by Oxley, Peter
“Now that is shocking,” I said.
“Glad you agree,” she said, either missing or choosing to ignore my sarcasm. “Listen, I went for a wander last night into the local village, went for a drink with a couple of the junior stable hands. Everyone’s scared stiff round here, and I mean everyone. No one would say a word to me, like I were some leper.”
I cleared my throat. “Kate, it’s not unusual for these places to be quite insular, not really trusting of strangers. Bear in mind that to these people London might as well be on the moon. It doesn’t surprise me that they act a bit strange and quiet around you. It does not necessarily mean that there is anything sinister going on.”
“Trust me, Gus,” she said. In response to my reproving glare she corrected herself with a mock curtsy: “Mr. Potts. I have a good nose for these things. And I say that there’s something not right going on round here.”
*
As much as I tried to dismiss Kate’s fears, her words kept running through my head. As the day wore on, I started to see conspiracies in each shadow and treachery round every corner. The house, which at first had seemed so bright and welcoming, now took on a much more oppressive air and I began to notice how alien the opulence of the rooms was when compared to my usual Spartan surroundings back home in the earthier East End. As I paced the corridors the oak-panelled walls seemed to close in on me, the endless portraits leering down as I passed, and the constant tick-tock of clockwork burrowing into my brain.
I ventured outside the house in desperation, hoping that the act of taking some air would lighten my mood. For a few short minutes I did find the immaculate rows of bushes and trees to be diverting, assisted in no small part by the bright warmth of a pleasant autumnal day. However, as I looked back to the house, the weight of my newfound doubts crashed down on me afresh. The windows which had gleamed on us as we arrived now glared down at me, and I could not shake the impression that there was a face watching me from behind every one. The more I walked, the more people I encountered; grounds-staff and servants seemed to be behind every bush. I quickened my pace in the hope of outrunning them and, turning a corner, bowled straight into N’yotsu.
“My apologies,” he said. “I was caught up in thought. I should have heard your approach.”
“No need to apologise,” I said. “So I take it you are in need of fresh air too?”
“Indeed. I have a horrible feeling of being observed in that house. I am sure it is just the monotony of being houseguests without a host, but even so I thought a change of scenery would help my concentration.”
“Yes,” I said, glancing around. “Although I cannot shake the feeling of being stalked out here too. The servants seem to be everywhere. How many staff does the man have? It feels like there are hundreds.”
“It is a large estate. But, even so, I take your point. I was considering taking a walk into the local village, to observe these strange, suspicious people that Kate was talking about. Would you like to join me?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw yet another gardener appear from behind a wall. “That sounds like a very good idea,” I said.
*
There were no signs of pursuit from the house as we made our way out of the gates and down the lane towards the village, following Kate’s rather vague directions. As we ventured further away from the house, the sun came out and birdsong rang out around us. It truly was the sort of afternoon which made one feel proud to be English, the weather as crisply clement as anywhere. This was in spite of us being in Yorkshire, a part of the country which I had always assumed to be constantly enveloped in a grey, wet haze. As we walked I revised my preconceptions; the scenery was striking in its lush greenness, sweeping dales framed by majestically rising hills. We were far enough from civilisation to not be troubled by the sight of mills or tenements and so were able to relish the verdant beauty of our surroundings, a tonic even to an avowed town dweller such as myself.
After a while, we spied a fellow traveller heading toward us on horseback at a steady canter. We stopped and stood aside, holding up our hands in welcome. The man drew near and then charged past us as though we were just another piece of foliage or detritus at the side of the road. His passage was not so swift as to deny us a glimpse at his face, a pale mask drawn tight in a rictus grin; clearly he was on some form of mission which did not suit his spirits well.
“Charming,” I muttered as we watched him continue into the distance.
“Did you see his face?” asked N’yotsu. “There was something unusual about it.”
“He seemed rather pale and drawn. Such a complexion is not unusual in these parts.” The words sounded hollow even as they passed my lips and we continued our journey in an unsettled silence, both of us preoccupied by the increasing mystery surrounding this place.
We came to the village after around half an hour of brisk walking and immediately regretted it. After the opulence of Richard’s mansion and the greenery of the fields, the village’s rough poverty was a truly arresting sight. The buildings seemed to have been assembled with whatever spare rock or mud was to hand and I very much doubted that any of them provided much more than the most basic protection from the elements. They leant together like a collection of old drunken men, so that I feared for the safety of the old lady who was seated against the end house. Then again, I thought with a half-smile, maybe she was actually propping the whole lot up.
The road on which we approached this arrangement of dwellings was no more than a dirt track. I suspected that at one point some form of stone base had been laid underneath, but that had long since been subsumed or broken up, maybe to aid in the construction of the buildings that lined the way.
In spite of my birth and station, I have never been a closeted man, no stranger to the poverty which afflicts so many throughout the world. I have seen first-hand the worst that Europe, Africa, Asia and the Americas had to offer, where people did not so much live as exist, scratching a living in the meanest of places. However, I had thought that such conditions were a peculiarity which existed in the uncivilised world, far away from English shores.
