves that the poet and rake remains fascinating because he is, indeed, mad, bad and Dangerous’ Alex Larman

‘A heady and intoxicating brew, sweeping the reader to a city of menacing shadow and melancholic splendour … scandalously scintillating’ Kate Griffin ii

‘A  gorgeously clever thriller’ Amanda Craig

‘A ravishing tale of murder, lust and thwarted ambition. Essie Fox’s reimagining of Byron’s turbulent months in nineteenth-century Venice is a sumptuous, decadent delight’ Emma Carroll

‘A deliciously gothic and beautifully written historical thriller starring the ultimate bad boy hero, Lord Byron’ Frances Quinn

‘An incredibly evocative and atmospheric book that captures the Byronic soul in all its beauty and madness’ Victoria Dowd

‘Perfect combination of intrigue, fun, and bad boys’ Fiona Melrose

‘Deliciously dark and everything I hoped it would be … it takes what we think we know about Byron and spins it into a seductive gothic thriller where the scandalous poet is both chief suspect and amateur detective’ Paul Burston

‘An engaging historical mystery tale in which the dissolute poet turns sleuth to clear his own name’ Time&LeisureMagazine

‘A delicious dish of decadence … fastidiously researched, richly imagined, full of wonderful descriptions of Venice’ Michael Stewart

‘A sensuous, decadent, voluptuous read, like sinking into rich red velvet’ Sean Lusk

‘What a ride! Gripping and atmospheric’ Caroline Lea

‘Seductive and dripping in gothic ambiance. Highly addictive and original. Do not miss this’ Dan Bassett

‘Byronic brilliance wrapped up in dangerous devilry and murder’ The Book Trail

PRAISE FOR THE FASCINATION

‘Makes skilful use of the tropes of Victorian gothic fiction’ SundayTimesBook of the Month

‘Essie Fox’s best novel to date – one that weaves terrors with triumphs, heartache with hope … Brava’ Culturefly

‘An inventive slice of gothic fiction, big-hearted and full of strangeness’ TheTimesBook of the Month

‘This is a tender, beautifully written meditation on what it meant in Victorian times to be an outsider, or to be born different’ Historical Novel Society

‘A scintillating cabinet of curiosities … well worth the price of admission’ Foreword Reviews

‘A dazzling kaleidoscope of darkness and light. Disturbing and yet full of heart’ Laura Purcell

‘Magnificent … a triumph’ Dinah Jefferies

‘Essie Fox follows in the footsteps of Angela Carter and A.S. Byatt with an adult fairy tale that delves into the darkest compulsions of human nature … an opium trance of a novel, a vivid fantasmagoria’ Noel O’Reilly

‘Deliciously dark, full of twists and surprises’ Liz Hyder

‘A sumptuous, gothic treat that will reel you in and not let you go. Bravo!’ Caroline Green

Essie Fox

To Chris,

My own dark lord,

who still makes a fine cup of coffee.

But first, on earth as Vampire sent,

The corpse shall from its tomb be rent;

Then ghastly haunt the native place,

And suck the blood of all thy race,

There from the daughter, sister, wife,

At midnight drain the stream of life;

Yet loathe the banquet which perforce

Must feed the livid living corpse;

Thy victims ere they yet expire

Shall know the daemon for their sire.

Byron. From The Giaour

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphTHE FIRST ROLLOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTHE SECOND ROLLTenElevenTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteenSixteenSeventeenEighteenNineteenTwentyTwenty-oneTwenty-twoTwenty-threeTwenty-fourTwenty-fiveTwenty-sixTwenty-sevenTwenty-eightTwenty-nineEpilogueAuthor’s NotesAcknowledgmentsBibliographyAbout the AuthorAlso by Essie Fox and available from Orenda Books Copyright

THE FIRST ROLL

The Church of St Mary Magdalene HUCKNALL TORKARD

June 15th, 1938

Alantern’s furtive gleam gilds the medieval church in which the Reverend Cannon Barber peers through oily nets of shadows and recalls the golden splendour of that summer’s afternoon. How sublimely had the sunshine shafted through the stained-glass windows when he’d performed an intercession, reciting prayers for all those souls entombed below the chancel steps. The poet Byron was among them, although the rumours would persist that his corpse had been removed and sold by resurrectionists – which was why Barber had decided to obtain a dispensation from the Home Office in London. To investigate the contents of the crypt and, hopefully, to lay the ghost. Once and for all.

Such a stench came rising up when the entrance stone was breached. As the builders then descended, what little light could follow down shone on haphazard piles of coffins lying one upon another, causing the oldest to be crushed beneath the weight of those above them. The splintered wood, the rotting shrouds through which the white of bones protruded conjured a setting 2more akin to a charnel house of horror than the sepulchre of grandeur that the Reverend imagined. But any sense of disappointment was allayed by one box in the centre of the tomb. It was draped in purple velvet. It had a coronet on top, though any jewels that once adorned it were no longer in their settings.

Was it true then? Had the crypt been invaded in the past? Hardly daring to breathe, the Reverend stepped a little closer, peering down into the gloom to watch the workmen as they prised away an outer layer of lead, after that a wooden lid, and…

What a wonder of a sight! Lord Byron had been dead for a century and more, yet who’d deny this was him? His handsome, melancholy features were quite perfectly preserved as if he’d died just yesterday, still with the crown of curling hair seen in so many of his portraits. And there! The final proof. The shrivelled foot poking out below one corner of the shroud. It was enough. More than enough.

The dead of night. Barber is back. This time he is alone. His head is cocked to the one side, listening out for any sound that might be heard above the sudden violent thudding of his heart. He’s never been afraid before, not here within the house of God. But perhaps God isdispleased at what he’d done that afternoon, what several congregants complained of on the grounds of blasphemy and desecration of the dead.

