The Best Horror of the Year. Volume 6

THE WITHERING Tim Casson

It was clear that Miss Appleby trusted nobody associated with my profession. Her attitude was no doubt influenced by her father’s disgrace and the tragedy ten years ago in 1881, the details of which, in the form of yellowed newspaper cuttings, I carried in my waistcoat pocket. Still, I persevered, suggesting that an arrangement between us would be to her advantage.

“Or at least advantageous,” I added, “to those unfortunate souls that you are blessed to assist.”

She wavered, perhaps because of the word blessed. A tactical addition on my part: both an appeal to her vanity and a validation of what she doubtless perceived as her selfless and lonely struggle.

“In that case, sir,” she said, “if I were to agree, I would insist that you omit the embellishments and half-truths common to the work of your kind.”

“Of course …”

“Remember your responsibility, Mr. Creswell. Your article could be the final nail in the coffin of an innocent man!”

The outburst coloured her cheeks. When passionate like that, I noticed her eyes were quite lovely.

I insisted that she had the word of a gentleman, and I would write only the truth as I saw it.

Her study was gloomy and cluttered; the deep-crimson walls decorated with the masks and tribal carvings that her father had acquired in Africa. I sat there watching her at work, her face paled by the dull morning glow from a window blurred with rain. She sifted through a pile of letters on her desk, tearing each envelope with a paperknife, scanning the handwriting and frowning at something or other.

“Fool!”

She tossed aside the letter, then, as was her habit, began a reply immediately.

I picked it up and read the pleas of a Derbyshire mother whose daughter-in-law’s burned remains were discovered in a bread oven. “Hm, agreed. Didn’t her son, the baker, confess?”

“Unfortunately much of the correspondence I receive reveals a tacit denial. It’s not possible for some folk to accept their loved one’s role in any abominable act. My father cautioned in his journals about such time wasters.”

“How do you know when they are genuine?”

“Intuition perhaps. And I am familiar with most of the current cases. I follow the reports in the newspapers.”

“All those embellishments and half-truths?” I said, winking.

She squirmed. “I am attempting to ease this poor woman’s suffering, Mr. Creswell, while at the same time imploring her to accept her son’s guilt. Not an easy task.”

The next letter caused her lips to tremble oddly. She brushed a stray lock from her forehead, turned and stared through the rainy window. I read the letter, from a Dr. Mortlock in Wales. “What’s so different about this one?”

“The brevity perhaps, a sincerity of tone measured in few words.” She stood and smoothed her lap, staring at me with a determined look. “Come, Mr. Creswell, we have no time to lose.”

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.”

“There were no noises when you peeped this afternoon. If the light from a keyhole is obstructed, it does not require Sherlock Holmes to determine what is happening. Fortunately for you the feed is not corrosive.”

“Feed?”

“The stinging will subside and your vision will return. Go to the bathroom and wash your face and after that open this door immediately.”

“Yes, of course.”

Afterwards I perched on the edge of my bed while she sat in a chair opposite. The eerie noises were more pronounced now that the door was open. “I really must apologise, Miss Appleby, but I was curious about that strongbox. In the carriage earlier I saw what looked like air holes.”

“I am not ashamed of what I do, Mr. Creswell. That’s why I said nothing when you spied this afternoon. But once is enough, wouldn’t you say?”

I nodded, smiling weakly.

“The reason I have allowed you to observe my life is simply so that others may know and understand, without prejudice formed through ignorance. However, I must ask you to reserve judgement until you have seen the results, the good that the surrogate can achieve.”

“The surrogate?”

“My father acquired him from a shaman in Africa. Every so often, in that village, a mother gives birth to a babe that never grows, as its soul lies between two worlds. If anything, over time, it reduces and shrivels. He is very old now, nearing the end of his existence I fear. His tiny form is not appealing to the eye, quite hideous in fact, so I must ask you not to stare at him. It is he that unwittingly draws the night voices as he sleeps, which are projected through the apparatus’s brass vocal horn.”

“Night voices?”