I had walked and lived in the worst of slums around London, but at least the houses in the capital were built from proper materials and, as unsanitary as they might be, they were highly advanced when compared to the rudimentary hovels we were now faced with. Indeed, it would not have taken too much of a leap of fancy to believe that we had somehow stepped back to mediaeval times. I had often heard it told that the English countryside was little changed by the so-called Industrial Revolution, but to see this given flesh before my eyes was still a shock.
A gaggle of children ran out to greet us, chattering and yelling as they surrounded these strangely dressed men who were somehow bereft of dirt and sores. I felt like an explorer encountering some far-flung African tribe for the first time.
A few old people appeared in doorways and watched us sullenly as we passed, ignoring our attempted greetings. It was striking how, with the exception of the children who still raced round our legs, everyone in sight was of advanced years.
N’yotsu had clearly noted the same thing. “Presumably the young men are out at work in the fields,” he said.
“Those that remain,” I said. “The country has been suffering from an exodus of its youth for some time now, all in favour of the towns.”
“Why would anyone leave this?” asked N’yotsu. “It may be primitive here but they have so much more space than they could ever hope to get in the towns.”
“But the living’s hard here,” I said. “They all hear that they can make their fortune in the factories and that is enough to tempt them. It matters not that when they do make it to the towns most of them end up sleeping on a floor with hundreds of others in one small house, or in the workhouses. As they say, the grass is always greener.”
N’yotsu grunted. “Trusting blind optimism over the facts. I never will understand that bizarre human trait.”
I was about to agree when I was h
eld up by the strange wording of what he had said. I looked at him quizzically, but N’yotsu simply flashed me a smile and approached an old man who sat on a low wall, sharpening a knife on a stone.
“Excuse me, sir,” said N’yotsu. “Is there anywhere that we could purchase a drink?”
“Is a well o’er yonder,” said the man in a thick northern accent, nodding down the road. “Help y’sel’s.”
“Thank you,” said N’yotsu. “But I was wondering if there was a café or some form of eating establishment here?”
The man stared at him blankly.
I coughed and said quietly, “I do not think there’s much demand for that sort of thing round here, do you?”
N’yotsu looked round at the rude houses, scruffy people and distinct lack of amenities, and then acknowledged my point with a nod. He turned back to the old man. “In which case, perhaps I could trouble you for some information? We are interested in this area, in particular the manor house back that way belonging to Mr. Fitzsimmons.”
The old man spat on the floor and then bent back down over his work, polishing the blade with renewed vigour.
“A bit rude,” I said as we walked away.
“He was warding off evil,” said N’yotsu. “Spitting on the floor like that. It is a common method.”
The pattern was replicated with a half dozen other people we tried to speak to. We stopped at the well and drank water from our cupped hands as we pondered our next move.
“I think we are wasting our time,” I said.
“’appen that ye are,” said a voice. We turned to see an old man leaning on a thick stick which was nearly as gnarled and bent as he was. “Strangers like ye ’ave no place ‘ere. Mind my words. Ye’d be better off a long ways from ’ere. Nowt good will come of them questions ye’ve bin askin’.”
“We’re just curious,” I said, my accent feeling so precious when compared to these rough dialects. “We are guests of Mr. Fitzsimmons’—”
“Then I have nowt t’ say t’ ye,” he said. “But that ye must be reight ninnies. In your place, I’d be running as fast as I could.”
“What do you mean?” asked N’yotsu.
“Just that folks disappear. So either ye’re the ones doin’ the disappearin’, or ye’ll be disappearin’ ye’sells soon, like as not.” He turned and hobbled away.
We looked at each other, unsure which way to turn after that exchange. “Maybe we should head back,” I said.
N’yotsu was about to reply when we were surprised once more by a voice from behind us. A woman ran over to us, her hair and eyes wild. “Where is he?” she screamed at us.
“Where is who?” I asked, hands raised to placate her.
“My son,” she said. “What have you done with him?”
The woman was inconsolable but N’yotsu once again proved his preternatural ability to influence peoples’ thoughts and emotions. Stepping forward, he placed a hand on her shoulder and said in a gentle voice, “Calm, dear lady.”
She stared at him for a long moment, breathing fast, and for a moment I feared that she would strike him. But then she seemed to collapse in on herself, swaying on legs which were suddenly no more stable than two twigs. N’yotsu and I came to her aid, supporting her with an arm each and helping her to sit on the edge of the well.
“I am afraid that we do not know your son, Madame,” I said. “We are recent visitors to these parts.”
She bowed her head and started shaking, silent tears apparent in her movements. “What happened to him?” asked N’yotsu.
“He was a good, strong lad,” she sobbed. “Then one day he went out and never returned. They never found a body.”
“Could he have gone to the towns?” I asked.
“No,” she looked up at me through tear-filled eyes. “Not my Ned. He disappeared. Just like they all disappear.” She stood and then ran from us.
We stood in silence for a moment and then started walking back towards Richard’s house. “Of course,” I said, “as far as they’d be concerned, just by virtue of us going home to London we’d be disappearing...”
