by George Mann
In them, we’re back at Maltby-by-the-Sea, and I can taste the fresh, salty air on my lips. The place is near-deserted, just as I remember it, but nevertheless I have the overwhelming sense of being observed. Whatever I do, wherever we go, there’s a pervading feeling of being watched. Something malign is hounding us, and yet despite this sinister understanding, we go blithely wandering about the place, as if searching for trouble.
(I have come to understand that this, of course, is exactly what we do. It is our modus operandi, our reason for being. We attract trouble like magnets attract iron filings, and we revel in it.)
The townsfolk act as if there is nothing untoward to concern them, offering hollow smiles as they turn us away, ignoring our questions. Yet all the while, terrible plans are afoot. Evil things are brewing. Night falls, and we take refuge at The Angel Hotel.
That’s when the strangers come lurching from the salty spray, trailing seaweed and foul-smelling water as they seek us out, coming to drag us to our doom beneath the waves. We struggle as we’re pulled from our beds, but there are too many of them and they smother us, carrying us back to the beach, where the townsfolk are arrayed to watch, grinning and staring.
I thrash as I’m dragged into the water, try to call out, but the shock of the icy embrace is too much and the water floods my lungs. I panic as I try to breathe, try to push myself towards the surface, but they hold me down, and soon the light begins to dim.
This, I know, is their revenge. They have come for us because of what happened, because we know their secret, and because they cannot allow us to live.
It is then that I wake, gasping for breath.
Newbury sat back in his chair, memories stirring. This letter, then, had been written during the aftermath of that very investigation, following their return from Maltby-by-the-Sea. They’d been called north to investigate a spate of missing people in the little seaside town on the east coast. The townsfolk had proved largely obstructive and unhelpful, even when another of their number—a young woman called Florence Partington who had recently moved to the town from Darlington—had disappeared from under their noses.
Black had maintained all along that something untoward was going on, and that the townsfolk were either too afraid to discuss it, or complicit. Despite this, the two of them had been unable to uncover a shred of evidence, other than a series of unusual footprints in the wet sand and a torn shred of a woman’s nightgown in the churchyard.
This had gone on for some days, with people’s attitudes towards Newbury and Black growing increasingly hostile. It was made abundantly clear to them both that they were not welcome in the town. Nevertheless, neither of them could shake the feeling that there was something obvious they were missing, that the strange behaviour of the town’s inhabitants and the pervading undercurrent of tension were connected with the unexplained disappearances.
Newbury had finally brought the matter to a head, when—to his horror—he had discovered the truth about the locals: that they were not, in fact, locals at all. They were things that had come out of the sea, shambling creatures from beneath the waves that had cast a glamour upon the town, taking on the appearance of normal people, acting out normal lives. To what end had never been made clear, but one thing was certain—any outsiders who came to settle in Maltby, any real people, were swiftly despatched, dragged out to sea in the night to be silenced.
Newbury had broken the spell and revealed the strangers for what they really were: monstrous humanoids with bloated white flesh, jagged teeth and glossy black eyes, trailing seaweed and salt water in their wake. They were impersonators, living a lie, and they had to be stopped.
These things, these strangers, had turned on Newbury and Black, and Black had almost become another of their victims, manhandled to the bay and forced beneath the dark and shifting waters. Newbury had come to his aid, however, fighting the beasts off with a cattle prod and effecting their escape.
Cold, wet and bedraggled, they had fled the town and taken shelter in a derelict barn for the night.
When they returned to Maltby the following day, accompanied by a small force of policemen, the town had been deserted. The entire populace had seemingly returned to the water during the night, leaving Maltby as a ghost town, eerily abandoned.
It was then that Black had collapsed and been rushed to a doctor in the neighbouring town, sporting a terrible fever and a hideous rash that began to emerge in blotchy patches all over his body. The doctor had managed to stabilise him, reducing the fever, but the rash, it seemed, was the result of an infection caused by Black’s exposure to an unusual algae during his brief foray into the sea. There was no obvious treatment other than to manage the fever, and so Black had been sent to Richmond to recuperate, and for a while the doctors had been uncertain as to whether or not he’d survive.