“My father’s name for them. The native expression does not translate accurately into English. The closest we have is the withering.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The dead are speaking, Mr. Creswell. For me, a common enough occurrence at night, yet it never fails to unnerve. Doubtless they are trying to persuade the surrogate to usher them through. Though for what purpose I can only guess. Perhaps it is to do with reliving earthly memories, or the forlorn hope of meeting a loved one again. Usually the sounds are indistinct, soft like the wind, while at other times there’s a locution that seems to actually mean something.” She tilted her head. “Right now I hear extinct languages, a confusion of tongues, rather like the babble of an audience before curtain up, wouldn’t you say? My father, writing in his notes, emphasised the dangers of trying to determine what they are saying, Mr. Creswell, of listening too deeply. To do so can lead to madness. So take heed.”

“That isn’t very reassuring. In truth, I’d rather not listen to them at all. They frighten me.”

“Indeed. They frighten me too.”

“Then why …?”

She sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I have taken the correct path in life, or whether I really had any choice in the matter. Did you hear what the doctor said earlier about seeing his wife suffer?”

“Yes.”

“It’s clear, with his ill health, that he carries those memories as a burden visible to all. Perhaps, in varying degrees, it is the same for each of us. Just the presence alone of the box is a reminder of my past. As a girl, although I was not directly involved in this work, it shaped my life without me realising.”

“In what sense?”

“Back then I did not know the details of my father’s occupation, only that he was a scientist and had an assistant he referred to as ‘the surrogate.’ My mother refused to talk about it, which only added to the mystery and allure. Sometimes I would sneak down to his laboratory in the cellar when he was away, an Aladdin’s cave of treasures, which inspired me to also become a scientist.

“I was fortunate to grow up in an age when the laws regarding education were changing. It was over ten years ago now, and women were able to take degrees at the University of London for the first time. I was so happy, studying the sciences in such a learned environment, engaged to be married to Edward whom I loved dearly. I considered myself blessed, believing that bad things happened only to other people. Somewhat conceitedly, I regarded my life almost as a public exhibit, like some beautiful tapestry to be admired by all, with each day weaving a perfect new scene.

“But then the scandal broke. The newspapers vilified my father, branding him a ‘necromancer,’ whilst his peers dismissed him as a crank dabbling in the black arts. Edward broke off our engagement as a result of such public slurs, fellow students shunned me, and tutors issued poor marks as though I were responsible for my father’s theories. The tapestry unravelled, and rewove into something grotesque, depicting images of horror. And, like the doctor, my pain was hung out for all to see.”

She stood, wandered over to the door, and looked back with an unbearably sad expression. “I hope the noises are not too disturbing for you. Please try and get some sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

After breakfast, she asked the doctor to accompany us to the town gaol. He was reluctant, saying that he felt unwell, but she reminded him of the agreement yesterday.

“Being both a stranger and a woman here,” she said, “I need you to gain access to places that might otherwise be barred to me.”

She looked beautiful and fresh despite the late night. I imagined she had selected her clothing for comfort and ease of movement: tweed Tartar-style cycling trousers and a matching jacket. A common enough lady’s sporting outfit in the London parks, but not, I reasoned, in an industrial backwater such as this. Still, probably better to be fashionably conspicuous than hampered by billowing skirts.

The gaol was within walking distance but the doctor’s pace was slow. It was positioned at the highest point in the town and, as I looked back, a view unfolded of bleak terraces, and farther off the grey scar of the quarry against otherwise unspoiled green hills. On arrival, the doctor spoke to the gaoler, a muscular fellow called Pugh.

“Mr. Crane said I’m not supposed to let no one in there, see,” said Pugh. His bewildered manner and thick-boned jaw suggested a person of limited intelligence.

“Come on, man!” barked the doctor. “We’re here on official medical business.”

This seemed to do the trick. Pugh collected his keys and beckoned us to follow. The gaol was a typical provincial establishment; damp stone walls, a single passage leading to just four tiny cells, smelling of mould and faintly of human waste. Pugh showed us the boy’s cell then left us to it, slamming the iron door behind.

