He looked up in the gloom.
Above him, in the entrance of the cave, he could see a pale face peering downwards.
The harsh tones of the baron came faintly to his ears.
“Are you there, Doctor Shaw? You are, I know it. Well, do not think that yours is the victory. I shall win yet, you shall see. I am Frankenstein! I am master over all creatures, for I can give them life . . . or death! I shall win yet. You shall see.”
The face vanished into the darkness.
Brian paused breathing deeply. Then he began his descent again.
Here the cliff was difficult, and almost devoid of any holds by which he could make a safe descent. Once he looked down and caught sight of the surf far, far below him and felt his centre of gravity momentarily displace itself and a sickening feeling of giddiness rose within him. The terror of the open space gripped him as he felt the attractive power of the abyss.
For several seconds he clung, sweating, to the granite rock face.
Then slowly, foot by foot, he continued downwards. On the vertical face, as he went down, he found several irregularities of formation which facilitated his descent.
Every twenty-five feet, or his rough estimation of that distance, he paused to regain his strength.
His clothes were saturated with his own sweat and his legs, tired by the support of his body against the vertical cliff, felt like jelly and several times gave way to an uncontrollable shaking.
It felt like hours before he neared the bottom.
The pounding of his heart was overshadowed by the roar and pounding of the surf on the rocks below him. His clothes were now swamped by another dampness . . . that of the salt sea spray. He looked down anxiously for a moment and saw, to his great relief, that the tide was out, leaving a wide space of rocks along the cliff foot and out towards the cove at Bosbradoe.
He paused again before commencing the final descent. His whole body was shaking from exertion.
He put out a foot for the next hold, and suddenly the trembling in his calf muscles caused the leg to crumple as he placed his weight upon it. With a cry he fell, hitting the sandy shingle of the beach and then – it seemed to him – that he was falling further, further into a black, bottomless pool.
He recovered consciousness almost immediately and, in the pale moonlight, realized that he had fallen a matter of twelve feet. He breathed a prayer of gratitude, and began to examine his limbs to ensure that he had not broken or fractured any bones.
It seemed hours before he arrived, wet, sticky and uncomfortable, and climbing up on to the quay, made his way through the deserted village to the house of the late Doctor Trevaskis. As he climbed along the path, by the side of the house, a coach suddenly spun round the bend. A small black coach, almost hearse-like, drawn by two jet black horses. The momentary impression of the tall coachman, sitting atop the box, was strangely familiar to Brian. The coach vanished speedily round a bend of the road, out of the village.
A shocked looking Mrs Trevithick opened to his repeated knockings.
“Lord, Doctor Shaw! We wondered where you’d got to. Why, sir, you be all covered in sea and grime and . . . land sakes, sir . . . there be blood on you. Be you hurt?”
Brian shook his head dumbly.
“Just get me some hot water, Mrs Trevithick, a change of clothing . . . oh, and some rum, by God. The rum first. Oh,” he called to her retreating form, “and send your husband to me immediately.”
Trevithick came in while he was downing his second glass of rum.
“Run and fetch Mr Pencarrow.”
Pencarrow arrived as Brian was dressing after a brief, but refreshing wash.
“Thank God, Pencarrow, that you are here. I have a horrific tale to tell you . . .” he suddenly looked puzzled. “Where is Miss Trevaskis? Surely she can’t have slept through my arrival. I have made noise enough to waken the dead.”
Mrs Trevithick sniffed.
“She was tired and that stuff you gave her made her sleep fine.”
“Oh yes, I’d forgotten the laudanum. Well, she must be roused, I’m afraid, Mrs Trevithick.”
Unwillingly, Mrs Trevithick went to fetch her.
In a moment she had returned, her face pale, her eyes wide. She clutched a piece of paper in her hand.
Brian shot one look at her, and leapt towards the stairs.
Helen’s bedroom was empty. The bedclothes on her small four-poster were flung back as if a struggle had taken place. Of Helen there was no sign.
