The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) (54 page)

They halted at the head of the stairs, which wound through the ornate arches to the cavern floor. Their hearts came to their mouths as they beheld the figure of Helen strapped on to the surgical table in the centre of the cavern with the baron standing over her, a gleaming knife in his raised hand.

The baron’s head came up with a jerk, and his pale cold eyes glared at the intruders with a rage that Brian had never before seen in a man.

Mercifully, Helen lay unconscious.

For a while, various emotions fought for control on the dead white face of the baron, and then the face seemed to form into the pale mask that was habitual to the man. The thin lips drew back, displaying his teeth.

A surge of maniacal laughter shook the man’s frame.

Brian stepped forward.

“Back!” the word was a scream. The knife wavered in the air. “Back, or she dies now!”

Brian let his hands fall to his side, still holding the sabre in one hand.

“What now, Frankenstein?” asked Pencarrow softly.

The baron chuckled.

“Frankenstein! You say that august name with a sneer, my friend. One day the world will resound to that name. Frankenstein, the greatest scientist the world had known. On your knees, on your knees, dogs, because you are in the presence of a god!”

Pencarrow bit his lip.

“He is totally insane,” he whispered. “There’s no reasoning with him.”

The young doctor nodded.

“Can you see any way to rush him before he can reach Helen?”

“No, we must not risk her life.”

The baron regarded them suspiciously.

“What are you whispering about?”

Brian shook his head.

“Nothing. But what are you doing? Why are you holding Miss Trevaskis as a prisoner?”

An evil grin spread over the baron’s features.

“So, young friend. So, you think to take away Miss Trevaskis from me also? As you took away my wife? I tell you, Hugo . . .”

Brian glanced quickly at Pencarrow, who shrugged.

“My name is not Hugo. Hugo is dead. Didn’t you punish him enough?”

A puzzled frown passed across the baron’s brow.

“Hugo dead?”

“Yes,” said Brian. A plan began to develop in his mind. If he could distract the baron’s attention long enough, he and Pencarrow could reach Helen and perhaps stand between her and the baron’s knife.

“Hugo is not dead! You are Hugo!” screamed the baron. “But . . . but you’ve changed, Hugo. You look as you used to look, before I . . . before I operated on you. How did you do it? Do you know the secret?”

“I am not Hugo,” insisted Brian. “Hugo lies dead at the bottom of the cliffs . . . there!”

He threw out a hand towards the cave mouth.

The baron followed the pointing finger and Brian seized the opportunity to make another step forward.

Frankenstein glanced back with a look of suspicion on his face.

“I cannot be deceived,” he said slowly. “You must know that, Hugo.”

“I am not Hugo,” persisted Brian. “Hugo lies there. See for yourself.”

The baron drew himself up.

“I cannot be deceived,” he intoned again.

“You have only to look for yourself. Look at the bottom of the cliffs.”

Hesitantly, the baron walked towards the cave mouth.

“Now!” cried Brian.

The two men raced down the steps even as the baron gave a cry of rage and sprang back, knife upraised, towards the girl. Pencarrow, with a speed surprising for one so advanced in years, reached the surgical table first and swung a clenched fist at the baron’s upraised hand.

There was a dull smack and the knife went flying across the floor.

The baron gave a sharp cry of pain, and clutching his wrist, turned after the flying weapon.

Within a second, Brian was by the table and had unstrapped Helen, and was carrying the unconscious girl to the foot of the stairs. The girl was clearly drugged and he could smell the gaseous anaesthetic which had rendered her unconscious. He laid her unconscious form at the bottom of the stairs and turned back to aid Pencarrow.

“What shall we do with him?” asked the parson, jerking a hand towards the baron, who was scrabbling furiously among the packing cases, searching for his knife.

The two men moved towards the baron. He saw them coming and drew back with a snarl.

The long, drawn out howl of a hound echoed through the cavern.

In an instant the baron’s eyes blazed with an unholy light. He reached forward and snapped off the catch of one of the great wooden packing cases.

From its gloom the great wolfhound, the terrifying creation of Frankenstein, bounded forth.