Weighed down by doubt, he now begins his own descent into the vault. There will be no other chance, not with the builders coming back to seal the entrance in the morning. Steeling his courage to proceed, he sets his lantern on a shelf beside the folded purple velvet and the damaged coronet. It takes some effort to remove the already loosened lid, and what a clatter and a crash when it falls and hits the ground. Not that Barber seems to notice, muttering as if in prayer when he gazes at the mask of sweet serenity in death – ‘SobeautifulacountenanceIscarcelyeversaw.Hiseyestheportalsofthesun.Hisforeheadpassingfrommarble3smoothness into a hundred wreaths and dimples corresponding to the feeling and the sentiments he uttered.’

Coleridge, wasn’t it? Or some such words to that effect, Barber ponders as he lifts one corner of the shroud and views the smooth perfection of the flesh which, in this light, could be a statue made of stone. Still, there are areas in which the embalmers’ art has failed. Between the elbows and the wrists, the skin has withered, showing bone. It is the same with lower shins, though not the part that had the builders chuckling this afternoon, when one had claimed the male organ was not only still intact but quite remarkable in size. ‘Like a pony!’ he’d insisted, while Barber shook his head to hear such blatant disrespect. But when he sees it for himself, the noble member so engorged, he gasps aloud then swiftly pulls the shroud back up for decency.

Only then does he observe the indentation of the chest where the flesh had been incised and crudely stitched in place again. Had the heart been taken out? Embalmers did that, didn’t they? Moved by a wave of sympathy, he touches the brow, as pale and cool as alabaster. His fingers comb through the hair, oddly springy, soft to touch. Silver threads among the darkness capture the glisten of the lamp. Or is that the sheen of dust?

Lost in such thoughts, he gasps anew to see the twitching of the lips. The faintest ghosting of a smile? He thinks of Polidori’s Vampyre, based on the fragment of a story Byron composed one stormy night in the Villa Diodati, when Mary Shelley first conceived her novel Frankenstein, in which a corpse was re-infused with the essence of new life – Whatastrangethingisthepropagationoflife!Abubbleofseedwhichmaybespiltinawhore’slap,orintheorgasmofavoluptuousdream.

Is Barber also dreaming, to hear those words so clearly spoken? They might as well be from the Devil, crudely sordid and seductive. But they once stemmed from Byron’s mind, and were transcribed by Byron’s pen, later memorised by Barber in his studies of the man. Barber voiced them. No-one else. No other 4spirit in the crypt. Only the lantern’s dipping flame gives the illusion of some movement.

As the bell in the tower of the church begins to chime, the first of twelve mournful tolls, Barber decides the time has come to leave the tomb and find his bed before his mind can play more tricks. With the coffin lid replaced, more of a struggle than expected, he is about to take the lantern from the shelf, when he stumbles, falling forwards and hitting his head on something solid.

Is it a moment or an hour before his consciousness returns, when he’s aware of a sound, like a thrumming on the air? Is it coming from the coffin, or the echo of vibrations from the tolling of the bell? He only wishes it would stop. One of his temples is throbbing, and there’s a pain in his neck from where it twisted awkwardly.

Struggling up onto his knees, he leans against the cold crypt steps and, as his vision slowly clears, notices the lantern’s light gilding a large canopic jar lying inches from his feet. He reaches down, feeling compelled to peel away the dusty wax that forms a seal at the top, but then cries out in stark dismay when he discovers that one half of the vessel has been broken. Among stone shards he sees an acorn and some threadbare folds of cloth. What are those bundles of papers? Three rolls, and every one of them secured with a black ribbon. Where one binding has come loose he is able to make out the faded scrawl of sepia between the foxing of the mould that spreads across a yellowed page:

TheMemoirsofLordByron.Venice.1819

Is this a fake, or genuine? If real, its value is immense, could be sought out by every scholar, institution and collector in the literary world. Barber has dreamed about this church becoming even yet more famed as a place of pilgrimage once Byron’s presence is established. But this!

With the rolls clutched to his breast he slumps against the cold 5crypt steps. As his mind begins to clear he recalls what he once read about the poet’s personal papers being destroyed after his death – when a group of loyal friends met with his publisher in London and agreed that the contents were fit only for a brothel. What they’d possessed had been reduced to nothing more than dust and ashes in John Murray’s blazing grate, after which whatever secrets they’d contained were lost forever. Or, had there been some copies made, and if so then who had thought to bury them at Hucknall Torkard? Was it divine intervention that led the Reverend to find them?

Steadier now, on his feet, he re-ascends into the church. As if some monkish apparition rendered in a gothic novel, he wanders restless through the aisles until he settles on a pew. For quite some time he does not move, only sits, staring down at what is cradled in his lap. Finally, his trembling fingers free one ribbon from its knot, and by the subtle radiance of the lantern at his side the Reverend Barber starts to read…

Shall I be listed with the angels, or the demons raised from Hell?You,thereader,mustpreparetobethejudge&sodecideif I am guilty of the heinous & unnatural crimes of murder latelyconnectedtomyname.

One

‘His thousand songs are heard on high…’

Byron. From The Giaour

Oh,Iamtired,&whenI’mtiredoutcomesallthis&downitgoesaslinesofinkacrossapage.Godonlyknowswhatcontradictionsthisconfessionmaycontain,forIfearthatonecanliemoretoone’sselfthananyothers,&everywordIamtowritemaythenconfute,refute,&utterlyabjureallthosebefore.

