Secrets and sacrifices, p.17
Secrets & Sacrifices, page 17
part #1 of Call of Cthulhu Regency Series
There were a few accidents in there as well: a young boy run over by a cart, a man falling from the roof of the barn he was building and breaking his neck, and a woman who choked to death on a fishbone. And, oh – so many babes died during birth, and half of them took their mothers with them.
That was how Cassandra’s mother had died, in agony during the birth of her fourth child. Cassandra had been nine years old, deemed old enough to help by the doctor, but her mother, in what was perhaps a prescient move, had insisted that her daughter not be allowed in the bedchamber. She had sat outside it instead, listening as her mother’s pants turned to screams and, eventually, to silence. The child, another brother, had never drawn a breath.
Do not get distracted. Keep looking.
Cassandra moved backwards in time, each page a connection to the lives and deaths of the many people who lived close enough for the church to be the record of their existence. It was fascinating, even the mundanity of it – here, where a farmer insisted on a burial for his prize bullock after the creature had… had…
Had its stomach ripped from its gut.
Where had this happened? A bit of sleuthing and the discovery of a neatly drawn map of the parish framed on the wall was enough to show that the death had occurred to the north and east of Tarryford, on the far side of Ferris Woods. Cassandra skimmed the next few pages, looking for more incidents in the same area, but apparently not everyone was as inclined to mourn their livestock as this particular farmer. She had almost given it up until she saw an entry from four years ago that froze her hand in place.
John Carmichael, aged forty-two, farmhand. Died of a dog attack, which severely wounded his throat leading to exsanguination. The animal in question has not yet been identified.
Was it possible that, rather than a bad dog, this was an early atrocity by the Beast of Avon Vale? Perhaps it had not yet grown confident in its hunting ability, and therefore was more tentative in its attacks? A ripped-out throat was no laughing matter, to be sure, but it was a far cry from an assault that was aggressive enough to decapitate a horse.
A few pages further, and then things became considerably more dire. The Northlake family… every single one of them had died following the death of the family’s only daughter, Elizabeth. Cassandra could not be sure from her reading exactly what the cause of death for the young woman had been; all that was noted down was that she had not committed suicide, but her death had nonetheless been violent, resulting in her exsanguination. The day after her death, her father had apparently gone mad with the loss of his only child and burned his enormous manor house, with him in it, to the ground.
Cassandra recalled that she’d seen the ruins of a great home on her way into town, just as she crested the hill that looked down on Tarryford. None of Gilbert’s party had spoken of it, and neither had anyone in town. Was that out of a sense of respect for the departed, or one of fear?
There was an addendum next to Elizabeth’s name: See century marks. Now what could that be about? A century mark… a hundred years previous, perhaps? Cassandra turned her attention to the shelves again, searching for a volume dated to a hundred and five years ago. It took some work, but she finally homed in on the correct book. She took it out and paged through it until she found, in spidery, faded writing, the name William Northlake, aged six months, dying. That in and of itself was not terribly unusual; infants died frequently, but… Cassandra went another hundred years back.
Blanche Northlake, age 6. Accidental stabbing.
Accidental stabbing… another exsanguination. Hmm…
Cassandra checked again and was able to go another hundred years back, but this book had been damaged by damp at some point – the pages were spotted with mildew, and she could barely make out enough to verify that there was indeed a Northlake who died a hundred years previous to the last. If there had been more information once, it was lost to her now, but this was enough to send Cassandra back to the newer volumes with a more avid interest.
Delving deeper into recent years, she could see a string of deaths in the town itself around the same time, all connected to the tavern. Apparently, the incidents had been resolved, or at least ignored until they stopped. Sleeping deaths… what could cause such a thing? Some sort of fever?
Or something worse?
Cassandra noted all the names, dates, and places of interest in her personal journal. Some of the locations in particular held an interest for her, as they were places where strange things had happened to people – sometimes resulting in death or disappearance, as with the vanishing of Robert Williams under very strange circumstances. His sister Diana had fled Tarryford shortly thereafter, and their estate, Mortview House, was apparently abandoned.
