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mushroom-cooking.
    â€œLovely. I’ve already put out a suitable pan, and I’ll make garlic bread — if you like garlic bread?”
    â€œLove it.”
    â€œSo,” said Elodie, vigorously mashing crushed garlic cloves into the softened butter, “tell me about your play. I hear the subject matter is somewhat controversial?”
    Hugo helped himself to a blue-and-white striped apron from a peg by the stove and put it over his immaculate white shirt. “Some have found it so, and, unfortunately, the some in this case is a Mrs. Maxwell, who has clout in the group.”
    So he knew that much. “Not just in the group, Hugo. She is island aristocracy.”
    â€œI know, and that’s the other thing. I am, naturally, interested in the ancient Guernsey families — she’s a Gastineau, isn’t she? — but when I started asking questions about her family history she seemed quite put out, I can’t think why.”
    â€œNot a good person to get on the wrong side of. You said ‘the other thing.’ What else is she upset about?”
    Hugo stopped cleaning the mushrooms, and banged his fist on the wooden table. “It’s my own fault,” he said. “She got up my nose with her hoity-toityness and I made a stupid joke. The play, you see, involves vampires, and the Players are hopeful it will bring in a new, younger audience. She objected, and I — laughingly — claimed to have the inside track on vampires, because I am one.”
    â€œGracious!” Elodie waited, but Hugo didn’t go on to his neck-biting threat. “I wonder why she was so upset about vampires? It seems to me they are everywhere nowadays — in the entertainment world, I mean, and besides,” she added, “you’re not, are you?” She laughed and held up a clove of garlic, and Hugo playfully shrank away from her in jest. Hopefully in jest.
    â€œInterestingly enough, they don’t play a significant part in Guernsey folklore. Werewolves, yes, but no vampires. Of course, that could be why, because the werewolf is the sworn enemy of the vampire. But you’re right. They are everywhere.”
    â€œLiterally?”
    The most troubling thing about Gandalf , thought Elodie, is that he is absolutely straight-faced about this stuff .
    â€œWho knows. But he, or she, is an archetype, and we humans love archetypes. And we all know people who feed off the emotional energy of others.” Hugo reached for the bottle of olive oil on the table and added some to the pan, which was already heating. He tossed the prepared mushrooms into the pan on the stove, then spread them out carefully. Faintly, they began to splutter. “But there is one overwhelming truth about vampires that has the Mrs. Maxwells of this world up in arms.” Hugo poured himself another glass of wine and took a good swig.
    â€œAnd that is —?”
    â€œSex. The vampire, above all, is an erotic metaphor. The vampire, Elodie, is always about sex.”
    Hugo Shawcross turned and fixed a piercing gaze on Elodie. Just at that moment, mercifully, she heard the sound of Liz’s Figaro in the driveway.
    They sat around the kitchen table to eat, and the meal was delicious. Liz was starving, so she ate and watched Hugo Shawcross, allowing her aunt to do the questioning. All she had to do was listen, and the wine had loosened Hugo’s tongue, which probably didn’t require much loosening in the first place.
    â€œAre you a vampirologist? I believe that’s what they’re called — people who study the phenomenon?”
    â€œWell, that is part of the project I am involved with right now, so maybe I am!” Hugo chuckled through a mouthful of garlic bread, and helped himself to more. “I was originally a university lecturer with a particular interest in European folklore, and I was able to devote myself to it after I took early retirement. I am now working with a group