The coroner addressed the crowd. “The death was of natural causes, and God rest his soul. I have been informed that his family is away in Italy, so unfortunately they will not be able to attend to a funeral. Due to the heat and possibility of contagion, I recommend that he be buried immediately.”
He watched as the crowd stepped back at the mention of contagion. It was all well and good to write “natural causes” on the report to avoid scandal, but the real reason he did it was to ensure the young man had a proper burial. If people discovered that Polidori committed suicide, he would not be buried in hallowed ground. Surely it was unfortunate enough that the poor chap had died so young.
As the coroner awaited the undertaker’s carriage, he listened to the snatches of conversation around him.
“…was completely estranged from his family, y’know,” a man was saying to a journalist who eagerly jotted down notes. “His dissolute behavior and gambling debts became too much for them.”
“I cannot believe he is dead!” a woman cried out.
“Yes, the news is so very tragic, isn’t it?” another answered.
A man coughed. “Indeed. The bastard owed me thirty pounds.”
A fop brandished his cane as he shouted over the crowd. “Well, I for one maintain that he was struck down by the almighty for his foul lies about authorship on that vampire story. Even an idiot would recognize the tale as the work of Lord Byron.”
Another glared and yelled, “You are a fool! Dr. Polidori wrote ‘The Vampyre.’ Lord Byron was the fraud!”
A riot would have broken out if the undertaker had not arrived. The sight of the somber black carriage pulled by black horses, and the grim-faced man driving it, automatically sobered the spectators. Silence reigned until the coffin was carried out and loaded into the carriage. The crowd dispersed then, most heading to the nearest pub to drink to the deceased, and only a few following the undertaker to the St. Pancras old churchyard to hear the priest say words over him before the burial.
By the time the undertaker patted down the last bit of earth on the new grave, the sun was setting. The graveyard was empty of all witnesses, except for a boy who hadn’t moved from his vantage point since the undertaker began digging.
The lad was awfully young. The undertaker would eat his hat if the boy had seen his first whisker.
“Ye should leave this place before dark, laddie,” he hollered as he loaded his tools back into the carriage. “Lest the ghosts and other sorts of nocturnal beasties get ye.”
“I would like to stay a bit longer,” the boy replied. “Dr. Polidori was a friend of mine.”
“Suit yerself,” the undertaker grumbled as he climbed up on his carriage seat and flicked the reins of his horses. “Don’t say I didn’t caution ye.”
In truth he was more concerned with the dangers of the living. This neighborhood was no place for a boy alone, especially one as pretty as that one. If he didn’t take care, he’d likely be robbed or buggered. The undertaker shook his head. Well, there was nothing he could do. After all, the dead ones were his business. And a fine business it was. He would have to be sure to pad the bill when Polidori’s family returned to London.
***
When the graveyard was empty at last, Angelica whipped off the woolen cap and shook out her sweat-drenched hair, grateful to feel fresh air on her scalp. She paced around Mary Wollstonecraft’s grave, thinking how romantic it was that this was the place where her daughter and Percy Shelley had their clandestine meetings.
Polidori had told her that Percy Shelley was constantly unfaithful to his wife, and he not only lived with Mary and her stepsister, Claire Clairmont, in a ménage à trois, but he was also constantly trying to get Mary to sleep with other men. The contempt had been so thick in John’s voice when he described the Shelleys’ marriage that Angelica wondered if he had been a little in love with Mary himself, or perhaps his Catholic upbringing made him frown more on adultery than most.
She frowned as her gaze rested on the freshly dug grave. It was so tragic that he was mourned by so few. In fact, many people did not even know who he was! And of those who did, many either defamed him by calling him a fraud or scorned him for his drinking and gambling habits. Perhaps, she thought as she looked up at the moon, he would gain more prestige in death than he had in life.
A movement at the corner of her eye brought her attention to the three cloaked figures approaching her.
“Thank you for keeping vigil,” one whispered then stood by her as the other two attacked John Polidori’s grave with shovels under the cover of darkness.
With inhuman speed, the coffin was unearthed and the body removed. Rosetta left Angelica’s side and looked upon the face of her beloved with fearful concern. “Is he—?”
“He is stirring. The drug is wearing off,” Ian said as his companion placed the man in her arms. “We must refill the grave and leave before we are discovered.”