ThesepastfewhoursIhaverecalledtheoldbullelephantthatfledfromacircushereinVenice.Sittingatthisverywindow,Iheardtheshoutingofthekeepers,who,invain,had triedtolureittosomearktheywereconstructing.Oneman wastrampledtohisdeath.Iverynearlysharedhisfate.Venturingoutonthecanal,hopingtogetabetterview,Isawthecreaturetearingupthemostenormousbeamsofwood,which were then flung into the water & missed my gondolabyinches.Idonotthinkitsmoodwasangry,moreofaplayfuldisposition. But later, towards midnight, it turned to one offury&withextraordinarystrengththebeastrampagedacross8thecity.Musketrywasemployedbutonlyprovedtobeinvain, untilitbrokeintoachurch,whereitwascornered&some soldiersfiredacannonatthebeast.Thefirstshotmissed,butthen the second found its mark & pierced the heart. I saw itdeadthenextday.Trulythemoststupendousfellow.Iwastoldithadgonemadforthewantingofamate,forithadbeentheruttingmonth.

Thewantofwomenismyruin…

Through the screeching of the gulls swooping across the Grand Canal, Byron set down his pen and muttered to himself, ‘And now I’m cornered in a trap from which I fear there’s no escape.’

His fingers gripped the silver base of the goblet with a bowl constructed from a human skull, once the relic of a monk who’d died some centuries before and was more recently discovered in the grounds of Newstead Abbey.

‘Ah, Newstead,’ Byron mused as he swallowed down the dregs of any wine still in the cup, and in his mind pictured again the dilapidated halls of the ancestral family home he’d sworn to never sell – which was another broken promise he could add to all the others.

A bitter smile played on his lips as mournful eyes caught the glitter of the candle at his side. One moment they looked blue, the next a grey, and then a violet. The whites were streaked with broken veins. The skin beneath was darkly bruised with the shadows of exhaustion as he turned towards the window where, an hour or so before, fizzing chrysanthemums of fireworks marked the end of Carnevale and lit the Venice skies with gold. Now, a dawn of rose-quartz blush appeared below black wings of night. The crumbling stones and iron grilles of the palazzos opposite loomed eerily above the veils of mist on the canal, in which the melancholy waters lapped as languid as desire.

Consumed with brooding ennui, Byron felt old. He was not old, yet in the course of thirty years what extremes of light and shade he 9had experienced in life. What heights of virtue, depths of vice he had discovered here in Venice, whether with whores in the brothels, or contessas in palazzos. But then, what was the local saying? Women,theyhavetwopockets.Onefortears,andoneforlies…

Still pondering the loss of Newstead, he reached towards a silver box with the engraving of a mermaid and the ancient family crest. ‘Trust in Byron,’ he sighed as he lifted the lid to see a folded handkerchief with two initials stitched in silk. An acorn lay on top of it, the memento he’d once found in the grass below an oak tree where he’d kissed a lovely girl with hair as soft as burnished silk. She’d been as slender as a boy, flesh as pale and smooth to touch as any of the marble statues admired on his Grecian travels. Her name was Susan. Susan Vaughan. But Susan Vaughan had lied to him. Susan Vaughan, the maid from Wales who’d captured Byron in her spell, before she’d played him for a cuckold with another of his servants.

Why was he thinking of her now, of how she’d looked in a gown he’d brought back for her from London? Black trim of lace, like gossamer. The velvet lustre of the skirts, shimmering a forest green. When she’d worn it, who would guess at her humble origins? So fine the manners she’d affected, so pure the vowels as she’d disguised the natural lilt of her Welsh accent. And then, the night when they’d lain sated and sweat-soaked on his bed, and she’d recited lines from Shakespeare as well as any actress on the stage at Drury Lane. ‘What’sinaname?Thatwhichwecallarose,byanyothernamewouldsmellassweet?’

During such moments – reckless moments – empty promises were made about inviting her to London to meet the theatre managers. But left unspoken was the truth that he preferred his pretty maid kept on his private stage of Newstead. And surely, she had known his words were spun from nought but dreams. That come the dawn all dreams must fade.

For himself, there’d come the morning when ChildeHarold was first published and life had changed beyond all measure, 10transformed into a gilded palace from a children’s fairy tale. Whether his palace hadbeen gold, or rendered of a baser metal, he’d been subsumed into a whirlwind world of fame and adulation, besieged by women of the ton bent on offering him sex. Newstead Abbey was forgotten. So was Susan … until now.

What had become of the girl? For a long time he stared at hands where nails were bitten to the quicks, but at last he steeled himself to dip his pen into the ink and continue the recording of more recent happenings:

Thewantofwomenismyruin,andalltoooftenitistheirs.But,morelatelyIamplaguedbywhatIfearistheambitionofanunhinged&jealousman.OnlylastweekwhenIattendedtheCountessAlfieri’ssalon…

In a palazzo near St Mark’s, the wealthy widow’s conversazioneswere famed for literary discussions. Usually he relished them, eager to join the busy throngs, but that night as he crossed the square leading towards her door, he felt the weight of some foreboding. Was it the sense of being watched? Nothing unusual in that. His infamy still drew attention, and on occasions he enjoyed it, affecting a persona either gregarious and charming or cold and surly in demeanour – whichever inclination was the stronger at the time. But that night he wasn’t sure he was up to the charade.

Drawing the collar of his coat around his face, as if a shield, he wondered: ShouldIbeafraid?So many villains with stilettos crept through Venice, sleek as rats. The sort of men who’d stab a man then push him into a canal without the slightest pang of guilt. Would he find death in such a way? A fortune-teller once predicted he would meet his final doom in his thirty-seventh year. If that was so, then he still had a good six years of life ahead. But the curse was drawing close, haunting his mind, haunting his verse: Atall,thin,grey-hairedfigure,likeashadethatwalkedtheearth…

Looking back across his shoulder he saw no old man, only a 11ragamuffin child who couldn’t be much more than twelve. Something familiar about him. What it was he couldn’t say, but all at once Byron was taken with a philanthropic notion. ‘You there! Yes. You, boy. Will you run me an errand?’ Byron reached into a pocket, drawing out a leather notebook. Next, the pencil used to scribble down a message for his valet:

DearFletcher,

Givetheboywhobringsthislettersomerewardforhis troubles.Feedhim&washhimifhe’llletyou.Makesuretoofferhimabed&ifheseemsthewillingtype,someoccupationinthehouse.

