The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) (48 page)

“You are a stranger here, Brian. What can you do alone at night, not knowing the treacherous countryside which surrounds us?”

It was the first time she had used his first name.

“But it will be better than sitting hopeless and useless,” he insisted.

“No. It would be better to wait until dawn. Then maybe we’ll be able to persuade the villagers to help us.”

“Those cowards?” There was a sneer in Brian’s voice.

“Perhaps it is understandable, Brian,” she said sadly. “We Cornish are a strange and superstitious people. We live too near to nature, to the elements, the sea, the wind, the land. So we are superstitious. We have an old mythology, an ancient folklore and a religion which was old thousands of years before the birth of Christ. Perhaps we are not yet truly Christian, for all our high-sounding phrases. Therefore we do not open our hearts readily to people from across the Tamar, to the upcountry people, as we call them. Let us wait until tomorrow.”

She held out a hand to Brian.

“Let us go to my father’s house. I am well enough.”

She let Brian conduct her from the inn, along the street filled with carousing villagers, dancing round their bonfires, to the Trevaskis house at the end of the village street. The door was opened at Brian’s imperious knock by a wet-eyed matron who gave a cry when she saw Helen.

“Oh, Miss Helen! My lamb, my dear!” She threw her arms about the girl and swept her indoors.

It was then that Helen’s control broke down and she sobbed unashamedly on Mrs Trevithick’s ample bosom. Clucking like
a mother hen with its young, the housekeeper – for such was Mrs Trevithick’s position – conducted Helen to her bedroom above the stairs.

Brian made himself at ease before the log fire to await her return.

A nervous cough made him look up. A gaunt-looking man stood hesitantly by the door. One eyebrow seemed to twitch in agitation.

“Good evening, sir. I am Trevithick. My wife is the housekeeper here. I understand you escorted Miss Helen home, sir.”

“Quite right, Trevithick,” answered Brian. “I am Doctor Shaw, Doctor Trevaskis’ new partner.”

The man frowned.

“Oh? Yes, the doctor was expecting you.”

“Good. I believe the arrangement was that I was to have a room in this house?”

“Aye, sir . . . er, doctor. My wife has made up a room all ready for you. It only needs airing.”

“Good. And now, perhaps, you can give me some information about this disgraceful affair, of the disappearance of the doctor?”

“I fear he be dead already, doctor.”

Brian’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean by that, Trevithick?”

“The last time anyone saw the doctor, he were going along the cliff tops towards the foreigner’s house.”

“The foreigner?”

Noall had mentioned “the foreigner” in exactly the same tone of voice.

Trevithick nodded.

“Strange things happen up there, they say.”

“Strange things? Who says? And who is this foreigner?”

Trevithick’s eyes flickered from side to side.

“The foreigner? He is . . .”

“Trevithick!”

The gaunt man jumped and turned guiltily, as his rotund wife came into the room.

“I was . . . I was . . .” he muttered.

“I know what you were about,” answered his wife shortly. “You still have the chores to do, Trevithick. Be about them.”

The man gave an imperceptible sigh and left the room without another glance at Brian.

Mrs Trevithick gave him a steely examination.

“And now, sir . . .”

There was a challenge in her voice.

“And now, Mrs Trevithick, as I explained to your husband, I
am Doctor Shaw, Doctor Trevaskis’ new partner. I believe you are expecting me.”

The woman bit her lip.

“I see.”

She straightened her shoulders as if she had momentarily received some blow.

“Yes, Doctor Trevaskis was expecting you,” she admitted.

“If you would be so good, sir, as to follow me, I shall show you your room.”

“How is Miss Trevaskis?”

“She will be the better for a good night’s sleep, sir.”

Taking a candle, she conducted Brian up the stairs to a small bedroom. It was cold, but the woman went to the fireplace, where a log fire was already laid, and within a few minutes a fine blaze was leaping into the hearth.

“I shall return shortly, sir, with warming pans for the bed. Will there be anything else?”

“You can tell me why everyone here seems so suspicious of me.”

Mrs Trevithick sniffed loudly.

“Suspicious, sir? You are in Cornwall now. We do not take readily to upcountry people and their ways. They have brought us nothing but harm. I cannot understand why Doctor Trevaskis did not employ a good Cornishman, before importing an upcountry man.”

She swept from the room leaving Brian to ponder over the strangeness of his arrival in Bosbradoe.

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 was 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.

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.