Pencarrow, who was standing before Brian, gave a cry of horror and amazement. He threw up his arms before his face as the beast bounded towards him. Even Brian, who had seen the beast before, could not help the terror which gripped his heart as the massive black dog came into the light of the lanterns. It was a hound, a jet black animal, such as no mortal could conceive. Fire seemed to flash from its eyes, which were red glowing coals. Its great white fangs were bare, and its muzzle, hackles and dewlap were dripping with saliva, tinged red with blood from the fresh meat which the baron had fed it.

As it came forward it gave vent to a vicious snarl and let out a hideous howling, paralysing Pencarrow and Brian to the spot.

The frightful creature reached Pencarrow. The old parson fell like a ninepin beneath the leap of the great brute, whose gaunt and savage frame was surely as large as that of a lion.

Even in his terror, the old man reached out his hands to fend off those death-dealing jaws, to ward away those small, deep-set, cruel eyes which seemed ringed with red fire. Several times, the jaws snapped within fractions of an inch from Pencarrow’s throat.

Brian, recovering from his paralysis, ran forward, the sabre in his hand. But his attempts to stab the animal were thwarted by the fierce struggle of the man and beast as they rolled across the floor. At the same time Brian was distracted by the fact that the baron, taking advantage of the struggle, was seeking to escape from the cavern.

The struggle between Frankenstein’s evil creation and the old parson was unequal. There was only one way it could end. A shrill cry of pain rose from the old man as the massive jaws of the beast suddenly fastened on his throat. The hound stood over his prey growling victoriously as its great canine teeth sunk deeper and deeper.

A feeble hand was flung out by the old man in an instinctive attempt to close upon some weapon. In that last moment before death, the hand found the knife of the baron, closed upon it and found a new surge of strength. The hand was upraised and struck once, twice and once again into the neck of the beast.

The great jaws opened to emit a harsh howl of agony. Old Pencarrow never heard that sound for he fell back, his neck bloody and twisted.

For a moment, the beast stood over the body of the parson, its massive head between its shoulders, panting and growling. Then the hound raised its head and its tiny fiery eyes met Brian’s horrified gaze. He saw the great muscles and thews of its hindlegs gather
together for a spring, saw the great jaws open to display its evil bloodstained molars, saw the animal spring forward.

But before the beast had reached him, the animal dropped prone upon the floor. It was dead. The blows struck by Pencarrow in his death agony had severed several arteries, and only the uncanny power of the animal had kept it upon its feet for so long.

For a moment Brian stood shuddering at the carcass of the dead beast.

Then a sound caused him to look up.

The baron, eyes ablaze, came towards him. From somewhere, the man had procured a sword. A transfiguration had taken place. The crouching maniacal look had vanished and once again Brian viewed the calm, detached man who seemed to have perfect control of himself and his emotions. There was a faint smile on his thin lips and his face had once more drawn into a mask.

He drew himself up before Brian and brought his sword to the salute.

“Well, well, my young friend. You have wrecked my household and destroyed my great creations. Is it not so? For this you must pay,
hein
?”

He tested his blade with a whip-like motion, hissing it through the air. Brian could see in his movements that he was no stranger to the sword.

The baron smiled.

“You observe that I have some knowledge of the weapon, young
Herr
? I was the best swordsman at Ingolstadt, perhaps in all Switzerland. I trust you know the rudiments of the weapon, because I am going to play with you before I kill you . . .
Schweinhund
!”

The baron suddenly launched himself at Brian, his silver blade slashing and sweeping. Brian, who had little knowledge of the sword, raised his old rusty weapon in an attempt to ward off the blows. The click and slither of steel upon steel, and the stamp of the baron’s feet, were interspersed by the harsh breathing of the two combatants.

Brian only just side-stepped as the blade flickered beneath his arm. It was a miracle it had not found his breast.

Like a flickering light the baron’s blade caused Brian to dance and twist and it came with a sickening certainty in his mind that, at any time, the baron could have cut him down. He was, as he had said, merely playing with him, driving him further and further across the cavern floor towards – with a desperate glance behind him Brian saw the danger – towards the mouth of the cave, towards the four hundred foot sheer drop to the rocks.