L.B.

Tearing the page from its binding, he passed it to the beggar, also giving directions to the Palazzo Mocenigo and the name of the man to whom the note should be delivered – after which, as quick as lightning, the boy went running off, feet echoing across the bridge where Byron’s gondola was moored.

So immersed had he been in watching this departure, Byron at first failed to notice when a footman appeared at the door to welcome him. Once inside the palazzo, he was slow to climb the stairs (his clubbed right foot hindered his movements, and even more so when he was weary), but at last he reached the hubbub of the salon and attempted to ignore a sudden lulling in the buzz of conversation – the way that almost every face turned to look in his direction. Glancing himself towards a servant who was offering refreshments, he declined the fragolino and the pomegranate sherbets but did accept a china thimble cup of steaming Turkish coffee. It might revive his flagging spirits.

Setting the cup back on the tray, he heard a warm and throaty voice above the strains of violins played from behind some fretwork screens – ‘Ah! Here he is! The most famous of the Englishmen in Venice. The genuine Lord Byron.’ 12

ThegenuineLordByron.Whatevercouldthewomanmean?He turned around to see his host reclining on a velvet chaise between a pair of potted palms. Always elegant and poised, every object around her had been artfully arranged. She was a goddess come to life before an ornate painted screen on which cavorting cupids smiled from meringues of puffed white clouds. A table placed at her side held baskets of exotic fruits, though purple grapes crushed at her feet looked more like stains of crusted blood among the petals of dried flowers also sprinkled on the carpet, over which the poet limped as he focused on the garland made of pearls and ostrich feathers wreathed around her tall white wig.

HowveryMarieAntoinette!Byron mused as he glanced down towards the woman’s full rouged mouth, although the rest of her face was concealed by a mask – which the gossips would insist was to hide the scars of pox inherited from her late husband. Not that the Countess looked unwell. She was as plump as a peach, and she exuded sex and glamour. When he bowed and took her hand there was no warning stench of rot, only the more alluring notes of her rose and civet perfume.

Byron addressed her in the English she always liked to practise, even though he was as fluent in her own Italian – ‘Dearest Contessa, please forgive my late arrival. It pains me to admit to such a frailty of spirit, when I more usually philosophise and talk of nought but nonsense with the greatest of decorum, but I am suffering the effects of Carnevale’s last agonies. Far too much wine and little sleep.’

‘Has there been work as well as play? How we crave your latest verses. Headless bodies. Shipwrecks. Drownings. Sultans and slaves in palaces.’

‘I confess I have been busy on new cantos of DonJuan.’

‘Ah, yes! Last time we met you said the verses would be featuring a salon like my own.’ Behind her mask, dark eyes were narrowed. ‘Nothing scurrilous, I hope. Will you recite them for us here?’ 13

‘Perhaps,’ Byron teased. Meanwhile, he was distracted by the cut-glass tones of voices drifting over from one corner. No doubt some English gentry on their European tours. Oh, how those voices pierced his heart and made him yearn for his old life. He had to force a note of mirth when he raised the raven wing of one dark brow and spoke again – ‘I fear that Blackwood’s magazine reviewed the work already published in a very shabby manner. I believe the words they used were “imperious and filthy” … in light of which my newest stanzas may offend those visitors who more usually frequent the Devil’s drawing rooms of London.’

The Countess’s golden mask captured the dazzle of the candles in the ceiling’s chandelier. They also glistened on a bracelet made of beads, an emerald green, when she pointed to the mantle on which a display of glass ornaments was kept.

‘How do you like my latest treasures? Those antique goblets – do you see them? The very best Murano glass. They were commissioned for a doge over five hundred years ago.’

‘Should you not keep them somewhere safer?’

‘Beauty should be admired, never hidden in darkness. Otherwise, what is it for? But come … tell me the news of your own private collection. Your menagerie of beasts.’

Byron smiled. ‘Mutz, my dog, has learned the trick of drawing back the bolt of a door … if plied sufficiently with treats. In sadder news, my badger died. But I still have the pair of monkeys, though one of them is prone to biting. There is a crow with half a beak, and—’

‘And the other new addition? The little pet called Allegrina?’

‘You know of her arrival?’ Byron’s tone became much cooler to hear this mention of the infant sent to live with him in Venice.

‘This city has no secrets…’ the Countess began, just as Byron’s attention was diverted by some guests whose reflections shimmered grey and almost looked like apparitions in the mantle mirror’s glass.

One man stood conversing with a group of doting women, and 14though his features were in profile and therefore not entirely clear, the head of loose, dark curls falling across a pale brow was unmistakably his own. In a stark contrast to the fashionable brocades and peacock silks still in favour with the noblemen residing here in Venice, Byron’s double also wore a plain black suit with trouser legs cut long and very full, though surely not to conceal another orthopaedic boot?

The Countess followed his gaze, ‘Ah, I see you’ve spied your likeness?’

Byron sighed in irritation. ‘It will keep happening. Only last week I was told of my appearance in Rome, where I’ve not been in many months. Apparently, I stood and bowed a full ten minutes at the opera. Meanwhile, another Byron was in Florence recently, at the Uffizi gallery, declaiming thoughts on Botticelli and reciting poetry.’