Tobias Jones lay on a bunk with his knees tucked in his chest. His pale blue eyes were open but did not follow our progress into the cramped space. I saw that he and the striking young man in the photograph on the doctor’s mantelpiece were one and the same. With those blond curls, pale clear skin, and melancholic blue eyes, I imagined he had broken the hearts of more than a few local girls. Some faint bruising showed on the side of his face, and there was a partially healed cut above his eyebrow. Miss Appleby began with several straightforward questions. The boy, however, was unresponsive.

“What happened to Charlotte?” she asked. At the mention of the girl, his eyes looked into hers yet still he said nothing. “Do you want to hang?” She thrust a pad and pencil at him. “If you cannot speak then write the answers down.” The boy ignored this and buried his head in his arms. From beneath his pillow he had taken a red woollen hat and grasped it close. “We’re wasting our time here,” she said.

Dr. Mortlock was looking at the boy, on the verge of tears it seemed. “Would you both mind if I spent a moment alone with him?”

I called Pugh. After he let us out, we followed him to the dark recess by the gaol’s entrance where he wiled away the hours. He stared rudely at Miss Appleby, as though he had never seen a lady before.

“What’s the story there, Pugh?” she asked.

“Uh?”

“With the boy, what happened?”

His dull features grew animated. “Done her with his ’ands like … in …”

“His hands? Are you sure?”

“Round her neck, aye …” He made out he was throttling himself. “… tchsss…like that, see.”

I remembered what the doctor had said yesterday about a ligature.

“How do you know it wasn’t a belt or a cord?” asked Miss Appleby, clearly thinking along the same lines.

“Mr. Crane said.”

“And how would he know?”

“He found ’em up there.” Pugh’s grin revealed misshapen yellow teeth. “He’ll swing for squeezing that sweet kitten. And I’ll be on duty, see. Can’t wait!”

Looking down now, he seemed to have noticed her shapely legs in fashionable cycling trousers for the first time. He licked his lips and chuckled. “Them’s a pair of fancy pants you got on.” His hand reached out and squeezed her tweed covered thigh.

Before I was able to intervene, she struck him hard across the face. He cowered, as though expecting another blow.

“Pugh, do you like money?” she said.

“I like to spend it, aye.”

“Then how would you feel about earning a good sum?”

Afterwards I made notes in my room at the house, thinking about what was at stake here. It was much the same throughout the country. Like Pugh, certain folk delighted at the prospect of another’s execution, yet those with an ounce of compassion were naturally repulsed. After an outrage that shocked the public, such as a particularly gruesome murder, society demanded that somebody pay the price. This pressured the police, who were then often too quick to deliver a suspect. It did not matter if the person might be innocent, so long as an example was set. Miss Appleby, I suspected, had a particular aversion to this barbaric toss of a coin, and the noose itself, enhanced by personal experience, which drove her to pursue her work so diligently.

I unfolded the yellowed newspaper cuttings and read them again, except this time from a more personal perspective now that I was acquainted with one of those involved. Miss Appleby had returned home from university one evening to discover a mob hanging her father from the tree overlooking her bedroom window. When she tried intervening, some men held her back, and when she screamed, she was punched in the face. A gang of shrieking women insisted she accompany her father on the tree, and for a wavering moment it almost went that way. She was unable to look, a witness said, so one of the men, with a gleeful expression, gripped her chin and wrenched her face towards her father kicking and squirming. The correspondent, who in a previous article had virtually incited the mob, was this time sympathetic. He called for those responsible to face the noose, which of course they did.

The servant knocked the door and announced that lunch was about to be served.

The meeting with the boy had clearly upset the doctor. We ate watery pigeon soup in the dining room, in silence except for the tick-tock of the grandfather clock and a crude slurping as the doctor’s spoon met his lips. After a time, Miss Appleby looked him in the eye and said, “Yesterday I mentioned certain terms. On the basis of those terms I agreed to help. And yet you have already broken them, Doctor.”

He seemed offended. “That’s not true. I feel I must protest here.”

“You have not been honest with me.”

“In what sense?”

