The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) (47 page)

Brian’s gaze followed the shaky finger of the driver into the darkness of the night which shrouded the moor from their sight. Now and again, a flash of lightning would light up the landscape, causing a vivid white to highlight the trees and what looked like precipitous mountains.

“I didn’t know you had mountains in Cornwall?”

The driver spat.

“Ain’t no mountains, young sir. They be hills . . . Rough Tor, Brown Willy . . . they ain’t mountains. No, sir, beyond them . . . beyond them. There lies Dormazy Pool.”

“Dormazy Pool?”

“Aye, a lake of black water near a mile around, sir. That’s where old Jan Tregeagle is, God save us. That’s where the hound of hell waits!”

Brian sighed his exasperation.

“Who is this Tregeagle?”

“He were steward to old Lord Robartes,” said the moon faced driver in a hoarse whisper. “It were back in the days of Charles the Second. Jan Tregeagle were an evil man, vain and godless. They do say he sold his soul to the Devil. When Tregeagle died his spirit was claimed by the eternal furies, but in his life, old Jan had done one good deed, and because of that he was allowed to spend eternity trying to empty Dormazy Pool with a leaky limpet shell. Ah, but the Devil, he swore to claim old Tregeagle’s soul for his own, and he still hunts him over the moor with his hell hound baying.”

The man sunk back on his seat twitching in fear.

Again, in the night air, came the lonely baying of a hound.

“Hear it, young sir? Hear it?”

Brian laughed and pushed the reins and whip back at the man.

“Listen you,” he said evenly. “I might be an upcountry man, but I am not to be taken in by such fanciful stories, entertaining as they might be. I am told you have a nice folklore down here in Cornwall but I tell you, I am, as yet, not over-impressed by it.”

He eyed the man sternly.

“Furthermore, I am tired. And the young lady is not in the best of health, thanks to your driving. So, take these reins and drive your coach at a nice, steady trot. Steady, mind you. And, so help me, if you so much as canter your horses I shall come and whip you across the moor myself! Do I make myself clear, fellow? Now get on with you; we want to reach Bosbradoe before midnight.”

The driver took the reins from him and sunk back muttering to himself.

Brian climbed down and re-entered the coach.

“Are you all right now, madam?” he enquired.

The young girl inclined her head.

“Thanks to your intervention, sir.”

As the driver urged the horses slowly forward, the bay of the hound came again. This time it seemed nearer than before, and Brian leant out of the carriage window and peered curiously into the darkness.

For a moment he could have sworn he saw a shape in the gloom, a rather large shape slinking along the road behind the coach. But it was surely not a wild dog. It seemed far too large. Then a flash of lightning illuminated the road and Brian saw that it was empty. Either he was seeing things, or perhaps the lightning was playing tricks with the shadows.

As The Bodmin Flyer
continued its journey along the stony moorland road, a wind sprang up fiercely from the south east, moaning across the undulating hills, around the jagged boulders and stone monoliths which dotted the moor. The same wind dispersed the low storm clouds and soon the brilliant white of the moon was shining down unimpeded. The eerie light dispelled the gloom in the interior of the coach and Brian Shaw observed, with a satisfied pleasure, that his estimation of his travelling companion had been right. She was, indeed, pretty.

Under the dark hood of her travelling cloak he could discern a
pale, heart-shaped face with a straight nose and a delicate red mouth whose dimples suggested that it was a mouth used to smiling. She had big solemn-looking eyes, whose colour, although it was difficult to tell in the moonlight, must surely be grey or green.

“Is your home at Bosbradoe?” enquired Brian in an attempt to end the silence that had fallen between them.

“I was born there and live there with my father.” The girl answered and then, as if in afterthought, added: “My name is Helen Trevaskis.”

A sensation of delight caught Brian.

“Trevaskis? Your father would not, by any chance, be Doctor Talbot Trevaskis?”

The girl arched her eyebrows in surprise.

“Indeed he is, sir. Why, then, do you know my father?”

“We have never met, but I am to be his new partner in his medical practice.”

The girl bit her lip in bewilderment as she gazed at the handsome featured young man before her.