The Countess laughed. ‘I must confess I was fooled by him at first. But only for a moment. Very soon, I realised that this man does not possess your … oh, what is it called? The carisma? The fascino?’

As she spoke, the doppelganger chanced to glance in their direction. He made excuses to his friends and strode across the room towards them, though even with no limping gait it took some time to navigate other guests along the way.

During this little interval, the Countess rose from her chair. She was not tall and craned her neck to murmur low in Byron’s ear: ‘I hear he claims to be a writer and is from England like yourself … although he looks Italian.’

Having recognised the man, Byron succinctly replied, ‘Half Italian. His name is Polidori. Raised in his father’s London bookshop. Qualified as a doctor at the age of just nineteen. Barely twenty when I hired him as a personal physician to join me on my travels. But his ambitions go much further than the medical profession. Polidori hopes for fame through his own works of literature.’

‘And is he any good?’ 15

‘I don’t deny he has some talent, but he lacks the temperament. Rarely settles to a theme and is too jealous of the successes gained by other men around him.’ Byron broke off and looked regretful, ‘I’m afraid that when he challenged Percy Shelley to a duel it proved to be the final straw. We reached a parting of the ways.’

The conversation ended as the younger, very slender, and altogether more Byronic-looking Doctor Polidori arrived to stand before them.

At first, ignoring the Countess, he eagerly addressed the poet: ‘I’d heard this was the salon you most frequently attended, and…’

‘Polly, my dear man!’ Byron’s voice came somewhat strained. ‘What brings you here to Venice? And looking so … like me? There are surely other ways to gain some notoriety. I do hope you have not rendered me too ridiculous with those young ladies over there.’

As he spoke, Bryon glanced back through lowered lids towards the women, who were watching them intently, some lifting palms to open mouths as they giggled in confusion at the sight of, not just one, but two Lord Byrons in the room.

Polidori’s chin was tilted, and in the eyes that were not blue but a much darker, brooding brown, Byron observed the same ferocious savage silence that he’d noticed far too often in the past as the younger man replied, ‘You know I’ve never liked that nickname. Please refrain from using it. And when it comes to my arrival here in Venice, it’s because I have secured myself employment at St Giovanni e Paolo…’

‘The hospital?’ Byron cut in. ‘Will you be working in the labs on your experiments again? Prussic acid, oil of amber, charcoal and suffocating compounds to be bubbled over flames and blown into an open vein? I must admit I never did quite see the point of the palaver – far more likely to be killed than to be cured of minor ailments.’

The flush of colour that arose through Polidori’s neck and face was all too visible to see, what with the collar of his shirt being 16unfastened at the throat, as was the one Byron wore. When the doctor spoke again his voice was tense with indignation: ‘I’m working in the morgue.’

‘A detective of dissection!’

‘Do not humiliate me, sir, when I seek only to admire you,’ Polidori batted back. ‘Though, as it happens, I have heard certain rumours that relate to yourown business since we parted. How you and Shelley have now formed some debauched and secret sect.’

‘A secret sect. Well, thatis new.’

‘The Society of Ancient Rome. Promoting your beliefs in free love and dissipation.’

‘There is not and never was such a sect, as well you know. Though I’m inclined to wish there was. Oh, to act as emperors, feasting and fornicating as our empires fall around us.’ Byron’s lips twitched in amusement. ‘Perhaps there maybe something in it, and such excesses doexplain my current state of enervation.’ At that, he turned to their hostess. ‘Forgive me, dear Countess, but I am tired, and when I’m tired I can be quite monstrous. In my absence Polidori will inform you all about his unique literary endeavours, though let us hope he refrains from recounting any horrors from his place of occupation.’

The Countess, who looked peeved to hear of Byron’s departure, did soften a little when the doctor took her hand and softly muttered the words, ‘Incantato di conoscerla.’

She purred her response: ‘Perhaps you’d do a reading at my next conversazione.’

Hearing this, Polidori seemed to grow a good inch taller. ‘I have recently completed a gothic manuscript, and—’

‘Like Matthew Lewis’s TheMonk?’the Countess asked with some excitement. ‘When he was here, we doused the candles. It was so very atmospheric. All those torments of the flesh and wrestling with consciences.’

Polidori replied, ‘My own novel is based on the fragment of a 17story first conceived by Lord Byron, when we stayed at Lake Geneva and the Shelleys came to visit…’

‘Oh, not the wretched vampyre tale!’ Byron sighed dramatically, before explaining to the Countess, ‘It was that cold, wet summer when Mount Tambora erupted, and all the world seemed to be cast in the shadow of its ashes.’

‘Ah yes!’ She closed her eyes and recited from a verse he had written at the time: ‘“The bright sun was extinquish’d, and the stars did wander darkling in the eternal space…”’

‘Darkness,’ Byron said, his voice both ominous and distant. ‘And there was one such dismal night when a dreadful storm was raging, almost making us believe all life was at an end. Hardly the cheeriest of past-times, but we managed to amuse ourselves by reading horror stories from a phantasmagoria, after which we agreed to create some of our own. As Polidori says, mine was nothing but a fragment, and deliberately so. Though I may share nocturnal habits, I have a personal dislike of the creatures known as vampires. What little I doknow of their affairs would not induce me to reveal any secrets. And, on that note, I’ll say adieu and fly back out into the night.’

Polidori raised a hand and roughly grabbed at Byron’s arm. ‘Before you go, may I give you a copy of my story. It isn’t overlong, and I’d appreciate your thoughts. I’ve sent some pages back to London. To your own publisher, John Murray. He believes … that is to say he has informed me in a letter that my good looks and untamed spirit render me the perfect hero who might follow in your footsteps. It was he who advised I emulate your style of dress … to set the tone, as it were. But should Murray fail to bite, Henry Colburn has expressed his own interest in the project.’

