She swept from the room leaving Brian to ponder over the strangeness of his arrival in Bosbradoe.
CHAPTER IV
Brian was awake just before dawn the next morning; was washed, dressed and downstairs before anyone else was stirring in the house.
The street was empty and littered with the remains of the previous night’s revelry.
Brian observed that on every cottage the shutters were closed and the door firmly shut. The only movement was a stray dog burrowing into a pile of rubbish left by the revellers. The ash from their bonfires still smouldered.
With a shrug, he returned to the Trevaskis house, passing the square-towered church and its vicarage. He had opened the gate, which led up the short path to the door, when a voice called: “Good morning.”
He looked up to see an elderly man of medium height regarding him with bleary red eyes from the vicarage garden. His sombre clothing proclaimed him as a man of the cloth, and judging by his dishevelled appearance, the man had not been to bed since the night before.
“Good morning, mister . . .?” Brian returned his greeting.
“Pencarrow, sir. Simon Pencarrow. I am pastor of the flock of Christ in the village, sir.”
Brian frowned.
“Forgive me, Mr Pencarrow,” said Brian, “but I thought a Brother Willie Carew was . . .?”
The parson interrupted him with a laugh.
“I am a vicar of the Anglican Church, sir, and that is my church.” He flung an arm to the nearby church building. “But, sir, meet with a Cornishman and you will meet with a follower of John and Charles Wesley. The lower orders are Methodists, every man-jack of them. Why, I have only three souls in my entire Parish, sir. You are not a Methodist, are you?”
Brian introduced himself and the vicar extended a limp hand.
“You are welcome to my poor parish, sir. Welcome.”
“Why does the church keep you here, Mr Pencarrow, if you have no flock to preach to?” enquired Brian.
“Why? Oh, come to the house and have some wine with me. Too early? Surely not, sir? “Take a little wine for thy stomach’s sake” – it is in the Good Book. No? I cannot tempt you? Very well. What was I saying?”
“You were going to tell me, sir, why you stay here with no flock to preach to,” answered Brian, smiling.
“Ah, indeed. Well, sir, I do not complain to my bishop, for you will see, sir, that this is a beautiful spot, and I do not want to see new pastures at my time of life. The quietness of the spot lets me indulge in my antiquarian studies.”
“What of Doctor Trevaskis, sir?” He said bluntly. “Is it not time we started to organise a search?”
The vicar sighed and pulled out a silver flask from his pocket and swallowed a liberal draught.
Brian caught the unmistakable odour of rum and noted the thin, trembling hands.
“I doubt if you will get the village awake before mid-day, sir. They have drunk enough on which to launch a schooner.”
“Then I must organise a search, Mr Pencarrow. Will you join me?”
“Would that I could, sir. Would that I could. But I am none too young in years and am possessed of the gout. This little beverage,” he gestured to his flask, “is the only thing that keeps it at bay, sir. I wish you luck, though. I wish you luck.”
Brian scowled. That was all that was needed: a village full of superstitious fools and now an alcoholic parson. There must be some one in authority in the village, a squire perhaps, who could stir the people from their lethargy. He put the question to the Reverend Simon Pencarrow, who shook his head sadly.
“Squire? Alas no, sir. The last squire of Bosbradoe was Sir Hugh Trevanion who was killed in the European wars against the Corsican despot. His mansion is sold now, for he left no heirs. A sorry day for Bosbradoe when Sir Hugh died. A sorry day when the foreigner came here.”
“Ah, yes,” nodded Brian. “The foreigner. It was in the direction of his estate that Doctor Trevaskis was last seen heading. Perhaps I could go and talk with the man. He might know something further.”
The parson shuddered and took another long drink from his flask.
“The foreigner, a queer man, sir. A queer man! Strange things have happened since the foreigner came here, sir. He bought Sir Hugh’s mansion and from that day a black cloud descended on Bosbradoe. No, sir, I could not advise you to seek his help.”
The old man turned abruptly and walked into his house, slamming his door.
Brian stood looking in surprise.
The sun was coming up in a bright blue autumn sky. There was scarce a cloud about and Brian was almost deafened by the loud cry of the gulls as they swept and whirled along the cliff tops. He walked round the house, and went into the garden which ended abruptly on the cliff tops. The view was spectacular and Brian had to catch his breath as the beauty of the landscape took him.
“Brian!”
He turned at the breathless voice.
Helen stood before him, her pale face was drawn and he could discern a faint red edging to her eyes.
“Brian, are the others out looking for father yet?”
Brian bit his lip. “No one is stirring yet.”
She gave a small cry, half a sob and half a cry of anger.
He reached out and took her hand.
“Do not worry, Helen. I have been speaking to Mr Pencarrow. But I think it would recompense me if I went to see this foreigner that people keep talking about. It would seem that the last time anyone saw your father was when he was walking in the direction of the man’s estate.”
“Yes. Yes,” the girl nodded eagerly. “Noall did say that, didn’t he?”
“Tell me, who is this foreigner?”