Newbury recalled the anxiety of those weeks, the horrible uncertainty over whether his dear friend would live or die. At the time, Black had seemed his usual, flippant self, taking it all in his stride, joking and laughing on the few occasions Newbury managed to head north to pay him a visit. Newbury had always wondered how Black had been able to remain in such high spirits during such a trying time. Clearly, though, there were things that had preyed on his mind, things he’d needed to put in writing because he’d felt unable to say them out loud.
Newbury turned the sheet of notepaper over and continued to read.
Anyway, enough of that. You do not need to hear talk of such things. The business in Maltby is over and done with now, and my dreams are naught but silly fictions. You need not trouble yourself with them. Although I must add that I find it ironic that the strangers who did their best to finish me off might inadvertently have succeeded, despite your best efforts to haul me from their fishy embrace; the infection continues to spread. Rest assured, though, that I will continue to fight it, and with any luck I’ll be fit and by your side again in a few weeks, ready for another adventure.
And so we come to the crux of my letter. I worry now that my words will seem steeped in melodrama, that you’ll consider my concerns boyish and unfounded. Yet I will state them here regardless, because I must: I fear for you, Maurice.
I fear you are treading a path that will lead towards not only your unhappiness, but your detriment in every respect. Your obsession with the hermetic arts grows almost daily, it seems, and your recent engagement in its practices has left me deeply concerned for your well-being.
Understand that I have no doubt regarding your intentions. The results of your endeavours, too, cannot be disputed—the ritual you performed in Maltby, for example, served to unveil the strangers for who they truly were, to save lives. Yet I saw the toll it took on you, saw how much of yourself you had to sacrifice in order to dispel their glamour. (Not to mention the unspeakable mess you made of your hotel room when you eviscerated that peacock.)
I cannot help but think back to Old Mab, the witch we encountered in the woods, the woman who had given herself up to the trees. She had lost herself in the darkness. You said then that you understood the temptations she had faced, that she had allowed herself to be gradually eroded by her desire to help others, to wield forces she did not fully understand.
My fear is that you walk that very same path, and that you, too, will lose your way. I say this now because I see that you are balanced upon a precipice, and that there is still time for you to step away.
I ask only that you consider my words, as my dear friend and confidant. If I am to die here in Richmond, I would do so knowing that I have warned you of what I consider to be the greatest danger you face. All the strangers from the sea, wood witches, ice spirits, clockwork golems and other villainous creatures we have faced are as nothing when compared to this.
I am tired now, and the nurses will be along soon to berate me for spending too long on the veranda in the cold. Forgive me if I seem maudlin, but I urge you to heed my words. There will be choices to be made, and for your own sake, I hope you make them well.
I ho
pe that we shall meet again, Sir Maurice.
Your friend,
Templeton Black
Newbury allowed the pages to slip from his fingers. They fluttered to the floor. There was a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach, a gnawing sense of emptiness and regret. Tears came then, in floods, and Newbury cupped his face in his hands, his body wracking as he shook with emotion.
Would things have been different if he’d bothered to read the letter all those years ago? Would he have made different choices? Perhaps he might have prevented the dreadful events that followed? How could he ever know?
Black had pulled through, of course. He had shaken off the infection and returned to London, and nothing more had been heard of the strangers who had once come from the sea. Together, he and Black had shared many more adventures, before that fateful day at Fairview House, before his friend was cruelly snatched away from him by the machinations of a madman. Yet Black had never mentioned the letter, had never aired his concerns again, not even when Newbury had involved him in matters pertaining to the occult, to his fascination with the hermetic arts and rituals. And now it was too late. Far too late.