“Why didn’t you tell me Tobias is your son?”

He turned his head, looking ashamed. “Is it really that obvious?”

“Your manner with him earlier was paternal, certain physical characteristics are similar, and there is a photograph of him on your mantelpiece.”

“Ah, I grow complacent. Sometimes I forget to put it in the drawer. In truth, since my wife died, I’m past caring. Let them think what they like!” He turned defiant for a moment before reverting to the more familiar despondency. “I had a very brief affair with Tobias’s mother, just a single occasion where temptation got the better of us. She fell pregnant. Naturally I supported her financially in secret. And we both did a thorough job of hiding it from our respective spouses. Her husband always believed Tobias to be his, and my wife never suspected. She was not able to bear us children. Consequently, over the years, I have felt a growing yet distant affection for the boy. It would break my heart to see him hang. Also, as the presiding physician, I would be expected to examine him afterwards to confirm his passing.” He wiped a tear from his cheek with a handkerchief. “I feel that is beyond me.”

“What about family? Has he anyone else, any brothers and sisters that may help?”

“His mother died of fever several years ago, his father in a quarry accident. There is an older half-sister. She teaches at the school here. But I fear she is too afraid to speak out and defend him. Crane’s donations keep the school running. I suspect he has approached her in private.”

She brushed her lips with a napkin. “Then I shall pay her a visit too.”

The high ceiling with exposed beams rendered the schoolroom only marginally less cold than outside. As I closed the door, making a great racket, the children turned and stared. A schoolmistress approached along the aisle, which divided the desks in two sections, her heels echoing over the woodblock floor.

“Get on with your work!”

With her plain, stern features, and hair stretched above her scalp in a stiff bun, there was little resemblance to her handsome half-brother. The doctor spoke almost in a whisper. “I’m sorry for the sudden intrusion. Miss Appleby here wishes to talk to you about Tobias.”

“What? Have you lost all sense, Doctor?”

She peered around as if there might be spies among the pupils. Breathing fiercely through her nose, she ordered the doctor to take the class for a moment then led Miss Appleby and me into a windowless storeroom. The smells of boxed chalk, new pencils, water-based paints, and fresh paper reminded me of school as a little boy. Also, the schoolmistress’s strict manner prompted a peculiar echo of crimeless guilt, as if we were about to be scolded for our existence alone.

“Who are you?”

Miss Appleby introduced us and said that her business was fighting injustice.

“Injustice?” The schoolmistress spoke as if the word were a profanity. “What can you do?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps nothing. But anything is worth a try, wouldn’t you say?”

“Poking your nose in looking for trouble is bad for everybody.”

“I’m not seeking trouble, madam, merely the truth.”

“The truth is there is no justice in this life. Tobias is doomed. We just have to accept that and get on with things.”

“But if the real murderer is at large still, and we do nothing and he acts again, how could we live with that on our conscience?”

“Don’t lecture me about moral duty! You should try spending a lifetime in this town first.”

“What if your brother is innocent?”

“Of course he is innocent.”

“Then who murdered Charlotte Crane?”

“Her father, naturally.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Call it instinct, or a good judge of character, whatever you like. Miss Appleby, have you ever been in love?”

She swallowed uncomfortably. “Once, yes.”

“Then you understand it would be impossible for Tobias to kill Charlotte. They were sweethearts. It carried on for months in secret but the silly girl read too many novels, Wuthering Heights in particular. She was dazzled by romantic notions and grew complacent, visiting him at the quarry for all the men to see. They were planning to marry, to run away together. Crane found out, followed her up there and, after beating Tobias to within an inch of his life, strangled his own daughter. You see, for her to marry a boy of lower class would have brought shame on the Crane family. Such a proud, cruel man, her death was simply about honour over public disgrace.”

The bedroom was very dark and cold as I stepped barefoot across the floorboards. I lit the lamp then dressed, my shadow jerking in the half-light. When ready, I knocked on Miss Appleby’s door.

