Charles Sheffield - The Amazing Dr. Darwin

The transformed Richard Dunwell swung quickly up into the saddle. “We must hurry!”

Darwin did not release the reins of the other horse. “On the contrary, we must not.”

“But Colonel Pole—”

“Knows exactly what he has to do, and is thoroughly reliable. We will follow, but cautiously. If we were to be observed by Kathleen, or by your brother, our plans would become worthless.”

He started his horse along the deserted road that led toward St. Austell.

“Kathleen still knows nothing?” Richard Dunwell came forward to ride two abreast.

“Nothing. I wish that it had been possible to take her and Milly into my confidence, but I fear their inability to dissemble. Patience, my friend. Play your part correctly, and soon all need for dissimulation will vanish.”

“God grant.” Richard Dunwell rode on, his face grim. As they rounded every turn, or breasted a hill, his eyes were constantly scanning the road ahead. At last he gave a little cry and urged his horse to a gallop. The cabriolet was visible a quarter of a mile in front of them, with Jacob Pole dismounted from the driver’s seat and standing in the road beside the coach.

Darwin followed at a more leisurely pace. When he came to the cabriolet a door was already open. Richard Dunwell, with infinite tenderness, was lifting from within the coach the unconscious body of Kathleen Meredith. He sank to his knees, holding her and staring hungrily at her silent face.

“Not now, man.” Darwin swung himself off the horse’s back. “You have other duties to perform. Fulfill them well, and you will have a whole lifetime to gaze upon that countenance. But hurry!”

Richard Dunwell nodded and laid Kathleen gently on the ground, with Darwin supporting her head. “You will explain?”

“Everything, as soon as she wakens.” Darwin passed across to Richard a gallon jar. “Seawater, with a little wormwood and asafoetida mixed in. Disgusting, but necessary. Now—go! Jacob is waiting, and you have little time to prepare.”

The other man nodded, but he received scarcely a glance as he headed for the waiting coach. When it rumbled away Darwin’s attention was all on Kathleen. Soon he detected a change in her breathing.

Just in time! The creak of coach wheels was still audible when her eyelids trembled. He held the sal volatile vial of ammoniac water under her nose, and leaned close as her eyes fluttered open to show their whites.

“Do not be afraid, Kathleen.” He spoke slowly and clearly. “I am a good friend of your mother and of your uncle, Jacob Pole. You are in no danger.”

Her lustrous dark eyes rolled down, to focus on the fat, amiable face close to hers.

“Who are you?” The words were hardly a whisper.

“I am Erasmus Darwin. I am a physician.”

“Brandon—”

“Is not here.”

“But just a second ago he was holding my hand—in the coach—” She lifted her head and her gaze roamed over the coast road and deserted cliff. “And now—”

“I know.” Darwin lifted her to her feet and watched to make sure that she stood steady. “That is very good. I have much to tell you, and I believe that you will find it all welcome news. But first, as soon as you are clearheaded, one other unpleasant act must be completed. When you are ready, you and I will ride a little way together. The horses are waiting.”

Even at noon the air was chilly, made more so by a cutting wind from the sea. Brandon Dunwell had closed the windows tight, but still he felt chilled. He held Kathleen’s hand, yawned, and shivered a little. Someone was walking on his grave. Even the hand gripped in his suddenly felt damp and clammy.

He turned to look at her, and flinched back in horror. Kathleen had vanished. Instead he was holding the hand of a man , a pale-faced figure whose damp hair flopped lank on his forehead and whose dark, wet clothes clung to his body like cerements.

The man gave him a death’s-head smile that showed blackened teeth. “Greetings, brother.”

Brandon gasped. “Richard!” He dropped the cold hand and shrank back against the side of the coach.

“Richard, indeed. But a condemned murderer. Even in the grave I cannot rest.” The apparition inched a little closer. “Neither I nor you will ever find rest, brother—unless you confess.”

“No! I did nothing. Don’t touch me!” A pale hand was lifting clawlike fingers toward Brandon’s face. Wafting from it came a dank, rotting odor that made him want to vomit.

“Nothing?” The hand paused, inches from Brandon’s cheek. Water dripped from the loose sleeve. “You call the murder of Walter Fowler nothing? I bring you his greetings… and his accusation.”

“It was not my doing.” Brandon’s breath came in great, sobbing gasps. “I mean, it happened but it was not my fault. Ask Fowler. It was an accident—an argument. I didn’t mean him to die.” His voice rose to a scream. “Please, for God’s sake, don’t touch me!”

“One embrace, Brandon. Surely you would not deny that, to a loving brother, when we have been separated for so long? Except that where I dwell now, there is neither time nor place.” The sodden figure squelched closer along the coach seat. “Come, one kiss of memories. Even if you refuse to confess, you are still the little brother of whom I was always so fond and protective.”

Richard Dunwell lifted his arms and opened them wide. Brandon gave a squeak of terror and wriggled away. He opened the door of the moving coach and tumbled out headfirst. But he did not seem to be hurt, and in another moment he was on his feet and heading at a blind, staggering run away from the road toward a dip in the cliffs on the seaward side.

Richard Dunwell waited for the coach to stop before he stepped down. Almost as unsteady on his feet as Brandon, he moved around to where Jacob Pole sat in the driver’s seat. “You heard?”

“Every word.” Pole’s voice was gruff. “His admission is partial, but more than enough.”

“He says it was an accident.” Dunwell’s tone showed how much he wanted to believe that, but Pole shook his head.

“Think what came after. Your knife, marked with blood. Bloodstained clothes in your rooms at Dunwell Hall. That speaks of preparation, not accident. And afterwards, silence from Brandon. Even when his own brother stood at the gallows’ foot.”

Richard shivered, and it was more than wind cutting through wet clothes. “You force me to accept what I would rather deny. But he is still my brother. I would not see him hanged. What now?”

Pole nodded to the two horses approaching the coach. “I cannot say. However, Dr. Darwin is never without one plan—or a dozen.”

Those plans had to wait a few moments longer. Richard Dunwell helped Kathleen to dismount from her horse, then the pair stood stock-still and hesitant in the biting sea breeze. Neither seemed able to speak. Finally she wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Ah, I should have mentioned that,” said Darwin. He at least seemed cheerful. “That stench is by deliberate design—and temporary.”

The trance was broken. Kathleen shook her head and smiled. “I don’t care if he smells like the grave.” And she added, in a low tone intended for Richard alone, “So long as you are not in it.”

“And will not be, I trust, for a long time.” Darwin came forward, forcing them apart.

“But how ?” Kathleen glanced from Richard to the coach. “The murder and confession I understand, but the thefts—”

“Patience, Miss Kathleen. There will be time enough for answers—in a little while.” Darwin faced Richard Dunwell. “He has to be followed, and at once. You, or I?”

“It should be me.” Dunwell glanced away along the deserted cliffs, following the line that his brother had taken. “But I must know one thing before I go. Was it pure avarice, the simple desire to assume the family estate, that made Brandon act so?”