Wiping his eyes, Newbury stooped and retrieved the letter. He folded the pages and slid them carefully back into the envelope. Next, he picked up and opened the book, and placed the envelope carefully inside. He stood and crossed to his bookshelves.
“I’m sorry, Templeton,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, but I made my choice a long time ago, and now I have to live with it. People are depending on me. Veronica’s depending on me. I can’t let her down, no matter the consequences. I let you down...” He paused, taking a deep breath. “And I won’t allow it to happen again.”
He placed the book carefully back where it belonged on the shelf and returned to his seat.
He reached for his silver tin and sought out another cigarette, which he lit with an ember from the fire. He took a long, steady draw, and allowed the smoke to plume from his nostrils. The sweet taste of the opium was reassuring on the back of his tongue.
The past, he told himself, was a closed book. Now he needed to look to the future. What other choice did he have?
Sighing, he reached out his hand for the book at the top of the nearest pile—The Cosmology of the Spirit—but then stopped short, his fingers resting lightly upon the cover.
Something had caught his eye: another dusty old book, resting open and upside down on the hearth, sprinkled with soot from the fire. It had lain there for some months, abandoned in lieu of more pressing matters. Newbury grinned.
“Perhaps just for today, Templeton,” he said. He snatched up the other book enthusiastically—a copy of H.G. Wells’s The Time Machine—and stubbed out his cigarette on the arm of his chair. “Perhaps just for today.”
Chuckling, Newbury eased himself back into his Chesterfield, and settled down to read.
THE ONLY GIFT WORTH GIVING
LONDON, DECEMBER 1903
Winter had stolen across London. It had rushed in without warning to sweep away the mild, autumnal afternoons and leave deep drifts of crisp, white snow in their place. It had frozen pipes, sent animals scurrying to their seasonal hibernations and covered everything in a layer of thick, hoary frost.
At least, that was how it seemed to Sir Charles Bainbridge as he trudged steadily through the bitterly cold afternoon towards the home of his friend and companion, Sir Maurice Newbury. One moment the days had seemed long and mellow, orange leaves turning to mulch beneath his boots, the next they were short, dark and cold, and snowflakes were swirling on the icy gusts outside his window.
Perhaps, he reflected, he was just getting old. The days seemed to pass so much faster than they once had. Or perhaps it was simply because he was so damn busy. He preferred the latter option, but he feared the former was probably true. These days the cold made his bones ache and his blood freeze in his veins, and he longed for nothing more than a glass of brandy and a warm fire.
Today, however, was not a day for retreating from the world. Today he had more important things to see to than his own comfort.
Bainbridge had spent the last three days investigating—rather unsuccessfully, if he was honest with himself—one of the most brutal murders he had yet encountered in his long and onerous career. A man had been discovered stripped and bound to a lamp post, left as bait, Bainbridge had come to realise, for the roving Revenants that still plagued many of the deprived districts such as Whitechapel and Shoreditch. It was clear from the body—or at least, what remained of it—that the victim had been slashed at least once across the belly with a sharp knife, probably in an effort to draw enough blood to attract the dreadful creatures. It was evident, too, that the Revenants had come en masse, devouring much of the poor sod while he was still alive, rending the flesh from his bones with their savage, yellow teeth.
There hadn’t been much of him left when Bainbridge had arrived at the site the following morning, but the snow and the chill had largely preserved the scene, much to the chief inspector’s dismay.
There was no doubt it was anything but an execution—a particularly grisly one, at that—but Bainbridge had so far been unable to as much as identify the victim, let alone establish a motive or a perpetrator. The swarming Revenants had disturbed any tracks that might have been left in the snow as they’d set about their gruesome feast, and the uniformed constables he’d assigned to the task had not yet turned up the dead man’s clothes. Consequently, all he had to go on was a flayed, half-eaten corpse, so ravaged it was barely distinguishable as a human being at all. It could have been any of the hundreds of young men reported missing in the city every day.
