‘Because it wasn’t possible to burn the body perhaps?’
‘Precisely. But what he did came to the same thing.’
‘Arandjel, could it be that someone out there really believes all this sufficiently to make him want to wipe out Plogojowitz’s descendants?’
‘What do you mean “believes all this”? Everyone believes it, young man. Everyone is afraid that at night a tombstone will fall over and you’ll feel a cold breath on your neck. And nobody likes to think of the dead as making good companions. Believing in vampires is just the same.’
‘I don’t mean an ancient, traditional kind of fear, Arandjel. I mean someone who believes this literally, who thinks all the Plogojowitzes are authentic vampiri, and should be exterminated. Is that possible?’
‘Yes, undoubtedly, if he thinks this has caused all his misfortune. People look for an external cause for their suffering, and the more they suffer, the greater the cause must be. In this case, the killer’s suffering is immense. So his response is on the same scale.’
Arandjel turned round to talk to Vladislav, slipping Adamsberg’s drawing into his pocket. He wanted the chairs to be taken outside, underneath the lime tree, overlooking the bend in the river, and to take advantage of the sunshine, with some glasses on the table.
‘No more rakija… please,’ Adamsberg whispered.
‘Pivo? Beer?’
‘Yes, if it won’t offend him.’
‘No bother, he likes you. Not many people come to talk to him about his beloved vampiri and you’ve brought him a new case. It’s a great distraction for him.’
The three men sat around under the tree in the warm sunshine, listening to the chuckling of the river, and Arandjel began to close his eyes. A mist had started to rise, and Adamsberg looked across to the other bank at the peaks of the Carpathians.
‘Hurry up before he goes to sleep,’ Vladislav warned him.
‘Yes, this is where I take my siesta,’ the old man confirmed.
‘Arandjel, I have two final questions.’
‘I’ll keep listening as long as there’s still some drink in my glass,’ said Arandjel, taking a very small sip and looking amused.
Adamsberg felt as if he had been caught in an intelligent trap, where he would have to think quickly before the alcohol started to disappear, like sand running through an hourglass. When the glass was empty, the words of wisdom would dry up. He estimated that the time in front of him was about five mouthfuls of rakija.
‘Is there any connection between Plogojowitz and the old graveyard in north London, Higg-gate Cemetery?’
‘Highgate you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Much worse than a connection, young man. Long before they made the cemetery, people say that the body of a Turk was taken to the top of the hill, in his coffin, and that his was the only grave there for a long time. Well, people get a lot of things wrong: he wasn’t a Turk at all, but a Serb, and he’s supposed to be the master vampire, Plogojowitz himself. Fleeing his native land to go and reign from London. They even say that it was his presence on the hill that spontaneously caused the building of the cemetery.’
‘Plogojowitz, the master of London?’Adamsberg whispered to himself, quite taken aback. ‘So the person who put the shoes there wasn’t making an offering to him, but provoking him, picking a quarrel, showing him his powers.’
‘Ti to verjueš,’ said Vlad, looking at Adamsberg and shaking his long hair. ‘You really believe it. Don’t let Arandjel bewitch you with his tales, that’s what my dedo always told me. He’s just having fun with you.’
Adamsberg once more allowed the gales of laughter to finish, watching the level of the alcohol in Arandjel’s glass. Meeting his eyes, Arandjel swallowed another mouthful. Just a centimetre left now. ‘Time is passing, ask your second question.’ That was what Arandjel’s smile seemed to say, like the sphinx testing passers-by.
‘Arandjel, was there anyone who was specially singled out for treatment by Plogojowitz? Is it possible that there’s some family that thinks it is a particular victim of the Plogojowitz clan’s powers?’
‘Irrelevant,’ said Vlad, repeating what Danglard had said. ‘I already told you. It’s his own family that was targeted.’
Arandjel raised his hand to tell Vladislav to be quiet.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All right,’ he went on, pouring himself another small slug of rakija. ‘You have won the right to a last little glass before my siesta.’
A concession that seemed to suit the old man very well. Adamsberg took out his notebook.
‘No,’ said Arandjel firmly. ‘If you can’t remember it’s because it’s not interesting enough to you, so you won’t have missed anything.’
‘OK, I’m listening,’ said Adamsberg, pocketing the notebook.
‘There was one family at least that was persecuted by Plogojowitz. In a village called Medwegya, not far from here, in Braničevo district. You can read all about it in the Visum et repertum that Dr Flückinger wrote in 1732 for the military council in Belgrade after they closed the inquiry.’
I’m talking to the Danglard of Serbia, Adamsberg remembered. He had no idea what this Visum et repertum could be or where to find it, and old Arandjel had challenged him not to take notes. Adamsberg rubbed his hands together in his anxiety not to forget. Visum et repertum by Flückinger.
‘The case caused even more of a sensation than Plogojowitz’s. A major scandal throughout the Western world, with people taking sides. Your Voltaire had a good laugh about it, the Austrian emperor got involved, Louis XV ordered his envoys to follow the inquiry, the doctors were tearing their hair out, the priests praying for their salvation, the theologians didn’t know what to think. A great outpouring of literature and debate. And to think it all started here,’ Arandjel added, glancing round at the hills.
‘I’m listening,’ said Adamsberg.
‘This soldier came back to Medwegya after years of fighting in the Austro-Turkish wars. He wasn’t the same as when he went away. He said he had been the victim of a vampir during his tour of duty, that he had fought the vampire but it had followed him to the Turkish part of Persia and in the end he had managed to kill the monster and bury it. He had brought back some earth from the grave and he ate it regularly to protect himself from the vampir. It’s a sign that the soldier didn’t think he was safe from the living-dead creature, even if he thought he had killed it. So he lived on in Medwegya, eating earth, wandering around cemeteries and getting his neighbours worked up. Then, in 1727, he fell off a hay cart and broke his neck. In the month after he died, there were four deaths in Medwegya, “in the manner people die when attacked by vampires”, and people started to say the soldier had become a vampire too. They made such a fuss that the authorities agreed to his exhumation, forty days after his death. And the rest is well known.’
‘Tell me all the same,’ said Adamsberg, afraid that Arandjel might stop at this point.
‘The body was pink-skinned, fresh blood was to be seen in the orifices, the skin looked new and smooth, fingernails were lying in the tomb, and there were no signs of decomposition. They plunged a stake into the soldier’s chest and there was a horrible cry. Or some say not so much a cry as an inhuman sigh. They cut off his head and burnt the body.’
The old man took another mouthful of rakija under Adamsberg’s watchful eye. Only a third of the second glass left. If Adamsberg had remembered the dates right, the soldier had died two years after Plogojowitz.