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

The horn made a gurgling sound as the groaning from the corpse stopped finally. Charlotte’s dark lips remained frozen open, however.

“Such pain” a voice mumbled through the horn.

“Excellent,” Miss Appleby said cheerily. “We are successful.”

The voice was hoarse and distant, yet also vaguely feminine. “Why … why do this? It hurt so. Let me raast .”

“I apologise for your distress, Charlotte,” Miss Appleby said. “But we need to know what happened to you. Tobias is to hang for your murder.”

“Tob … aah? Baah?”

“Yes, your beloved.”

“Tobah … not …”

“What’s that?”

“Wheel… wheel, can’t fuggus… oh the agony… not meant to appen …” “What’s not meant to happen, Charlotte?”

“Stop it, Tobah! Stop it, I beg you … No! Release me!” A piercing shriek, and then Charlotte’s stiff arm shot out and her blackened hand locked onto Pugh’s wrist.

The gaoler screeched and struggled but the grip would not relax. “Let go of me, devil! Mam … Mammy, help me!”

Miss Appleby berated him. “Quiet, Pugh! Have you no feelings? The poor girl merely seeks comfort.” She asked Charlotte, “Is Tobias angry, my dear? Is he hurting you?”

An odd whimpering occurred that might have been laughter, before a deeper voice interjected. “Yes, he throttled me alright, sent me to Hell where all us whores belong! He’ll be joining us soon. He deserves it!”

“Another is present,” Miss Appleby said, pushing the lever quickly and yanking the wires free. Serum spurted from the tubes.

“Another?” asked the doctor.

“A malign presence followed her through. It’s happened before. Dangerous for the surrogate; therefore, I must shut the procedure down.”

Pugh had finally managed to prise away Charlotte’s dead fingers. He crawled from the trench and ran into the darkness, blubbering for his mother.

“That’s done it,” said the doctor, shaking visibly. “I never expected him to keep his mouth shut. What about refilling this grave? I’m afraid I’m not fit enough to shovel dirt.”

“I have no desire to either,” Miss Appleby said. “Let it be. It’s too late now anyway.”

“Have you no shame? We cannot abandon it in this condition!”

“Doubtless the gravedigger will put it right. Listen, when we return to the house, I want you to arrange for my things to be taken to the station, including this box here. Pay a guard to ensure nobody touches it. Mr. Creswell and I will need to borrow a horse each. We might require a hasty departure. Come, we haven’t much time.”

The doctor looked crestfallen. “Time for what? It’s clear my son is guilty. You heard what the dead girl said. Justice must be served. Tobias shall hang.”

As dawn broke, mist covered the icy bridlepath. I followed her up the hill at a measured canter, my face wet and cold from the dew that brushed off the overhanging foliage. We emerged in a clearing, greeted by a hazy view of great unnatural steps carved in the surrounding cliffs.

“Miss Appleby, what exactly are we doing here?”

“Keep up, Mr. Creswell!”

I pursued her up a steep incline until we reached a settlement of stone buildings where blocks were obviously split with hammers and chisels. We tethered the horses to an iron container crammed with slate panels then continued on foot. The area was deserted, though I imagined men would be arriving soon to begin their shift. Below, a steep gravelled slope with rail tracks led far down into the foggy undergrowth. Rusted wagons sat on these tracks, attached to thick cables that coiled around an enormous drum nearby. From a concealed point beyond the drum, I heard the flow of water.

“Over here,” she said, striding over the crest.

The embankment was thick with ferns and trees, an odd contrast to the otherwise grey wasteland. I pictured the young lovers meeting here, out of sight of the men, far from the prying eyes of the townsfolk, yet near enough for Tobias to return to work if called. Miss Appleby stepped across the narrow footbridge spanning the stream; the dirty water a shallow trickle, but when released from the pond’s dam, I imagined the flow would be substantial. Beside her was the giant waterwheel that powered the drum, a great wooden structure with blades and paddles and riveted iron plates, though motionless now. She pointed at something.

“Do you see that?”

She climbed onto the bridge’s handrail, stretched out a leg, and clambered onto one of the paddles.

“Take care, Miss Appleby.”

She edged around the paddle, shuffled her feet along a blade, until she neared the hub. Reaching down, she untangled something and stuffed it in her jacket pocket.

A picture began to emerge. As a correspondent, I had developed a skill for recalling conversations verbatim and could replay these in my mind like an actor might a memorised script. This, along with keen instincts, allowed me to view objectively, with empathy or detachment, whatever suited the occasion. Sometimes what appeared perplexing on the surface was really quite a simple affair beneath the complex and emotive behaviour of those closely involved.

The wheel… Stop it, Tobias! Stop it, I beg you …

Miss Appleby showed me what she had found. It was a sodden blackish colour but when she squeezed the filthy water out its original scarlet showed. The wool had unravelled at one end where it had been cut, probably with a knife.

“Do you see, Mr. Creswell?”

I nodded. “I remember Tobias hugging the shorter end of that scarf in his cell. I thought it was a hat at the time.”

“I can visualise them walking here holding hands,” she said dreamily, “or perhaps they were warned that Crane had arrived and were making a hurried escape. A gust of wind, the wheel turning, a freak occurrence …”

“The constables have been summoned. It’s too late for you now.”

I turned to see an athletic man with wavy hair and greying sideboards. He stood very straight, slapping a stag horn crop rhythmically in the palm of his hand. “The desecration of hallowed ground and defiling a body are serious offences,” he continued. “I imagine you will be imprisoned for a long time.”

“That may be so, Mr. Crane,” she said. “But it won’t bring her back. And neither will the hanging of an innocent boy.”

“He had no right to … Charlotte was too good for him. Quite simply, if she hadn’t been with him, she wouldn’t have perished. For him the stakes were high. He knew that. He gambled. There is always a price to pay. It is the nature of the world. Somebody has to pay — blood or coin. I demand to be compensated.”

“One cannot be compensated for bad luck, for an act of God. That is an absurd notion.”

“Considering what you do, Miss Appleby, you are in no position to judge what is proper. You are a morally repugnant individual, just like your infamous father, who got exactly as he deserved.”

“My father cared about people. And not just those close to him, or those of his social class. You, who would permit a grieving boy to die simply to satisfy your rage against God or fate, could never understand that.”

“Watch your tongue.”

Her tone softened. “They say it is easier to blame, to revert to anger rather than accept the agony of grief. I don’t condemn you for that, sir. You lost a daughter. I only ask …”

He strode forward. “I am required to contain you before the constables arrive. If you struggle, I’ll thrash you.”

She ducked under his outstretched arm and ran. I blocked his route, but his fist struck me a thudding blow on the point of my jaw. When I came to, I was lying on the gritty earth, my head aching and my vision blurred. There was no sign of them, but I heard screaming from behind the drum. I stood groggily and staggered up the slope.