Bainbridge gave a heavy sigh and brushed flakes of snow from where they’d settled on his bushy grey moustache. His breath was coming quick and sharp from the exertion of the walk, steaming in the frigid air before his face. He felt hot and bothered beneath his heavy black overcoat, despite the chill and the numbness in his extremities.
The case was giving him sleepless nights. He had no idea who was responsible for the man’s death, and he was struggling to imagine who might have been able to even conceive of such a dreadful method of execution. He’d always found it difficult not to take these things personally—his failure to spot the means by which to approach the case, his inability to perceive a way around the lack of evidence. But he had to admit, as it stood, he was no closer to solving the case after three days than he’d been in the first few minutes after arriving on the scene.
Now, though, it was Christmas Eve, and he was on his way to visit Newbury, his feet crunching on the thick blanket of snow that had settled over large swathes of the city.
He wondered how his old friend was faring. Newbury had been avoiding him of late. Bainbridge was astute enough to see that, at least. He supposed he couldn’t blame Newbury. As close as they were, there was only so much berating a man could take, and Bainbridge had been free and forthcoming with his admonishment. He knew he shouldn’t do it—that it did neither of them any good—but he just couldn’t help himself. He simply couldn’t sit idly by and watch his dearest friend throw his life away through ritualistic drug abuse.
Not that his words ever seemed to get through. Newbury could be as stubborn as Bainbridge himself, and even less immovable when he wanted to be. Yet Bainbridge couldn’t help wondering whether there was more to it than simple addiction or rebellion. Was something—or someone—else exerting an influence on him? More recently, too, Newbury had retreated into one of his damnable black moods, locking himself away in his study and refusing to emerge for days at a time. Bainbridge simply didn’t know what to make of it. Perhaps that was simply the price of genius? Perhaps the ennui came hand in hand with the remarkable flashes of insight. He supposed he’d never know for certain.
Unconsciously, Bainbridge’s hand strayed to his overcoat pocket, patting it gently as if reassuring himself that the little package inside was still safe and secure. He couldn’t prevent a smile from tugging at the c
orners of his mouth as he imagined the look on Newbury’s face as his friend unwrapped it. It was the perfect Christmas gift. Perhaps it would be enough to cheer Newbury and stir him from whatever dark depression had taken hold of him.
The snow was swirling in dancing eddies all around Bainbridge, and he bowed his head against the icy gusts. The streets of Chelsea were near deserted, save for the occasional lonely figure drifting through the snow, featureless silhouettes against the sulphurous glow of the street lamps. A steam-driven carriage hissed by, its wheels creaking and thundering as they skittered and slid over the icy cobbles, its exhaust funnels belching black fumes that melted the snow in a wide trail behind it. Bainbridge found himself envying the occupants as their faces flickered past, wide-eyed as they took in the snowy scene all around them. He wished now that he’d taken one of the police carriages, but foolishly he’d sent the drivers home to their families to enjoy the festivities. Sometimes, he considered, altruism didn’t pay.
Still, he was nearly there now. He trudged on, his ankles damp from where his feet sank in the powdery snow.
Bainbridge felt his spirits lift as Newbury’s house hove into view a few moments later. Warm orange light spilled out into the street from the bay window at the front of the property, conjuring up thoughts of a crackling fire, a brandy and a rest. He forged on, plodding as fast as he could against the driving wind.
As he approached the house, Bainbridge could see that the curtains were half drawn against the inclement weather and the encroaching darkness. He hoped Newbury was at home and hadn’t suddenly been tempted away to his White Friar’s club. He wasn’t, after all, expecting Bainbridge until the morning, and Newbury did generally make an effort to celebrate the season.
Bainbridge mounted the red stone steps at the front of the house and rapped loudly on the door with the end of his cane. He noticed, with a faint smile, that the paintwork was marred with innumerable little indentations, each one a perfect crescent, the result of his prior visits. He brushed himself down as he waited for a response, shaking off the light dusting of snow that had settled over him as he’d walked.
