Ellen Datlow - The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 6

She kept a trunk packed ready for such impromptu trips. As always, I travelled light.

She stared out of the compartment window at the Welsh countryside, clearly deep in thought. I studied her discreetly, without her or the other travellers noticing, hopefully. The natural light captured an expression of reflective innocence, the delicate symmetry of her face and those lovely eyes. I wondered why such an attractive lady, at thirty now, was not married or at least courted by gentlemen suitors.

Our train arrived late afternoon at a drab little town called Llanilydd, which was enclosed by steep grey hills. The porter loaded Miss Appleby’s trunk onto the waiting hansom but she insisted on lugging her strongbox despite its obvious weight. The sky was overcast and there was a chill wind blowing off the hills. She draped a blanket over the strongbox, covering what looked like air holes, hugging it close as we bumped along a muddy valley road — the contents inside tinkling — before arriving at the town’s main street. The driver whipped the horses up a sharp hill then halted outside a large dwelling, grand but bleak and uninviting.

A dour servant showed us to our rooms. Miss Appleby asked the whereabouts of the doctor but the fellow had already turned along the landing. My room was adjacent to Miss Appleby’s, clad in dark wood panelling, austere though warm thankfully. As I unpacked my travel bag, I noticed the inner door.

I eased out the brass key, knelt, and peered through the ha’penny-sized aperture, trying to convince myself that such behaviour was justifiable, the nature of my work, but in truth hoping to catch a glimpse of her changing, in her undergarments especially. I felt ashamed yet excited also. Across the room directly opposite, the strongbox was positioned on a Turkey rug beside the grate’s glowing coals.

Miss Appleby came into view. She used a set of keys to undo an elaborate lock system, opened the lid then unhooked hinge pins that held the side panels in place. The clutter that was revealed — mainly brass components, tubes and glassware — sparkled in the light of the fire. But it was difficult to see the apparatus in any detail.

“There,” she said, “a nice fire. That should warm you up.”

She uncorked a bottle of greenish mulch — recoiling momentarily from what I imagined was the odour — and fitted a rubber tube to the end. There was a strange sputtering from inside the apparatus; the rubber umbilical coiled like a snake and there was gurgling as the bottle’s plankton-like fill reduced an inch.

A knock on the door startled me.

The servant stood there, sniffing with disgust at the sight of me kneeling by the keyhole.

“The doctor asks if you and Miss Appleby would join him in the drawing room for tea.”

I guessed that Dr. Mortlock looked much older than his years; his pallor a bloodless grey, with deep facial lines that seemed to have been shaped by misery, or a hopeless struggle with disease perhaps. His thin frame moved cautiously, wary of the environment, as though some minor collision with the furniture might produce a most painful reaction.

“I imagined you’d be older,” he said to Miss Appleby, ushering her to the sofa. “Less appealing to the eye.”

She kept her tone formal. “If we could discuss business, Doctor …”

“Yes of course. I’m sorry for bringing you here, Miss Appleby. This is indeed a wretched town. But an innocent boy, Tobias Jones, is to stand trial for murder, and that cannot be right.”

“Who is he alleged to have murdered?” she asked.

“A girl of seventeen, Charlotte Crane. The daughter of Arthur Crane. He owns the slate quarry here. This town would die without the quarry, and Crane has turned the people against young Tobias.”

“What’s your relationship with this boy?”

The question seemed to unsettle the doctor. “I have known the family for years, that’s all. Should I stand idly by and allow a miscarriage of justice? Tobias is certain to hang.”

“How did the girl die?”

“I conducted the post-mortem myself. Marks on the neck indicated a ligature, applied with force enough to fatally deprive the brain of oxygen.”

“Was she raped?”

“Her undergarments were undisturbed. There was no physical evidence of molestation.”

“What about robbery?”

“Her purse contained two pounds and some odd coins, so no.”

“Then why is the boy a suspect?”

“He was discovered with her body at the quarry where he works. Not good, I realise, but …”

She stared. “And what did he have to say about that?”

The doctor massaged the deep grooves in his face. “This tragic incident has rendered him mute. A symptom of shock, I believe. He was beaten terribly when found and has not spoken since. You must help poor Tobias. He has a gentle nature, I assure you.”

The servant wheeled a trolley in then served tea and fruitcake. Miss Appleby tipped a spoonful of sugar in her cup and stirred it. “Dr. Mortlock, are you familiar with what I do?”

“I have heard you save the innocent from the gallows.”

“In some cases that may be true. But what I attempt to do is expose the guilty. I admit though, not always successfully. I must warn you, however, that my work is frowned upon, considered unethical, and certainly not for the faint of heart. Some say it is an abomination. Others, when they see what it is truly about, are quick to turn to superstition and violence. My father was a great man of science, though somewhat trusting, and that cost him his life. I do not wish to make the same mistake.”

“Miss Appleby, I nursed my wife through her final moments. Five years ago now. She died in the most dreadful agony. Nothing on earth could be more distressing, believe me. My health has not been the same since. What I mean is, in my time as a physician, I have seen the darkest things this cruel world has to offer.”

She shook her head slowly. “Some things you have not seen.”

I noticed on the mantelpiece a photograph of the doctor from probably the previous decade, posing stiffly with a lady of similar age, their expressions solemn from the formality of the occasion, yet both healthy looking. Next to this was a picture of a young man, strikingly handsome and smiling without inhibition.

“If I agree to help,” she said, “you must do exactly as I say.”

He nodded. “Whatever it takes.”

“Where is the body of Charlotte Crane right now?”

“In the graveyard, naturally.”

“Then we need to exhume.”

As she said this, I almost spat a mouthful of tea.

An odd sound woke me. It seemed to drift through the door cracks from Miss Appleby’s room. I lit the bedside lamp then tiptoed across and peered through the keyhole, surprised, at this hour, to see her sitting on the edge of the bed in a nightgown staring as though in a trance. The sounds were most peculiar and disturbing and appeared to originate from the strongbox apparatus beside the fire. Like the far-off wailing of some nightmarish choir, discordant, spoiled of melody, as though heard through warped pipes perhaps. Miss Appleby stood suddenly and wandered out of sight. I gasped. Something wet and foul-smelling squirted through the keyhole. There was a terrible stinging in my eye.

A voice from behind the door called, “Serves you right, you Peeping Tom!”

“I’m very sorry, Miss Appleby, but I was awoken by strange noises.”