‘Colburn!’ Byron exclaimed. ‘The wretch behind Caro Lamb’s dreadful fuck-and-publish novel! Nothing but vain self-fabrication, thwarted passion and revenge, with her madman of a hero roaming ruined monasteries while howling at the moon … not to mention willy-nilly draining the life from every woman he seduced.’ 18

‘You have read Glenarvonthen?’ Below the shimmer of her mask, the faintest smile lit the lips of the Countess Alfieri. ‘All those references she makes to nibbling poet parasites, and echoes of your Newstead Abbey. Is it true the place is haunted by the ghost of a monk with burning eyes, and—’

‘Must every novel nowadays include demented monks?’ Byron scowled as he struggled to contain a rising temper. ‘Lady Lamb is a volcano with lava flowing through her veins. Personally, I’d like her cooler, such as on a marble slab in Doctor Polidori’s morgue.’

‘Well, that’s a little extreme, but…’ With all the flair of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Polidori now produced a sheath of papers from his jacket. ‘I made a copy. Here it is. My dearest hope is that you might enjoy my work a little more.’

Byron was moved to refuse but having seen the desperate yearning in the younger man’s expression he agreed to take the papers. Mirroring the doctor’s actions, he placed them in his jacket pocket, and as soon as that was done Polidori made a bow and offered him a curt goodbye. He did not speak another word to the Countess Alfieri, only turned his back on her and marched towards the salon doors.

More than an hour was to pass before Byron could escape. Every time he tried to leave, another guest would call his name, another conversation started. But, at last, the room was emptied, the musicians stopped their playing, and though he searched to find the Countess and say goodnight a second time she was nowhere to be found.

Emerging alone on the steps of the palazzo he surveyed the shadowed square and experienced again the creeping sense of being watched. Where was his gondolier? No doubt he’d joined some revellers on the bridge’s other side. Had he not been so exhausted, Byron would have liked to join them, being as happy with the whores and thieves residing here in Venice as when mingling with the gentry. How he loved the Carnevale. The 19painted lips below black masks. The men who dressed as Harlequins and—

A sudden cry diverted him, its ringing echo then repeated as the sound reverberated through a nearby sotoportego – a narrow passage set below the Alfieri’s upper rooms, with several doorways leading off into the house’s stores. However grand the living quarters, this alley stank of noxious slime. No light to penetrate the gloom, where any dangers could be lurking. But how could he ignore such a desperate plea for help – which came again, and was then followed by a horrible wet gurgle?

‘Tita?’ Byron called to alert his gondolier, the roguish giant of a man who came in useful at those times when he found himself in scrapes; such as when husbands sought revenge for the seduction of their wives. But tonight, the man appeared to have melted into air.

Whattodo?Byron returned to the porchway of the house, alerting a footman to follow him back to the passage. Moments later, a lantern carried in the servant’s hand cast its light over the body of a woman on the ground. She lay unnaturally contorted – the crab-like way her arms and legs were splaying out on either side, the stark white gleam of the flesh where the fabric of her bodice had been torn to expose a single naked breast.

With a sickening lurch in the pit of his belly, Byron’s legs collapsed beneath him. Now, on a level with the victim, he grasped her hand and tried to offer some words of reassurance, though he doubted she could hear them. Behind the tell-tale black mask worn by Venetian whores, dark eyes rolled up into her head, only the whites still visible. And then, the horror of her throat, where butchered flesh was curling red like the petals of a rose. And from that wound her life was ebbing, trickling between the cobbles.

‘Don’t die!’ Byron cried, tearing the coat from his back, throwing it over her for warmth. While doing that, he heard her sigh. The barest fluttering of breath. But any breath was proof of life, and any sign of life was hope. Newly enthused with urgency, 20he brushed away the honeyed hair that fell across one of her cheeks. He pressed his mouth against her own to blow some air into her lungs. He did it once, and then again, was so intent upon the task he was entirely unaware of the audience of two who watched the tragedy unfold.

When Byron finally looked up, he was unconscious of the blood smeared across his mouth and hands. His eyes were dazzled by the lantern. He only vaguely saw the silhouetted form of the man who held it in his hand, and then the glisten of the mask worn by Contessa Alfieri, her mouth an open ‘O’ of shock before she crossed herself and gasped, ‘My God, what have you done?’

Two

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from A half-unquenched volcano…

Byron. From Don Juan: Canto X

Byron awoke late in the day to see the creeping grey of dusk leaking through the bedroom windows. Rain whispered soft against glass roundels. The sedation of the black drop he’d imbibed some hours before crawled like spiders in his mind, spinning webs of sticky glue through which he struggled to recall what had occurred the night before.

He closed his eyes, and images streaked like lightning in black skies. He saw anew the final moments of the woman in the alley, and how together with the footman he had dragged her lifeless body to a store below the kitchens. They’d laid her down on sacks of rice. Byron had wiped his bloodied hands on the rough weave of the hessian. Too late to fear what the Alfieri kitchen staff would think when they chanced upon those stains. Worse still, to find a corpse!

For then, the servants were abed. The house was steeped in oily silence, only broken when the Countess turned to mutter to her 22footman, ‘Never speak a word of this. If the scandal should be spread. Death! At my own door.’

Now holding the lamp, the woman’s trembling hands caused its light to throw black shadows juddering around the walls. The dizzying effect left Byron feeling nauseous as he replied, ‘But Countess, we must send for a doctor. We must report the crime.’

‘It is too late for any doctor,’ the woman hissed at him. ‘Tongues will wag – think of the gossip. Not just for me, but for yourself!’