She shovelled coal in the grate, ignited twists of newspaper, then dragged the strongbox nearer the warmth. “Each time I prepare, I am reminded of that darkest period of my life, and the moment I first laid eyes on the surrogate. I shall never forget. In that sense, I feel I should warn you.”

“Oh?”

“The experience you are about to witness is most distressing.”

“Then why do it? What made you want to continue your father’s work? I’m interested to know what motivates you.”

She seemed annoyed by my questions. “Duty, Mr. Creswell, Papa’s final wishes. Can you understand that?”

“To some degree I suppose, but not if—”

“He was lying in his casket in the living room, only hours after he was lynched. The family solicitor paid us a visit. He handed me bundles of papers and a modified oak strongbox. There were detailed instructions for the apparatus, and a recipe for the feed. The final instruction I found most difficult to undertake. But I managed to bring him back for half a minute.”

“You brought your father back?”

She nodded, tearful now. “He groaned pitifully, but was unable to speak. I wept, tried reassuring him that what had happened wasn’t his fault. I didn’t know it then, Mr. Creswell, but the newer the corpse means the less work for the surrogate. The surrogate is merely a means to recall rather than a tool for sustaining the process. A returnee to a fresh body attempts instinctively to use their own damaged organs and not the surrogate’s, their larynx instead of the brass horn. Yet, despite my ignorance at that time, it was obvious Papa’s vocal tract had been crushed by the rope. Still, his lips kept puckering until finally I understood what he was trying to communicate and placed a pen in his cold fingers. Naturally it was not the neatest handwriting, but I could make out the words he scrawled.”

“Which were?”

“Save them, Mr. Creswell. My father implored me to save them. And you ask what motivates me?”

Soon after we were outside in the freezing night air. A growing dread was pressing on my heart, and I soon grew fatigued from carrying the strongbox along the dark streets to the chapel. On arrival, I placed it on a patch of grass and leaned against the cold wall, grateful for the rest, yet feeling that I had no control over what I was venturing into. The chapel, a drab building with a single domed window at the front, stood on a sharp gradient like everything else in that town. A hazy sliver of moon cast little light, and my eyes strained to see the silhouetted figure trudging slowly up the hill towards us, past the terraces then the workingmen’s club on the corner.

“I fail to see why you employed his services,” the doctor said to Miss Appleby, watching the lumbering figure also. “He cannot be trusted.”

“I’m not cut out for manual labour and neither are you and Mr. Creswell by the look of it. Sometimes one has to take risks.”

Pugh complained about the late hour and the cold, but when the doctor handed over several pound notes, he quieted. We entered through black gates then trod over frosty turf around the headstones until we arrived at the Crane family plot, conspicuous by the pale imposing edifices looming in the darkness. One statue was clean and new, a winged angel sculpted from white marble. Miss Appleby laid the wreaths to one side then Pugh went to work hacking at the icy crust with the spade edge.

We waited in silence; the only sounds Pugh’s laboured breathing, the scrape of the spade and the wind rushing through the spindly trees that bordered the perimeter. Fortunately, beneath the hard surface, the soil was softer otherwise it might have taken the gaoler half the night to complete his trench. When his tool struck hollow wood, Miss Appleby jumped down to help lift the casket lid. Pugh crossed himself as the stink wafted up. I stood at the edge of the trench. It was too dark to see anything. Miss Appleby lit an oil lamp and placed it low inside to conceal the glow. Now I was able to see Charlotte’s condition. The skin had begun to bloat, ripening to dark coppery tones, a grotesque contrast to the pretty white bonnet and the frock with bows and frills.

“I’m not confident,” Miss Appleby muttered to me. “The longer a corpse is laid to rest the harder it is to recall, and the more painful for those brought back if successful. It also means the surrogate will have to work hard, dangerously so, which worries me.”

Quickly, she unpacked the box, unravelled wires and tubes and connected them to the cadaver, including a copper disc which she tucked inside the dress’s buttons and placed against the heart. She yanked a brass lever. A soft beating sounded, to which Charlotte’s body began to gently spasm in rhythm. Pugh, standing in the trench still, muttered a prayer as milky serum sluiced through the catheters and into Charlotte’s decayed circulatory system.