“Of course,” said N’yotsu, sounding as unconvinced as I felt.
CHAPTER 21
Our collective mood darkened with every step we took so that, by the time we reached Richard’s manor house, we were in no mood for pleasantries. We found Maxwell in the sitting room, surrounded by books and attended to by a wryly grinning Kate in the corner of the room.
“Max,” I said. “We need to talk.”
“You always say that,” he said, not looking up from his book.
“I mean it,” I said. “I suspect that Kate’s fears may not be quite as unfounded as I first thought. N’yotsu and I have just walked into the village; there is clearly something untoward going on around here.”
“In what way?” asked Maxwell, whilst Kate beamed triumphantly.
“There is a fair amount of ill-feeling toward your friend Richard and this household,” said N’yotsu. “I got the distinct impression that the locals believe he is at best cursed, and at worst up to no good.”
Maxwell sat back and put his book down. “You surely do not need me to remind you that the first reaction of the uneducated, when faced with anything new or scientific, is to accuse the perpetrator of witchcraft.”
“Agreed,” said N’yotsu. “But I did not get the impression that this was merely superstition. There is something more at work here.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“They genuinely seem scared. This was not just a group of villagers partaking in idle gossip; they really did not want to speak with us. And the scarce few who did engage us in conversation were adamant that there is an epidemic of disappearances around here, all of which are somehow connected to this household.”
“And,” I added, “at risk of sounding like a superstitious yokel, we were nearly run off the road by a very strange-looking gentleman. He did not look natural. Not natural at all.”
Maxwell looked at N’yotsu, who nodded. “Well, it appears that I have all three of you in agreement that there is something unusual taking place around here,” said my brother. “Whilst that would not normally be proof in itself, it does strike a chord with Richard’s unusual behaviour since we arrived. Behaviour which is completely at odds with his normal character.”
“So what do we do?” asked Kate. “Storm his lab, see what he’s up to?”
“No,” said Maxwell. “It would be poor form to intrude on the sanctity of a fellow scientist’s laboratory; at least, not without more conclusive proof.”
“And besides,” I said. “We have no idea what could be waiting for us. If there is a connection to the disappearance of the local menfolk, it is likely that there would be more than mere domestics at the root of it. No offence,” I added to Kate.
“None taken,” she said. “Don’t think anyone’s ever thought of me as just a mere domestic.”
Her tone made me look away, red-faced. “In any case,” I said. “We would be foolish to run blindly into such a situation without some form of back-up… or weaponry, for example.”
Maxwell laughed. “Very well brother, you have the beating of me! I surrender. Let us try out the weapons I have developed.”
***
We walked out on the moor for around half an hour until we were far enough away to be satisfied that our experiments could not be viewed from the mansion house. Nonetheless, I could not shake the feeling that our exploits were being watched, although whenever I looked round in an attempt to spot any observers, I was disappointed. I reasoned that I was just being paranoid and resolved to focus on the matter in hand.
Maxwell set down a wooden box and opened the lid, grinning at my barely suppressed impatience. We peered inside at the contents, which comprised a pair of LeMat pistols and a couple of swords. Maxwell handed me one of the pistols.
I eyed it dubiously. “Whilst I have nothing but respect for Continental firearms, you had led me to believe that you had created some
thing special and unusual. For this I could have stepped into any gun shop. And given the choice, I should have preferred a Lancaster.”
Kate looked at me. “I never had you pegged for a Howdah type. You served in the Raj then?”
“Not so much served,” I said. “But I have spent time there, and in Africa, and admired their use whilst I was there. Much more accurate than these things.” I suddenly realised how ungrateful I was sounding. “But still a good firearm,” I added.
“This weapon has a number of advantages over any others you may have used,” said Maxwell. “For instance, it has a central barrel which can be fired separately to the cylinder.”
“I am aware of the innovation,” I said. “It is a smooth-bore—I believe that is the source of its nickname: the ‘Grape Shot Revolver’.” I aimed the weapon at a far-off rock and then frowned; even for a piece of this type it did not hold well.
Before I could comment, Kate spoke up. “It’s really unbalanced,” she said. I turned to see her similarly aiming the other pistol and pulling a face.
“How do you...” I began.
She shot me a sideways glance. “Even us mere domestics know how to point a gun. How do you think I managed to survive on them streets as long as I did? Stunning looks’ll only get you so far, you know.”
“Yes, well,” said Maxwell. “I have made one or two modifications, and I apologise if I have somehow interfered with the feel of the weapon. But its efficacy is much improved.” He took the weapon from me and pulled back the hammer. “Whilst you are correct that the original has a smooth-bore central barrel, I have inlaid grooves on these, which create a certain rotation in the bullets which in turn mimics a vibration that I have found to have rather... deleterious effects upon the Aether. I am hopeful that this would cause issues for Aetheric creatures or phenomena which might otherwise be unperturbed by normal weaponry.”
I rubbed my head as I worked through my brother’s rather characteristic summary. “Do the other weapons also depend upon concepts as solid and reliable as ‘hope’?” I asked.