“I knew my father was going into partnership with a doctor . . . someone from London, but I thought it was some worthy and elderly gentleman who had known my father when he was a medical student.”

Brian smilingly shook his head.

“My father, who is also a doctor, went to medical school with Doctor Trevaskis. But my father is now retired. When I qualified in medicine I spent some years at St Luke’s Hospital in London, but I was in need of experience in general practice in the provinces. My father accordingly wrote to Doctor Trevaskis asking him if he would take me on in partnership and, very kindly, Doctor Trevaskis agreed.”

The girl gave Brian a swift, shy smile.

“Bosbradoe is not a town for a young and ambitious doctor, Doctor Shaw. There is little social life there. Indeed, it is a dull place.”

“That I refuse to believe if you live there,” exclaimed Brian fervently. The girl’s cheeks reddened but the smile came readily to her lips.

“You will find it quiet after a great city like London, I’ll warrant.”

“Miss Trevaskis,” said Brian adamantly. “My aim is to spend two years in general practice in the provinces in order to encounter and observe the illnesses of the rural populace. But with this experience behind me, my ambition is to return to London and join the staff of a hospital to enter into medical research.”

They chattered on until
The Bodmin Flyer
turned from the moorland
road, through dark forests of tall trees, and along an open stretch of highway that ran parallel to a cliff top. The salt smell of the sea came to their nostrils and the rhythmic roar and crash of the waves on the rocks below caught their ears.

“We are nearly there,” announced the girl. And, indeed, within a few minutes the mail coach was clattering down a village street. The coach driver was tugging his horses to a standstill and crying out, unnecessarily: “Bosbradoe! Bosbradoe!”

Bosbradoe was a tiny village which stood atop a long stretch of rugged cliffs, some four hundred feet above sea level, on the north coast of Cornwall. From its cluster of thick-set stone cottages, a tiny path ran down to a small cove – a tiny haven amidst the forbidding granite cliffs of the coastline – where an old harbour had been built. Some fishermen’s cottages clung defiantly to the slope of the path as it wound its perilous way down to the harbour. By its side, a stream plunged on its way, cascading down into the harbour waters.

The coachman had brought his team to a standstill outside the tavern, a low, rambling building, which was little different in design from the cottages, although it was, of course, much larger. A wooden sign, creaking on its hinges outside the door, displayed a picture of a mermaid while underneath this picture the word
morvoren
was painted in ancient lettering. Brian Shaw later learnt from the landlord that it was the Cornish word for mermaid, since the inn had been in existence when the old language was generally spoken from Land’s End to the Tamar.

As Brian alighted from the coach and turned to help Helen Trevaskis down, he was aware of flickering lights and singing in the square. It seemed that the entire village was packed into this square, standing around two large bonfires which sent their sparky blaze up into the blue-black darkness of the night.

“What is happening?” asked Brian as the landlord lifted his trunk down from the roof of the coach.

“Why, bless you, sir, it’s All Hallows’ Eve! The village turns out to light bonfires and sing, to keep away the evil spirits. Tonight be the night that all manner of evil things come abroad and prey on the unwary.”

Brian smiled indulgently and offered his arm to Helen Trevaskis as she climbed from the coach.

He noticed that the landlord’s face had suddenly become pinched and worried as his eyes fell upon the young girl. The big man moved forward awkwardly and raised a crooked finger to his forehead.

“Why, Miss Helen . . . we weren’t expecting you back from Bodmin until the end of the week.”

Helen smiled.

“Hello, Noall. I have come back earlier, because things are so boring in Bodmin. Would you fetch my bag? It is the red leather one.”

Noall, the innkeeper, half opened his mouth to say something, and then bit his lip and turned away to pick up the girl’s bag. Brian sensed that there was something that he wanted to say to the girl; something that he did not know how to tell her. His gaze turned to Helen but she seemed blithely unaware.

“Will you be staying long, sir?” It was the innkeeper, come back with the girl’s bag.

It was the girl who answered for him.

“Oh, Noall, this is Doctor Brian Shaw from London. He is my father’s new partner, and he will be living with us.”

The red faced landlord shot a suspicious glance at Brian and then nodded begrudgingly.