“An electrical battery cell powers the false heartbeat,” Miss Appleby said. “Anti-coagulants thin the clogged routes.”

“Is that what brings her back?” I asked.

“No. It’s merely a deception designed to fool her into thinking her body is healthy again. It helps filter unwanted guests, shall we say. She will re-enter. Then, after realising her body is useless, she will hopefully answer the surrogate’s call and join him in his body.”

Pugh cried out. He must have noticed the surrogate nestled amongst the apparatus’s rods, wires, and glassware.

“Calm yourself, man,” she told him. “If the sight offends, then avert your eyes.”

Once again, like last night, I heard the far-off murmuring of voices through the horn. Charlotte’s mouth jerked wide open, remaining fixed that way as though an invisible dental clamp were holding it in place. A woeful groan emitted from her, suggesting extreme discomfort. As this cattle-like bellow grew in volume, Pugh cowered, terrified.

“Can’t you stop that?” asked the doctor. “Somebody is sure to hear. The entire town will awaken.”

“It’s too late now,” she said. “We must wait for her to pass to the surrogate. At the moment she is confused, struggling inside her own wasted body. Don’t worry. This is normal.”

“Normal? I disagree most strongly, madam. You have obviously developed immunity to this vile sacrilege. If I had only known …”

“If you remember, Doctor, I offered sufficient warning. I must remind you of our agreement.”

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.

He was straddling her, his fingers clamped around her throat, his expression sheer madness now. An image of her father on the tree and the gleefully insane mob came to me. I was not confident of overpowering him, but knew I had no choice but to try. Before I reached them, however, Miss Appleby’s hand closed around a slate shard. She swung this at his head. He gasped: a strange sound, like a cough almost. Tumbling off her, he pressed his hand to his forehead, blood seeping through his fingers, which he then attempted to wipe from his eyes with a sleeve.

We left him sitting there muttering to himself then took the doctor’s horses and rode fast down the hill. At the house, the servant informed us that the doctor had been incarcerated in the gaol for his role in the graveyard affair. Miss Appleby wrote a brief account of her discoveries and handed this, along with the scarf as evidence, to the servant. We borrowed the horses once again and galloped for the station.

In an office adjoining the waiting room, she was visibly relieved to see the strongbox safe and unmolested.

Still, we did not relax until the luggage was loaded on the train and we were able to stare out of the carriage window at the retreating station.

“Congratulations,” I said smiling. “It looks like you have saved a life.”

She shook her head. “Crane is a difficult opponent, and there is still much work to be done to free Tobias. Nothing is certain. Those who deserve to stand on the gallows — the Cranes of this world, the industrialists, the slave merchants and warmongers — never do. But sometimes it’s possible to thwart their perverse idea of justice. I have contributed all I can. I just hope the doctor is strong enough to see it through. And there is your article, Mr. Creswell. I trust that you will do all in your power.”

“Of course. I’ll do my best.”

Instinctively, I reached across and clasped her hands. For a moment, she seemed to respond to my excitable display of affection. I looked into her eyes and saw a yearning there. But only for a second or two. Quickly, almost as an afterthought, she pulled her hands free and turned to face the window. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing irregular.

My editor liked the headline — INNOCENT BOY TO HANG! — but his expression changed the more he read.

“Absurd, Creswell! Do you honestly expect anyone to believe this mumbo-jumbo? Damn it, man, this is a serious newspaper!”

Needless to say, he did not proceed with the story. I did manage to place it, however, except the magazine was somewhat sensational, and my article was sandwiched between two tales of supernatural fiction. Miss Appleby was not pleased, and she refused to talk to me afterwards. I discovered later that Dr. Mortlock had been released without charge after spending only a day in gaol, courtesy of Mr. Crane. The boy Tobias was less fortunate. He was hanged two weeks later.

I sent a telegram to the doctor offering my condolences. I also wrote to Miss Appleby saying that she should be proud of what she had done, and that I would like to see her again because I had grown very fond of her.

She did not reply.