“A German, I think. A nobleman . . . a baron or something of the kind. My father visited him a few times, but I do not think anyone really knows his name. He bought Tymernans about ten years ago . . . that is the name of the great mansion which stands just beyond the ruins of Breaca Castle. It used to belong to Sir Hugh Trevanion, but he was killed at Waterloo.”
“Tymernans,” repeated Brian. “Just beyond the castle. I shall find it. Nothing else is known of this man? The people here do not seem to like him.”
She shook her head.
“No. He lives as a recluse and discourages visitors. No one goes up there now.”
“Does he visit the village at all?”
“Only twice in the last ten years, as I recall,” replied the girl. “He has some kind of servant; a half-wit and very ugly-looking, whom he sends now and then for various provisions.”
“Do not worry, Helen. I am sure we will find your father.”
He went out into the street and started to climb the hilly incline towards the spot where the crumbling stone tower of Breaca Castle rose perilously into the air, against the azure sky.
The pathway wound up a rise towards a heavily wooded flat and Brian paused by a stone road marker to look about him. He could see no sign of a house which, he gathered, must be sheltered by the thick woods which grew down towards the cliff edge.
At the edge of the woods he noticed, as he drew nearer, a high stone wall which wavered unevenly from the direction of the cliff tops around its perimeter. In it were two large wrought iron gates, but the pathway to them was overgrown as if it had not been used in years. For a moment, Brian thought there must be some mistake and that there must be another roadway to the estate. But the rotting wood board beside the gates, hanging crazily from one nail, declared it to be “Tymernans”. For a while, Brian hesitated and then, catching the top of the iron gate, he hauled himself up over the stone wall and dropped down the other side.
Once among the trees, he had an overpowering feeling of gloom. The tall trees blotted out the rising morning sun and the cloudless blue sky of late autumn. His nostrils were assailed by the dank smell of rotting vegetation. Not being a country-bred man, he did not miss the song of the birds or the other woodland noises, although he noted that the woods were strangely quiet.
It w
as fairly easy to follow the overgrown pathway, and only occasionally did a shrub or bush bar his progress, but he soon pushed past these. As he walked further and further along the path, he fell to wondering whether anyone could live in the house at all. Brian pushed on, the feeling of chill and gloom shrouding his spirit.
Then he heard a sound and stopped.
The sound was indistinctive. He could not place it. Perhaps it had been the snapping of a twig or the rustle of branches. Yet he felt a presence . . . it was difficult to describe. He felt someone or something watching him from the bushes.
He swung round but there was nothing there. The wood was quiet. The silence echoed like the silence of a tomb.
He rebuked himself for giving way to emotions created by the superstition of the villagers. Certainly, the dank chill of wood which surrounded Tymernans gave a haunted aspect to the place.
Then came a rustling and crashing through the undergrowth. The branches and leaves swayed this way and that along one side of the pathway he was treading, moving from behind him to the front.
He stopped still.
“Who’s there?”
Only silence answered him.
He walked a few paces forward and hesitated.
A grotesque shape suddenly launched itself from the bushes and before he realized it, he had been knocked to the ground and felt steel-like bands constricting his throat.
CHAPTER V
For a moment Brian lay stunned under the gibbering thing that had leapt upon him. He raised his hands in a futile effort to prise loose the constricting bands from their strangle hold around his neck. He tried to open his eyes to see his assailant, but all he could glimpse was a straggling mass of dirty black hair. He hardly knew whether the form was human or animal.
No sooner had he started to struggle, than he became aware of the futility of the task. The thing had muscles of steel, the strength of a dozen men.
He was on the verge of blacking out, when there came a merciful release. The bands at his throat relaxed and the form above him moved away. He lay gasping and became aware of a cracking noise and a man’s harsh voice shouting in a foreign language.
Brian shook his head to clear it and raised himself on one elbow.
He beheld a tall man dressed in sombre black from his calf length riding boots to his high crowned hat. Under a long black cloak, the man wore a black suit and a black cravat. The only relief to this dark garb was the white of his face, a cadaverous face which seemed like the pale wax face of a corpse. Only the eyes were animated, and shone like burning coals from the fires of hell. The man held a whip in his right hand, which he now and then cracked at the cowering figure before him.
It was this figure that caused the breath to catch in Brian’s throat.
The face was large, with a long bulbous nose atop a horseshoe-shaped mouth, open to display straggling teeth with breaches here and there, and protruding slightly over the lower lip and letting a trickle of saliva dribble on to the stubby fork-bearded chin. The eyes were terrible; under bushy black brows there was a small right eye, so small and closed that at first, one might think he was peering into an eyeless socket, until they caught the pinprick of malignancy shining brightly from a bloodshot surround. The right eye was misshapen by an enormous wart.
But if the face was horrible, the body was sickening.
The head bristled with hair, like the hair of a mad dog, while between the shoulders rose a humpy protrusion and a corresponding hump stuck from the chest. The arms were long and muscular, and hung downwards like the arms of an ape, but the rest of the body was of thighs and legs so bowed that Brian wondered if the creature could move on them at all.
The whip was raised yet again and the horrible apparition went scuttling into the undergrowth.
The tall man turned to Brian and he was surprised to see an expression of concern on the man’s face.
