Chapter 7

Tom shifted in his chair. His cushion had "gone missing" long ago, and he wasn't going to bring another one to work in case that one "went missing" too. It's not that he didn't appreciate that there were people in the building with a greater need than his own. It's just that he suspected Gary Parker had taken the cushion home with him. With his inheritance, Parker was quite rich. Especially for a councillor. Especially in Greenthorpe. Industrial decline had reduced Greenthorpe to a shadow of its former self, and anyone living on more than a subsistence wage considered themselves lucky.
Thomas Bradhurst was a slightly short, orange rabbit, with a single lop-ear. He wore glasses with circular lenses and a thin, silvery frame. They covered a pair of dull blue eyes. He owned two suits, one of which he would wear to work as the other one was cleaned. They were both grey, and both shabby. He had one red tie, one green tie, and a black bow-tie for special occasions. Today he was wearing his green tie. He wore the red tie when he was doing the town's accounts, when he was afraid the ink would splash.
Tom looked at the letter again. It was too good to be true. At the same time, it worried him. How would people react?
"Dr. Bradhurst," it began. They'd certainly done their research. Most people didn't know he'd been awarded a doctorate. Clearly, they were eager. And it was a very good offer for the town. But what would people think of it? Most of them would be glad. The Greenthorpe mansion should have been pulled down years ago. And yet, it stood as a monument to the town's great past. Would people be willing to trade that for the town's great future? Timothy took his glasses off and mopped his brow. He'd run it by Gary Parker. Parker was almost always against him - if he agreed it was a good idea, there'd be no problem convincing the citizens.
"Parker!" he called out. Parker probably wasn't doing anything. The only time Parker could be expected to do any actual work was at the annual fête, when he would run himself ragged at the behest of his grandmother, who ran the show.
"Parker!" he called out again. A moment later, a door down the hall slammed shut. Not long after that, Parker stuck his head round Tom's door.
"Yes, Bradhurst?" sighed Parker.
"I want your opinion on a deal I have on the table. A company from Earian want to set up a new factory here. New jobs for everyone. New people in the empty houses. And... more money to pay councillors."
"You know you've got my attention."
"There is a catch. They want to take over the old Tambleside complex. And they also want access to the river."
"So the Greenthorpe mansion would have to go?"
"Yes."
"And they'd cover the cost of pulling it down?"
"I would have thought so."
"Right. So what's the problem?"
"Never mind. There is no problem."
"I'm a busy man, Bradhurst," said Parker, as he left. Tom snorted, then sat back, satisfied. There was only one thing left to be done. He headed down to the council library.

The "library" was a small, cramped room in the cellar. Any floor space not occupied by bookshelves or filing cabinets was knee-high in old paperwork. A single drawer in one of the cabinets was used to store all the town's maps. The cabinet was at the opposite end of the room from the door, and Tom had to clamber over the mounds of yellowing paper to reach it. Bracing himself against some nearby shelves, he tugged at the drawer. All the most commonly used documents were in drawers that wouldn't stay shut. Anybody looking for maps usually went to the school, so more specialised cartography was kept in the stiffest drawer. He eventually got it open. He reached in and pulled out a property map of the town.
No, nobody owned the Tambleside complex. No, nobody owned that section of the river. In between lay the grounds of the Greenthorpe mansion. They were shaded in, and there was a property code. He put the map back in the drawer. Hopefully it was a mistake. The tax records would show it. He clambered back to the other side of the room and opened another drawer. After a moment of searching, he found the tax records for the street.

Susan and Tom had lived in the village for almost three years. They had been married for eight. She was taller than he was, with ginger patches over her normally white fur. She had just started cooking dinner when Tom burst through the door.
"You're home early!" she exclaimed. Then she saw the look on his face.
"You are staying, dear?" she continued.
"Could you saddle my horse? I'll be packing."
"Where are you going?"
"Number 12, Ditchfield Street, Orleton. I have a very big purchase to make."
"There's an extra horse free if you need it."
"Not that kind of purchase. Here, take this."
"A letter?"
"It's to the leader of the council."
"Oh. Tom, no. I can't take your place again. Not after last time."
"You're the only one I trust with the job, Susan. You know that."
"There are plenty of people who are more than capable of sitting on the council. Your uncle, for instance. Surely you can trust him?"
"Uncle Martin would make a good councillor. Until he started demanding that the school teaches about the ways of vampires."
"Tom, I've been talking to the people in the village. Everyone here thinks there's a vampire."
"So? However ingrained the superstition is, it's still ridiculous."
"But some of them say they've seen it. In the old mansion."
"The Greenthorpe mansion? What a coincidence. It looks like I'm about to destroy the myth once and for all."

An hour later, Tom was riding towards the north east. He had changed into his travelling clothes, the only other clothing he owned. He'd be riding through the night. Better riding than setting up camp, he thought. When he was a child, his father had told him tales about the monsters that haunted the night. He knew it was irrational, but he was still scared of the dark. But as long as he rode, he was comfortable that he couldn't be caught by anything unsavoury.
Things had been so much simpler when he was a child. Then his uncle had agreed to send him to university on condition that he studied vampires. At the end of his first year he secretly switched subjects, and earned himself a doctorate in engineering. He had faked a diploma to show to his uncle and his parents. They had been so proud. He was still plagued by the guilt of knowing that he'd cheated his uncle. On top of that, his father had found out. They hadn't spoken since.