‘You surely don’t assume I was in any way involved? You—’ He broke off in disbelief. But one thing was true enough. The victim was already dead, for even now he could see the pallor mortis was extreme, her flesh the colour of white marble, striated here and there with rusted smears of drying blood.

Hercheekslasttinge,hereyes’lastspark…thetressesofheryellowhair. As the lines he had composed in his poem, TheGiaour,rose unbidden to his mind, much like Doctor Polidori in the salon earlier, he turned his back on the Countess and walked away, without a word.

Emerging from the alley, he was relieved to see that Tita the Prodigal was back. In the soft illumination of the lamp fixed to the prow of the tented gondola, the giant of a man could well have been another Neptune, with the paddle in his hand taking the place of any trident. Sensing his master approach, the gondolier turned with a smile, and Byron froze to see the stain of something red smeared on his cheek.

‘What’s that?’ he asked abruptly, raising a fingertip to touch it.

‘Ma che sta facendo?’ What are you doing? Tita’s breaths blasted hot and were tainted by wine as he lifted his own hand, touching a finger to the stain and squinting down through narrowed eyes before he chuckled, then exclaimed in a gravelly deep voice, ‘Ah, the proof my sins!’

‘Your sins?’ Byron said, his heart rate quickening again when he considered Tita’s absence, around the time he had first heard the woman calling from the alley. 23

‘Branded by the pretty lips I’ve been kissing this past hour, after I saved the saucy bawd from the villain who’d been hoping to filch her evening’s takings. I grabbed the purse out of his hands, boxed his ears and sent him packing. It was out of gratitude she offered me a thank-you fuck.’ The big man shrugged and offered Byron an inebriated grin. ‘Well, I’d seen the other guests leaving the Alfieri party, and with no sign of you among them I assumed you’d be delayed. Didn’t think you’d mind that much if I got lost in a quim of my own to pass the time.’

‘There is no affaire de coeur between the Countess and myself,’ Byron replied in cooler tones, at the same time wondering if Tita lied, or told the truth. Still in a state of discomposure, he held the finger that had touched Tita’s cheek to his nose, inhaling scents of rose and almond. Common enough ingredients that many women used as paint to dab on faces and lips. Nothing like the iron tang of what had coated Byron’s hands but a little time before, the proof of which – had Tita been somewhat less addled in his mind – could still be seen around his mouth as he stepped past the gondolier to make his way onto the boat.

Somuchblood, Byron sighed while gliding over jet-black waters. Would the Alfieri footman think to return to the alley and wash the evidence away, or had the Countess changed her mind and reported the crime? Or – this he thought most probable – being wary of a scandal happening on her own doorstep, had she ordered her man to throw the corpse in the canal, where it would rot or be dragged up like any other poor drowned soul? Didn’t it happen all the time? The dampness of the city’s air left pathways slimed and treacherous. An easy thing to lose one’s footing and slip headfirst into the water, to find a welcome in the arms of any sea nymphs down below.

Back in his chambers, Byron feared himself another drowning man. His fingers clutched the marble mantle while dying embers in the grate glowed a vivid red. He fumbled to remove the bloodied clothes from his body, then roughly scrubbed his face 24and hands in the bowl upon the stand. Naked but for his drawers and shivering with cold, he made his way towards the bed and opened up a drawer in the cabinet beside it. The one in which he stored two pistols and a copy of the Bible.

Byron was not a man of faith, but this had been a gift from his sister Augusta at the time of their last meeting. How he missed his dearest Gus, the sweetest and the kindest of the women he had known. The only one with whom he’d shared a true affinity of spirit. Between its covers might he find some consolation for the horror he’d just witnessed in an alley?

Flicking through the flimsy pages, his eye was drawn to a line in the Book of Revelations: ‘And they had hair as the hair of women, and their teeth were as the teeth of lions.’

‘What does this mean?’ he’d muttered gruffly, placing the book back in the drawer, reaching instead for a small bottle lying underneath his pillow. Deftly pulling out the cork, he’d swallowed down a hefty dose of the sticky, dark-brown liquid, hoping the drug would do its work and bring a sleep devoid of dreams. And it had – for a while.

But now, awake again, the nightmare of last night was still too vivid in his mind. Why did he feel such pangs of guilt for the woman he’d found dying, as if he grieved for a friend? Perhaps it was the velvet mask that marked her out a prostitute, which meant their paths may well have crossed during the month of Carnevale. Perhaps they’d fucked against a wall? In a sedan? Under a table? Perhaps he’d kissed her mouth when it had still been warm and pink, before the hue of it had faded to the phantom grey of death?

The woman’s hair, as pale as straw, put him in mind of the wax model he’d once acquired while in Rome. Displayed in the window of a shop on plush red velvet, it was as peerless to behold as any Botticelli Venus. With glass blue eyes, pearls round its neck, and a tiara to crown a head of golden hair, the female form seemed to embody both the human and divine, as much at home 25in a bordello as in the guise of a Madonna at the altar of a church.

On the day it was delivered to his palazzo here in Venice, his valet had been out, running some errand or other – which was probably as well. Fletcher was sure to disapprove of the extravagance incurred, being enough to pay the staff of the palazzo for a year. But Tita was on hand, helping Byron to remove the effigy from the box and then assisting in arranging it on Byron’s study chaise. But, in the midst of the manoeuvre, a panel in the model’s abdomen creaked open on its hinges and revealed the inner organs, and how they’d glistened red and purple with the varnish used to seal them. Indeed, they’d looked so realistic, Byron would not have been surprised to see the heart begin to throb, and for his Venus to have yawned and blinked her eyes, or even smiled. Meanwhile, he’d stared at Tita, and Tita had stared at him, until the two of them agreed that the model was toolife-like, sure to offend any guests of a more nervous disposition. Byron’s Venus was returned to her bed of straw and fleece, and Tita carried her away to the palazzo’s lower floor. Out of sight and out of mind.

