His friends remained silent, their faces perfectly reflecting Burton’s stony determination.

“Monsieur,” Burton said, turning to Levi, “according to folklore, a vampire is able to transform itself into an animal, or even vapour, yes?”

“Ah,” Levi replied. “You think of the ravens?”

“I do.”

“It is this way: Perdurabo, his volonté inhabit John Judge, but it is not attach to the flesh. Certain animals, they sense when that which make a man alive leave the body; they feel the loosening of the volonté, and it attract them, for they are scavengers. So ravens or crows or wolves or hyenas, they are seen where a nosferatu or strigoi morti is, and the superstitious people, they think transformation.”

“And the vapour? Can Perdurabo enter the house in the form of steam or smoke?”

“He already show that, at least for a short time, his volonté can exist without une forme physique—vapour is a symbol of this—but he can do nothing in this state. He have to possess a man to survive and to feed off others.”

Swinburne twitched and shuddered. “My hat! How can we battle such a monstrosity?”

“We must kill the body he occupy while he is still in it. Take him by surprise.”

“Must I remind you all that John Judge is an innocent man?” Monckton Milnes put in. “He is a victim. Are we to murder him?”

Levi put his hands into the position of prayer and touched his fingertips to his lips. “He have been with the nosferatu inside for a month. It is too long. If it leave him more soon to possess another, it is possible for him to recover, but after this much time, now he becomes nosferatu, too. It is how the species survive and spread. To kill him is to save him.”

“Is there no other way?” Monckton Milnes asked.

The Frenchman closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Gentlemen,” Burton said, “not a one of you is under obligation. I am commissioned by the king, you are not. If you wish to disassociate yourself from this matter, do so now. I will not blame you. Friendships, old and new, will not be affected.”

“I stand with you, Richard,” Swinburne said.

“And I,” Steinhaueser added.

Monckton Milnes put a hand over his eyes. “Now I fear even more for Florence Nightingale. My God, what if they took her to be—to be food for this damnable creature? I’m with you. Of course I’m with you.”

Levi said, “Then we are together.”

Burton looked at each man in turn, his expression communicating his gratitude. He asked Levi, “Do you think the nosferatu is liable to strike tonight?”

“It is inévitable. For his volonté to survive, it must draw from others très fréquemment.”

“Then I suggest we rest for a couple of hours, gentlemen. Tonight, we confront the vampire.”

They worked quietly and they concealed the truth. Burton knew it was more than the Arundells could accept, though he felt strongly inclined to recruit Sam Beeton and, inexplicably and absurdly, even more drawn to confide in the man’s pregnant wife, Isabella. Monckton Milnes persuaded him otherwise. “Take advice from a man who knows. In divulging sensitive information, one must consider every recipient as an insecure container. Secrets leak like water, and the more implausible they are, the more likely it is that they’ll flood beyond the bounds.”

He was right, of course.

To Mr. and Mrs. Arundell, Burton said, “We think the trespasser seen by Lallah Bird is still somewhere on the estate. We also suspect he’s carrying the disease—or, rather, the parasite—that has infected Isabel. Swinburne, Monckton Milnes, Steinhaueser, and Monsieur Levi will patrol the grounds tonight.”

Eliza Arundell looked perplexed. “This man—a fugitive?—does he threaten the household?”

“In so much that he’s chosen to hide out in the vicinity, yes.”

“Then I shall gather more men to help you,” Henry Arundell said.

“If you’ll allow, sir, I’d prefer to limit the numbers to those I’ve named. I should like to catch the man, so we might hand him over to the authorities. If too many of us patrol the estate, we’re liable to scare him away, possibly to inflict his disease upon others.”

Henry Arundell considered for a moment then nodded. “Whatever you think best.”

Though they’d accepted Burton’s explanation for the face at the window and for Isabel’s condition, the Arundells were rather less approving of the crushed garlic bulbs Levi had liberally distributed around their daughter’s bedchamber.

“What a terrible reek!” her father objected. “What in the name of God are you trying to do? Suffocate her?”

“It sterilise the atmosphere,” Levi asserted. “The odour is unpleasant, but it help drive the parasite away.”

Arundell wrinkled his nose. “And the crucifixes?” he asked, gesturing at the many additional crosses Levi had added to the room.

The Frenchman quoted, “‘The Lord will keep you from all evil; He will keep your life.’”

Henry Arundell had blinked confusedly at this and departed, pulling his wife after him.

“Whenever Isabel open her eyes,” Levi said to Burton, “she must see the cross; must be reminded of what she most deeply believe in. She not let go of it, not allow Perdurabo to steal her will to live.”

Later, during a subdued dinner, Blanche asked, “Should we cancel the party, mother?”

“At such short notice?” Eliza Arundell exclaimed.

“To be frank with you, ma’am,” Doctor Bird interjected, “even if the crisis has passed, I cannot envision your daughter being strong enough by Saturday.”

“We’ll postpone for a fortnight, not cancel,” Henry Arundell said. “Which means we have nearly three hundred letters of apology to write.” He addressed the butler. “Nettles, have a couple of the footmen report to my study. I believe Clunk and Tick have the best calligraphy?”

“They do, sir.”

“Good. I’ll compose, they can copy.” Turning back to his guests, he said, “It’s the fastest way. They write so rapidly their hands become a blur. We’ll have the letters ready to post first thing in the morning.”

After dinner, the family took to the chapel to pray for Isabel’s recovery. Their guests socialised for a short time but a tense atmosphere hung over New Wardour Castle and a couple of hours after the sun had set, everyone retreated to their rooms.

Sadhvi Raghavendra joined Burton to stand watch over Isabel. They lit a wall lamp but adjusted the wick until the light was dim, so as not to disturb the patient, though she appeared to be in an extremely deep sleep.

“She is dreaming, Richard. You see how her eyes move beneath the lids? But they are not happy dreams. Her limbs are jumping, as if she is imagining herself fleeing from danger.”

“Dreamt dangers are ephemeral, Sadhvi. I’m more concerned about the real.”

Burton lowered himself into a chair, removed one of the pistols from his waistband, and held it resting on his thigh. Sadhvi also sat.

“I’ve hardly seen you today,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“We Sisters are very sensitive to . . . balance.”

“Balance? What do you mean by that?”

“Everything possesses a natural point of equanimity, and we have an affinity with that state, thus we sense when it is disturbed; when things become askew. What is happening to Isabel is an imbalance. Matters surrounding her are out of joint. I feel it and it distresses and tires me.”

“Why didn’t you say? Go to bed. I’ll recruit Blanche for sentry duty.”

“No. I prefer to stay.” She smiled. “It reminds me of when we sat up to guard the camp on the shores of the Nyanza Lake. Africa was difficult, but it was a happy time. Already, I miss it.”

Burton nodded. They gave themselves over to memories and silent companionship, breathed garlicky fumes, and the hours passed.