Mrs Trevithick was sobbing as he came back down the stairs.
“I found . . . I found this on her pillow, sir,” she cried and pressed the paper into his hand.
Brian took it. The message was curt.
A hostage for your good behaviour. Frankenstein.
“It is not possible,” gasped a white-faced Pencarrow when Brian had finished his narrative. The old parson was visibly shaken. He reached forward with a trembling hand and poured himself a glass of rum.
Brian watched him in silence.
“I have heard of this Frankenstein before, of course. Yes, yes. I recall now that there was some scandal in Switzerland and that the tale was told by a Mrs Mary Shelley. But Frankenstein, alive? And here? It is so fantastic.”
“Fantastic or not, Mr Pencarrow,” said Brian grimly, “it is the truth. Doctor Trevaskis was killed by him, and now two more bodies lie beneath the cliffs on which Tymernans stands.”
The old man gave him a searching look.
“What do you suggest we do, my boy?”
“Ring your church bells to rally the village, arm the villagers and let us attack the house,” cried Brian.
The old man shook his head sorrowfully.
“The baron says he has taken the girl as a hostage for your good conduct. What do you think he will do if he hears the alarm bells, and sees the people storming his house?”
“Then what must we do?” demanded Brian, desperation sounding in his voice.
The vicar raised a finger to his lips, and began to nibble at a nail in his concentration.
“Do you have any weapons?” enquired the parson.
Brian shook his head.
“I am a doctor, sir.”
“Hold here then, doctor, for I have some firearms next door which may be of assistance to us.”
He was back within a few minutes carrying a rusty sabre.
“Here,” he wheezed with his exertion. “Take the sword. I am not much of a hand with knives.”
Brian gave a rueful smile.
“I am more at ease with a surgical knife than this mortician’s piece.”
As they left the house, they encountered Mrs Trevithick in the hall.
Tears welled into her eyes.
“God send you rescue her, for I have nursed Miss Helen ever since she were a bairn in arms. Good luck, sir. Good luck.”
Brian patted her hand silently and followed Pencarrow from the house.
They made their way up to the cliff tops without incident. There was a hint of light in the eastern sky, and Brian realized that dawn must be just below the eastern horizon, although the sky above Bosbradoe was like pitch.
He paused at the entrance to the estate, by the wrought iron gates, and could clearly see where these had been torn back to admit the coach in which the baron had abducted Helen. The gates were now back in place, chained and locked once more.
Brian raised a finger to his lips and spoke in a low voice to Pencarrow.
“We must go silently from here. I fear he will be expecting us and have some defences ready.”
The old man nodded.
Together they climbed the old stone wall and dropped noiselessly down on the other side into the dark woodland.
Brian led the way, keeping well clear of the overgrown pathway he had used on his previous visits. The two men, encumbered by their weapons, pushed through the heavy undergrowth towards the house.
The two men came through the woods to the moonlit lawn. It seemed to Brian that he k
new every inch of the lawn, so many times had he crossed it during the past day.
Surprisingly the door of the house stood open.
As they entered they heard a scream from somewhere within the building.
“Miss Helen!” cried Pencarrow.
Brian plunged down the black passageway calling over his shoulder:
“Quick! To the cellar!”
The two men raced to the servants’ hall, and the vicar, panting, followed the young doctor down the stairs to the secondary hall and through the iron studded door to the great cavern which was the baron’s laboratory.
They halted at the head of the stairs, which wound through the ornate arches to the cavern floor. Their hearts came to their mouths as they beheld the figure of Helen strapped on to the surgical table in the centre of the cavern with the baron standing over her, a gleaming knife in his raised hand.
CHAPTER X
The baron’s head came up with a jerk, and his pale cold eyes glared at the intruders with a rage that Brian had never before seen in a man.
Mercifully, Helen lay unconscious.