What had the Countess Alfieri done with the murdered prostitute? The thought continued to nag as Byron pushed away dark curls that fell across his eyes, then freed his limbs from tangled sheets to kick his legs across the mattress. Limping towards the bedroom window he looked beyond the half-drawn curtains to see the dripping lions’ heads protruding from the house’s walls. In the fast-encroaching darkness, the chill March rain, the sleet and fog could barely be distinguished from the waters below. Such a malodourous stench rose to linger in his nose. And what was that? That other smell?

His eyes now fell on the boots and crumpled clothes he’d left discarded on the oriental rugs and cold terrazzo of the floor. He was about to pick them up and throw the lot in the canal, when he remembered what was hidden in the pocket of his jacket. The papers he extracted were in places also stained with the blood that 26must have seeped from the murdered woman’s wounds. But, on the whole, the ink survived, and as Byron spread the pages on the surface of a table, he saw the neatly looping hand he knew of old as Polidori’s.

‘Very well,’ he said aloud, dragging on a dressing gown then blowing warmth into his hands. ‘I am in need of some diversion to elevate my dismal mood. What has the doctor produced?’

Although the fire was alight – his valet must have crept into the room to make it up while Byron was still sleeping – he now arranged more logs on top. Newly fed, flames hissed and crackled as they cast their pretty flicker over the brocade and velvet curtains draped around his large four-poster, over the crimson of flocked paper and the gilding of the plasterwork of ornamental covings. Upon this stage, which so resembled rooms he’d loved before at Newstead, Byron selected the first pages and then settled on the sopha where he started to read…

Three

The Vampyre

Polidori

It happened that in the midst of the dissipations attendant upon a London winter, there appeared at the various parties of the leaders of the ton a nobleman, more remarkable for his singularities, than his rank. He gazed upon the mirth around him, as if he could not participate therein. Apparently, the light laughter of the fair only attracted his attention, that he might by a look quell it, and throw fear into those breasts where thoughtlessness reigned. Those who felt this sensation of awe, could not explain whence it arose: some attributed it to the dead grey eye, which, fixing upon the object’s face, did not seem to penetrate, and at one glance to pierce through to the inward workings of the heart; but fell upon the cheek with a leaden ray that weighed upon the skin it could not pass. His peculiarities caused him to be invited to every house; all wished to see him, and those who had been accustomed to violent excitement, and now felt the weight of ennui, were pleased at having something28in their presence capable of engaging their attention. In spite of the deadly hue of his face, which never gained a warmer tint, either from the blush of modesty, or from the strong emotion of passion, though its form and outline were beautiful, many of the female hunters after notoriety attempted to win his attentions, and gain, at least, some marks of what they might term affection: Lady Mercer, who had been the mockery of every monster shewn in drawing-rooms since her marriage, threw herself in his way, and did all but put on the dress of a mountebank, to attract his notice:—though in vain:—when she stood before him, though his eyes were apparently fixed upon hers, still it seemed as if they were unperceived;—even her unappalled impudence was baffled, and she left the field. But though the common adultress could not influence even the guidance of his eyes, it was not that the female sex was indifferent to him: yet such was the apparent caution with which he spoke to the virtuous wife and innocent daughter, that few knew he ever addressed himself to females. He had, however, the reputation of a winning tongue; and whether it was that it even overcame the dread of his singular character, or that they were moved by his apparent hatred of vice, he was as often among those females who form the boast of their sex from their domestic virtues, as among those who sully it by their vices…

Byron sighed. He groaned. He muttered, ‘Pedestrian and pessimistic! Polidori is deluded if he thinks this will be published. And yet…’ A tickle of unease was creeping down his spine, for there were aspects of the story that were eerily compelling, even before admitting to parallels between himself and the vampyre of the title.

At least the story did not delve into the ancient melodramas still at large in the Levant. Scenes he’d referenced in The Giaour, inspired by meeting with some villagers in Greece who spoke in terror of creatures known as vroucholachas – monsters that feasted on the flesh and the livers of their victims, and then existed 29in a state in which they might appear as dead, and yet they were ‘undead’. They were unquenched, unquenchable. The only way to stop the plague was to bury them in graves with millstones placed on heads or chests. If not, it was said they would rise to feed again.

The villagers had also told him of the fates of several children who had suffered from a fever, becoming pale and lethargic, wasting away until they died. News of the tragedy soon spread, with the doctor overseeing an official investigation, requesting that the corpses be exhumed and the deaths proved to be natural in cause. But all were shocked to discover that not one of the bodies showed any signs of decomposing. Some had fresh blood around their mouths, and their flesh was plump and pink. In addition to this, the hair and fingernails had grown just as they would have done in life. But, worst of all, the corpses shrieked as if in agonies of pain when stakes were thrust into their hearts. The act was merely a precaution. The doctor scorned old superstitions and suspected there must be a scientific explanation, but…

What was that? A piercing scream? Right here! In his own house?

Once he’d gathered his composure Byron wasn’t that surprised. His servants often took to brawling, not to mention the antics of the toddler of a daughter who’d so recently been sent to live with him in Venice. Meanwhile, a good deal nearer, his chamber door gave off a creak, and there he saw his old brown mastiff with its eyes like yellow glass – which many strangers feared must indicate the fiercest temperament, while in reality the dog was as timid as a mouse.

Loping in to join its master, the beast’s attention was diverted by the crumpled mounds of clothes left discarded on the floor. It stopped to nose and sniff around them, making the strangest whining sounds. Neither a growl, nor quite a whimper, yet uncannily disturbing.

‘Leave!’ Byron commanded.