The idea that there was a connection between the Beast of Avon Vale and the terrible things that had occurred in and around this town a few years ago was, it seemed, not so far-fetched as Cassandra thought.
She was just closing the ledger up when Reverend Jennings returned to join her. “I see you have made good use of your time, Miss Wright,” he said with a smile, gesturing to the various books on the table.
“Indeed I have,” she agreed. “I was just about to put them away, I promise.”
“No need, I will handle that.”
Cassandra shook her head. “No, I cannot allow books to remain unshelved once no longer in use. The student in me shall not allow it.”
Internally, she wanted to grab herself by the arm and shake. Why must you bring the past into this? But the reverend didn’t ask any curious questions, merely nodded and helped her put things neatly back in their place.
“If you’re interested,” Reverend Jennings said as he escorted Cassandra back to the front of the church, “my most dedicated parishioner and I have determined that as he has no family to step in, we shall be hosting John’s funeral here tomorrow. I received word that his body has been remanded to the undertaker already, so it does not make sense to delay.” In the growing heat, he did not say, but Cassandra could read between the lines. Her mother and the baby had been buried four days after their deaths to allow time for family to arrive, but that had only been possible thanks to the coolness of their cellars.
“What time is the funeral to be?” Cassandra asked.
“Ten in the morning.”
She nodded. That was a useful time; apart from her wishing to be here no matter what the hour of the funeral was, an event in the morning would prevent her from rejoining the party at Harston. There was certainly no risk of Mr Fraser showing his face in this small, local church for the sake of a drunk old man. “I shall endeavour to be here.”
“I appreciate it.” He stepped outside with her, and Cassandra was surprised to find the shadows long already. She must have spent hours with those records. Reverend Jennings bowed to her. “Go with God, Miss Wright.”
She curtsied back. “My thanks, sir.” She paused, then added, “Be safe.”
He nodded seriously. “You as well.”
Good. They understood one another quite well.
Cassandra returned to The Four Feathers in a thoughtful, somewhat dark mood. A man’s life had been taken, taken by a creature who may have been hiding, killing, and getting away with it for years now, even though Mr Fraser had only lived in the area for one. What hope did the party at Harston Hall truly have of killing it, much less catching it? How long would it be before they tired of sport with no resolution? There was nothing tying them here to this place; they could return to London or some other estate and never think on it again. Not so the people who lived in Tarryford. What could they do but endure, as they had endured for half a decade now?
Cassandra did not care for Mrs Hobb, but she had to admit that the woman’s complaint against the gentry was a palpable hit.
Thomas was not waiting for her back at the inn. No matter, he would surely be along soon. Cassandra distracted herself by opening her notebook and writing out a formal timeline of events. It was now five years since the death of Elizabeth Northlake; that event seemed to be the start of all these ills, at least in this current time. She and all of her immediate family had died in that single, awful season. The sleeping sickness had not struck until the next year, but the first suspicious death among the people of Tarryford came six months before that, and continued in similar increments.
How often did the Beast of Avon Vale need to feed? To sleep? Did it have a sense of intelligence that allowed it to be cautious, or was it a ravening creature held back by something else? Cassandra found herself slightly disgusted to realise that she agreed in part with Mr Fraser – it would be fascinating to study such a being. That said, there was no way she could think of that would make that possible. Not without putting too many people in danger, and even then she did not want to be cruel, not to anyone or anything, if she could help it. If this beast truly was nothing more than an animal, murderous though it may be, then it did not deserve to be tortured for sport.
There was a knock on her room’s door. “Miss Wright?” Mrs Copeland called. “Mr Griffith is here, and I’ve got dinner set aside for you downstairs.”
“Oh, thank you.” Cassandra locked her notes up, tucked the key to her trunk safely onto her person, then headed downstairs. Thomas, for once, was not ready and waiting for her to arrive. Rather he seemed lost in thought, standing by the fireplace and staring into the flames as though they contained the answer to a desperate question. He had changed his clothes from earlier, and his hair was still damp from the bath.
He was likely covered in blood, if he helped move poor John’s body.