For a while, various emotions fought for control on the dead white face of the baron, and then the face seemed to form into the pale mask that was habitual to the man. The thin lips drew back, displaying his teeth.
A surge of maniacal laughter shook the man’s frame.
Brian stepped forward.
“Back!” the word was a scream. The knife wavered in the air. “Back, or she dies now!”
Brian let his hands fall to his side, still holding the sabre in one hand.
“What now, Frankenstein?” asked Pencarrow softly.
The baron chuckled.
“Frankenstein! You say that august name with a sneer, my friend. One day the world will resound to that name. Frankenstein, the greatest scientist the world had known. On your knees, on your knees, dogs, because you are in the presence of a god!”
Pencarrow bit his lip.
“He is totally insane,” he whispered. “There’s no reasoning with him.”
The young doctor nodded.
“Can you see any way to rush him before he can reach Helen?”
“No, we must not risk her life.”
The baron regarded them suspiciously.
“What are you whispering about?”
Brian shook his head.
“Nothing. But what are you doing? Why are you holding Miss Trevaskis as a prisoner?”
An evil grin spread over the baron’s features.
“So, young friend. So, you think to take away Miss Trevaskis from me also? As you took away my wife? I tell you, Hugo . . .”
Brian glanced quickly at Pencarrow, who shrugged.
“My name is not Hugo. Hugo is dead. Didn’t you punish him enough?”
A puzzled frown passed across the baron’s brow.
“Hugo dead?”
“Yes,” said Brian. A plan began to develop in his mind. If he could distract the baron’s attention long enough, he and Pencarrow could reach Helen and perhaps stand between her and the baron’s knife.
“Hugo is not dead! You are Hugo!” screamed the baron. “But . . . but you’ve changed, Hugo. You look as you used to look, before I . . . before I operated on you. How did you do it? Do you know the secret?”
“I am not Hugo,” insisted Brian. “Hugo lies dead at the bottom of the cliffs . . . there!”
He threw out a hand towards the cave mouth.
The baron followed the pointing finger and Brian seized the opportunity to make another step forward.
Frankenstein glanced back with a look of suspicion on his face.
“I cannot be deceived,” he said slowly. “You must know that, Hugo.”
“I am not Hugo,” persisted Brian. “Hugo lies there. See for yourself.”
The baron drew himself up.
“I cannot be deceived,” he intoned again.
“You have only to look for yourself. Look at the bottom of the cliffs.”
Hesitantly, the baron walked towards the cave mouth.
“Now!” cried Brian.
The two men raced down the steps even as the baron gave a cry of rage and sprang back, knife upraised, towards the girl. Pencarrow, with a speed surprising for one so advanced in years, reached the surgical table first and swung a clenched fist at the baron’s upraised hand.
There was a dull smack and the knife went flying across the floor.
The baron gave a sharp cry of pain, and clutching his wrist, turned after the flying weapon.
Within a second, Brian was by the table and had unstrapped Helen, and was carrying the unconscious girl to the foot of the stairs. The girl was clearly drugged and he could smell the gaseous anaesthetic which had rendered her unconscious. He laid her unconscious form at the bottom of the stairs and turned back to aid Pencarrow.
“What shall we do with him?” asked the parson, jerking a hand towards the baron, who was scrabbling furiously among the packing cases, searching for his knife.
The two men moved towards the baron. He saw them coming and drew back with a snarl.
The long, drawn out howl of a hound echoed through the cavern.
In an instant the baron’s eyes blazed with an unholy light. He reached forward and snapped off the catch of one of the great wooden packing cases.
From its gloom the great wolfhound, the terrifying creation of Frankenstein, bounded forth.
Pencarrow, who was standing before Brian, gave a cry of horror and amazement. He threw up his arms before his face as the beast bounded towards him. Even Brian, who had seen the beast before, could not help the terror which gripped his heart as the massive black dog came into the light of the lanterns. It was a hound, a jet black animal, such as no mortal could conceive. Fire seemed to flash from its eyes, which were red glowing coals. Its great white fangs were bare, and its muzzle, hackles and dewlap were dripping with saliva, tinged red with blood from the fresh meat which the baron had fed it.
