Angels of Music by Kim Newman Page B

learning I have placed at the disposal of the Sûreté,’ she said, ‘but my letters unanswered go. Impertinent sergeants turn me aside when in person I call on your office. Realise you not how ridiculous is your theory of vampires? Why, a fact accepted by all European science is that…
such things, they cannot be
!’
    D’Aubert looked trapped. He must have hoped for a nice evening off at the opera.
    The blonde in green rescued the Inspector by talking to the Persian.
    ‘We haven’t met,’ she said, ‘but I know who you are. You are a retired police chief from the East, aren’t you?’
    The Persian was surprised. Few noticed him as more than a slinking background figure.
    This lady was rather dazzling, too. Very sharp smile. Pearly teeth.
    ‘I’m the new coroner,’ she said, extending her dainty hand, ‘Geneviève Dieudonné.’
    The Persian clicked his heels and pressed his moustache to her knuckles. Her fingers were slightly cool.
    ‘A
retired
police chief,’ snarled d’Aubert. ‘I suppose you’ve a theory about the de Rosillon murder too. A great many amateurs buzz about this case, like flies on… on substances flies like to buzz on.’
    ‘I only know what I read in the papers, Inspector,’ the Persian said. ‘I am happily retired and content to leave murders and vampires to active officers.’
    ‘An example it would do some very well to follow,’ responded the policeman, looking pointedly at the Dutch woman.
    ‘I am Michel Falke,’ announced the Viennese. ‘Dr Falke.’
    ‘Another coroner?’
    ‘A lawyer, though I do not practice. I have an interest in crimes of this stripe. Twenty-five years ago, when I was first in Paris, vampire rumours were rife. Doubtless you remember, Raoul? Mysteries were a passion with our little circle at the Sorbonne. Even then, you were a bloodhound.’
    Inspecteur d’Aubert was eager for those old rumours to be aired. Or perhaps he didn’t care to be reminded of his student enthusiasms.
    Beneath his suavity, Falke was taut as a bowstring. His eyes gleamed when he spoke. The Persian wondered if he were another adept of mesmerism.
    ‘There
are
vampires, you know,’ Falke continued. ‘In my homeland, the Karnsteins preyed for centuries on the peasants around their estate… and the undead stalk Europe still.’
    ‘Nonsense and stuff,’ said the older woman. ‘Such rot I have heard from my deluded husband these many years long. We have no place for folkish tales in this Century Nineteen.’
    ‘This is Professor Van Helsing,’ explained Dr Dieudonné.
    ‘I have heard of—’
    ‘Not
him
,’ said the woman. ‘You are thinking of my mad husband, the head-of-fatness who sets stock in such things. Abraham is in the news often, for breaking into churchyards and abominably mistreating the dead. I am Professor Madame Saartje Van Helsing, occupant of the Erasmus Chair of Rational Philosophy at the University of Leiden.’
    ‘The Professor is a debunker,’ said Dr Dieudonné. ‘She banishes ghosts not with bell, book and candle but with the clear light of logic.’
    ‘Is not
this
house haunted?’ asked Falke. ‘One hears stories of a Phantom.’
    The Persian choked a little on his drink.
    Madame Van Helsing took in a deep breath, obviously to deliver a stern lecture on the non-existence of phantoms… when a fanfare sounded. All attention was drawn to the top of the stairs.
    Erik made an entrance.
    The Persian was astonished. The
Macbeth
craze had reached further than he would have thought possible.
    The Phantom wore a kilt, a sporran, a tartan sash and a tam o’ shanter with a feather stuck in it. Dirk and claymore were thrust in his belt. Even his tartan socks had little tartan tags on them. His mask was red and trailed blood-coloured ribbons over his mouth.
    He was accompanied by three pretty witches. Unorna wore a
papier-mâché
nose and a stuck-on wart to set off her pointy hat. Sophy was green in the face and showed striped stockings. La Marmoset had