“Are you hurt?” the English was stilted and heavily accented.
Brian raised a hand to his throat and massaged the tender area carefully. He coughed several times.
“I do not think so, sir. I would be the better for a glass of water, however.”
The tall man bent down and raised him up.
“Lean on my arm, sir, and I’ll bring you to my house.”
“I’m most grateful, sir. Are you the German gentleman?”
“I am, by birth, a Genevese, a native of the Swiss Republic.”
“And you are the owner of Tymernans?” persisted Brian.
“I am.”
Brian was silent for a moment.
“By all that is holy,” he burst out. “What, or who was that creature?”
“Merely a servant of mine.”
“A servant?” said Brian in astonishment. “But he was so grotesque, so animal-like . . .”
“He is a creature of nature, endowed with life in the same way as you or I,” replied the man. “He is misshapen, but if I did not give him employment, then he would be stoned to death by the miserable natives hereabouts.”
His voice was full of a bitterness which startled Brian.
“But is he not dangerous and deserving of restraint?”
“Ah, because he attacked you? Would you say the same of a guard dog which attacked a man entering your property? My estate is forbidden to visitors and this Hugo knows. For all he knew, you might have meant me ill. Why should I restrain him when he is doing his duty by guarding his master? He is no more dangerous than the average guard dog. He will do what he is told and if he does it well, then he is rewarded. If he does it ill, then he is punished. This is his simple life. If you mean me no ill, then you need have no fear of Hugo.”
They did not speak further until the tall man led Brian from the woods and across a wide ill-kept lawn which separated the woods from a large rambling house. It stood precariously, almost on the edge of the cliffs. Brian noticed that most of the windows were closed and shuttered and the house had the appearance of a deserted ruin.
The man beside him noticed his absorption in the condition of the building.
“I am a recluse, sir,” he said by way of explanation. “A man of scientific pursuits who cannot afford to waste time in dabbling with the upkeep of a property. All I need is a quiet place to work, to be left alone. If I am left alone by people I, in turn, will leave them alone.”
This last was said by way of accusation.
“I came to see you,” said Brian. “To speak of the disappearance of Doctor Trevaskis.”
The man shot him a quick, searching glance but said nothing.
He motioned Brian to follow him into a scullery and drew a glass of water from a pump.
“And now, Sir?” he said when Brian had eased his throat sufficiently and returned the glass.
“I am Doctor Trevaskis’ new partner, Doctor Brian Shaw.”
The tall man bowed.
“I . . . I am the Baron Victor Frankenberg.”
Brian detected a slight pause before the final syllable of the name. He explained about the disappearance of Doctor Trevaskis. The baron’s face was an impassive mask.
“Perhaps you would accompany me into my library?” he said, suddenly turning and leading the way, without waiting for a response. Puzzled, Brian followed him across a musty hallway into a large, well-lit room which was clearly in constant use. Brian’s eyes flickered around the shelves which contained many hundreds of books; books in many languages which, he was surprised to note, were mostly on natural philosophy and chemistry.
“A glass of claret?”
Brian shook his head.
He was about to press the baron as to whether he knew Doctor Trevaskis when a long eerie howl filled the room. It was the howl of a hound, similar to that which he had heard the previous night out on the moorland. But this time it seemed as if the hound was in the room itself.
The baron calmly replaced his half-emptied glass of claret.
“Forgive me, sir,” he said, “an indulgence of mine. I keep a small hunting pack for
whenever the urge takes me to follow the fox through my grounds. At the moment one of my best hounds lies ill.”
There was a silence while the baron reached for a silver decanter and refilled his glass, sipping it slowly as if savouring the fragrance of every sip.
“I beg your pardon, sir. Of what were we speaking?”
“Doctor Trevaskis, sir.”
“The doctor called by here a few times since I have been here. As a man of science with a degree of medical ability myself, I had no cause to consult him. I did, however, see him walking along the moorland path two days ago, but only from a distance.”
The baron rose to his feet.
“Now, sir, there is no more I can suggest. I regret the disappearance of Doctor Trevaskis, but the countryside hereabouts is wild and often dangerous. Let us hope there is a happy solution to the disappearance, that he stayed with friends, or that he has lost his way and will return anon.”
He led Brian to the door.
Brian hesitated and motioned with his head towards the woods.
“What of . . .” he paused.
The baron drew back his thin lips in a mirthless smile.
“Hugo? Do not worry about Hugo. He has learnt his lesson, like a good dog and will have learnt it well.”
The baron gestured to the whip that stood by the door.
The heavy wooden door of the house was swung shut in Brian’s face. For a moment he stood irresolutely and then began to follow the path back towards the iron gates.
He could not help but suppress a violent shiver as he thought of the grotesque beast lurking in the bushes, waiting ready to pounce, the hairy hands closing round his throat. But he strode grimly on, trying to keep his head firmly upright, letting only his eyes dart from side to side as he walked down the gloomy woodland path.
The feeling of being followed suddenly seized him, and he could swear he heard the rustle of the undergrowth and the sound of laboured breathing.
He swung round and found the path had wound so far into the woods that he was out of sight of the house and any aid from the baron.
The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) Page 37