“Where is my father, Noall?” continued the girl. “I expected him to meet the coach, for I let him know I was returning early.”

The man hung his head and moved his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

Helen frowned.

“What is it, Noall? Have you something to tell me?”

“Miss Helen . . .” the man began. He stopped and chewed his lip as if searching for the right words. “It’s like this, Miss Helen . . . Doctor Trevaskis . . .”

“My father? Has anything happened to him?”

“He’s gone missing. He’s been missing for the past two days.”

The girl went white, stumbled back and might have fallen had not Brian caught her arm in time.

Helen Trevaskis sat before the roaring fire in the Morvoren Inn and sipped at a glass of mulled wine.

“I’m much better now,” she said with a ghost of a smile at the anxiously hovering Brian. The colour had, indeed, returned to her pale cheeks and highlighted well the redness of her hair which was offset by the vivid blue of her eyes.

“You nearly fainted then,” he said in accusation.

“I’m sorry, Miss Helen,” said Noall, the landlord, remorsefully. “I tried to break it to you as gently as I knew how . . .”

“It’s all right, Noall. But you must tell me what has happened.”

Noall scratched an ear.

“Well, it were the day afore yesterday. The doctor, your father, set off on his rounds about mid-day. They tell me he were last seen walking along the cliff tops towards Breaca way, towards the foreigner’s house. When the evening came and he did not return, Mrs Trevithick came here to see if he were in here.”

“And was a search made?” intervened Brian.

The red-faced man looked at the ground and shrugged.

“It be All Hallows’ Eve, and you know the customs of folks here about. Why, fishermen do not even put to sea on such a day. It be unlucky to be found wandering too far from the village.”

“But damn it, man,” cried Brian, aghast, “The doctor might have had an accident and be lying somewhere hurt upon the moor.”

“Then God help him,” said the innkeeper.

Helen’s face was pale with anger.

“Do I hear aright, Noall? Do I understand that the villagers have made no attempt to find my father?”

“Miss Helen, you were born and bred here . . . you know the beliefs and customs of us village folk . . . you know what it would mean if we wandered on the moor on a day like this?”

“I cannot believe you would leave a man to die on the moors,” exclaimed Brian.

“If he be not dead already,” snapped the innkeeper, then added to Helen: “Begging your pardon, Miss Helen. But ’twere best to face the facts.”

Helen suppressed a sob that rose in her throat.

“I cannot believe folk here would let him die, Noall. My father has lived in Bosbradoe twenty-five years, he has brought many of the villagers into the world, nursed them when they were sick, saved their lives . . . and this, this is how they repay him!”

“Let me organize a search now,” said Brian.

“No!”

They turned at the hoarse voice. It was a ruddy-complexioned man with a shock of white hair. He was dressed completely in black, and stood at the open door of the inn.

“I said ‘no’,” he repeated as he entered the inn and shut the door.

“And who are you, sir, who presumes to give orders?” demanded Brian.

“Brother Willie Carew, the leader of our community in Christ here, sir,” he said. “It is for their immortal souls that I do fear. And that responsibility gives me the right to give orders. On no account will the people of this village stir abroad until tomorrow morning.”

“So a man might be lying in desperate straits on the moor this night because you are too cowardly to save him?” sneered Brian.

The stocky man’s eyes flashed.

“Cowardly? No. But we are good Christians, and fear the Devil and all his works. Today is the ancient feast of the dead, when the spirits of the dead visit their former homes, when it is dangerous to
leave the confines of the village, because the dead prey on the living and, unless vigilance is maintained, will send a soul shrieking into hell. The people – as you see – build fires, lit from sunset to sunrise, to protect them from the devils who ride through the night seeking victims.”

The man turned to Helen.

“I am truly sorry that your father is lost to us. He was a good man; a Christian man. God send we can help him on the morrow.”

Helen turned her face away from him.

The stocky man shrugged and walked out.

Only then did the girl’s shoulders shake in sobs.

Brian caught her by the arm.

“I’ll go and see what I can find, if these cowards will point the way.”

She tried to repress the sobs which racked her body and shook her head violently.