As it came forward it gave vent to a vicious snarl and let out a hideous howling, paralysing Pencarrow and Brian to the spot.
The frightful creature reached Pencarrow. The old parson fell like a ninepin beneath the leap of the great brute, whose gaunt and savage frame was surely as large as that of a lion.
Even in his terror, the old man reached out his hands to fend off those death-dealing jaws, to ward away those small, deep-set, cruel eyes which seemed ringed with red fire. Several times, the jaws snapped within fractions of an inch from Pencarrow’s throat.
Brian, recovering from his paralysis, ran forward, the sabre in his hand. But his attempts to stab the animal were thwarted by the fierce struggle of the man and beast as they rolled across the floor. At the same time Brian was distracted by the fact that the baron, taking advantage of the struggle, was seeking to escape from the cavern.
The struggle between Frankenstein’s evil creation and the old parson was unequal. There was only one way it could end. A shrill cry of pain rose from the old man as the massive jaws of the beast suddenly fastened on his throat. The hound stood over his prey growling victoriously as its great canine teeth sunk deeper and deeper.
A feeble hand was flung out by the old man in an instinctive attempt to close upon some weapon. In that last moment before death, the hand found the knife of the baron, closed upon it and found a new surge of strength. The hand was upraised and struck once, twice and once again into the neck of the beast.
The great jaws opened to emit a harsh howl of agony. Old Pencarrow never heard that sound for he fell back, his neck bloody and twisted.
For a moment, the beast stood over the body of the parson, its massive head between its shoulders, panting and growling. Then the hound raised its head and its tiny fiery eyes met Brian’s horrified gaze. He saw the great muscles and thews of its hindlegs gather together for a spring, saw the great jaws open to display its evil bloodstained molars, saw the animal spring forward.
But before the beast had reached him, the animal d
ropped prone upon the floor. It was dead. The blows struck by Pencarrow in his death agony had severed several arteries, and only the uncanny power of the animal had kept it upon its feet for so long.
For a moment Brian stood shuddering at the carcass of the dead beast.
Then a sound caused him to look up.
The baron, eyes ablaze, came towards him. From somewhere, the man had procured a sword. A transfiguration had taken place. The crouching maniacal look had vanished and once again Brian viewed the calm, detached man who seemed to have perfect control of himself and his emotions. There was a faint smile on his thin lips and his face had once more drawn into a mask.
He drew himself up before Brian and brought his sword to the salute.
“Well, well, my young friend. You have wrecked my household and destroyed my great creations. Is it not so? For this you must pay, hein?”
He tested his blade with a whip-like motion, hissing it through the air. Brian could see in his movements that he was no stranger to the sword.
The baron smiled.
“You observe that I have some knowledge of the weapon, young Herr? I was the best swordsman at Ingolstadt, perhaps in all Switzerland. I trust you know the rudiments of the weapon, because I am going to play with you before I kill you . . . Schweinhund!”
The baron suddenly launched himself at Brian, his silver blade slashing and sweeping. Brian, who had little knowledge of the sword, raised his old rusty weapon in an attempt to ward off the blows. The click and slither of steel upon steel, and the stamp of the baron’s feet, were interspersed by the harsh breathing of the two combatants.
Brian only just side-stepped as the blade flickered beneath his arm. It was a miracle it had not found his breast.
Like a flickering light the baron’s blade caused Brian to dance and twist and it came with a sickening certainty in his mind that, at any time, the baron could have cut him down. He was, as he had said, merely playing with him, driving him further and further across the cavern floor towards – with a desperate glance behind him Brian saw the danger – towards the mouth of the cave, towards the four hundred foot sheer drop to the rocks.
The Mammoth Book of Frankenstein (Mammoth Books) Page 41