Frankenstein saw his look of fear with a smile of satisfaction.

Brian made a desperate attempt to stop his backward passage, slashing at the baron.

The sword flashed in the baron’s hand, and to his horror Brian felt a tug and found his sword whistling out of his hand across the cavern floor.

Frankenstein’s sword point twinkled wickedly before his eyes.

“Alas, young friend, no
coup de grâce
for you. Behind you is your exit to a better life.”

Step by step, the baron forced Brian backwards.

He heard Helen’s terrified scream as she regained consciousness and in trying to turn in her direction he slipped and fell. He found himself lying half on, and half off, the edge of the cave mouth. It seemed an eternity since he had lain there, with the baroness resolutely defending his escape; an eternity, although it could have only been a matter of hours.

The baron raised his blade.

“And so . . .” he said, his foot kicked at Brian’s hands as they clung desperately to the rocky floor.

With a crash the cellar door was flung back, and a mass of villagers began to spill down the steps into the cavern. Many of them carried pikes, scythes and burning torches.

“Kill the monster!”

“There he is!”

“Destroy the evil beast!”

“Burn him!”

The baron turned in rage at the angry gaggle of their voices.

“So,” was all he said.

Brian felt the strength giving out in his hands. He looked up at the baron. The man had dropped his sword and then, calmly, he stepped past Brian into space.

Brian did not hear the body fall to the rocks below. His mind was too full of expending his last energies to prevent himself from falling. But soon, willing hands were lifting him up.

Hands helped him from the cavern, where angry villagers were smashing and destroying equipment, cases and other paraphernalia. Someone had put a torch to the mess, and flames were hungrily licking at the walls.

Outside on the lawn, he was reunited with Helen. For a long while he held her in his arms, under the approving eye of Trevithick.

Suddenly there came a great roaring sound.

“Tis the floors of the house collapsing into the cellar,” explained Trevithick.

Brian and Helen turned and made their way back to the village.
Dense black smoke belched into the early morning light, rising from the pyre of Frankenstein’s evil laboratory.

It was a crisp autumn morning.
The Bodmin Flyer
was making its weekly run from Bosbradoe to Camelford and then across the moor to Bodmin. The coach was full. There were six first class passengers within and five more, who could afford only a second class fare, seated on top of the coach with the driver.

The coachman, muffled in an overcoat against the chill of the morning air, flicked his whip continuously to keep his four great bays at a steady trot along the bleak moorland road. In the distance, Brown Willy and Rough Tor rose high on the horizon with a distinct and dramatic force, although they were only thirteen hundred feet in height.

Autumn presented a splendid scene on the moor. The fronds of bracken and the leaves of the trees had turned yellow, brown and russet, and the heather blooms had already faded and fallen. A few late blackberries added to the colour of the roadside, nestling along the grey stone walls. Across the brown and green of the moor, the arcs of hills, the texture and fabric of the granite rocks, the grass and heather made strange contrasts. And here and there, in criss cross patterns, the swift rush of the autumn waters, small brooks flowing with swift vigour and full throated voice, washed into the muddy sediment of stately pushing rivers.

Inside the bouncing coach, Doctor Brian Shaw was smiling happily at Miss Helen Trevaskis.

They were oblivious to the disapproving stares of the other occupants of the coach, a fat lawyer on his way to the Quarter Sessions at Bodmin; an elderly parson and his prim, hook-nosed wife, and a rough country squire in riding boots who was insisting on polluting the air with his pipe.

Brian reached forward and grasped the girl’s hand.

“You’ve made the right decision?” he asked anxiously.

Helen placed her hand on his and gave an answering smile which told him what he wanted to know. He sat back with a sigh of happiness.

“Things will be fine from now on, Helen. I assure you. We’ll be in London by the end of the week, and I am sure my appointment with the hospital will be open for me. We can get married and . . .”

Helen nodded happily.

“Things will be all right now.”

“But what of . . .” she hesitated. “. . . of him? The baron? Why was his body not found?”