The thought disturbed Cassandra, and she impulsively walked over and took Thomas’s hand. He startled, turning sharply towards her, but the sight of her lightened the shadows in his eyes.
“Cass,” he said, his face so close to hers, body so warm from the fire… she was struck with the urge to lean in and kiss him, to lay claim to the mouth that spoke her name so sweetly. Cass. No one else had ever called her that; it was always Cassie when they used a diminutive. This felt like something just for them, and she wanted to acknowledge it so very badly.
You cannot be so forward with him. You shall ruin everything!
As much as she hated the voice of reason that warred with sentiment in her heart, she knew in this case that it was correct. So instead of leaning in, instead of tilting her head just right and inviting the press of his lips on hers, she squeezed his hand once, then let go and took a small step back. “Are you well?” she asked quietly.
“Well enough,” he said, sounding slightly despondent. He must be thinking about the horror of his morning. “Mr Fraser and I ensured that the man’s body was taken to St Bridget’s Church, but the reverend there informed us that as the dead man is a common peasant–” he almost spat the demarcation out “–he is to be given to the care of the church just outside town. I have not yet visited to ensure that–”
“I was there earlier today,” Cassandra said, daring to interrupt if it meant easing Thomas’s mind. “Upper Tarryford Church is run by Reverend Jennings, who is prepared to conduct a funeral tomorrow. He asked if I would attend, and I believe I shall. You are under no compulsion to come yourself, but–”
Now it was his turn to interrupt. “Nonsense. I would not hear of you going alone, and it is the least I can do for the poor man after so miserably failing him.”
Cassandra shook her head. “You did not fail him.”
“Did I not?” Thomas laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “This hunt may not have been my idea, but I went along with it. I was excited for it, in fact, ready to occupy myself with something other than the misery of my memories and the welfare of my sister for the first time in two years. I spent three years in military service, and before that I frequently hunted alongside my father and brother. That the Beast of Avon Vale yet lives, and escaped after nearly taking your life as well, is inexcusable.”
He sighed and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead for a moment. “When I saw the body of that poor soul, I… he looked worse than anything I ever saw in the war. The wounds he took… my mind could not help imposing them on my image of–” He stopped himself there, but Cassandra could guess what he was going to say.
I saw you killed the same way.
Thomas had a gentle heart despite the trials he had been through. Seeing such visions of someone he had selflessly dedicated himself to helping had to be an awful experience. Feeling very bold, Cassandra took his hand once more. “You saved me,” she told him. “And I have faith that you and the others shall be able to find and kill this beast.” It went without saying that killing it was preferable to letting Mr Fraser have his way with it. Judging from the nod Thomas gave her, he agreed.
Speaking of Mr Fraser, it was better perhaps not to share any of her darker revelations from her visit to the church yet with Thomas. He had more than enough on his mind.
The rest of the evening passed pleasantly, with quiet conversation and a generous meal provided by Mrs Copeland and Young Garrett, who was eager for any and all information that Thomas could give him about the beast. “Got to know what to expect, right? Where to look for it?” the boy said more than once. “If I found it and led you to it, I’d get that reward, right? That’d help Ma out for sure.”
“You are a good son,” Thomas said, but he had little enough to share about the hunt for the beast other than to warn Garrett that he shouldn’t attempt to go after it on his own. Meanwhile, the room beyond theirs was packed with people, rowdy with drink and fear but not violent, which was a mercy. Some of them shared reminiscences of Old John, whom it seemed had fought in the French Revolutionary Wars in his youth and never come back quite right. “Did the best he could, John did,” was the prevailing sentiment, and Cassandra was fortified in her decision to attend the funeral tomorrow morning.
That evening, Thomas slept in her room once more. It was not as awkward as the first night, and Cassandra fell asleep quickly, reassured that no matter what might happen, she was not alone.
Chapter Eighteen
Cassandra had to smile to herself when she felt Thomas’s small start of surprise as they walked into the church the next morning to see every pew filled with people. “I had not expected this to be so well attended,” he murmured as they moved to the foremost row, where the parishioners obligingly made room for them. “I did not think the gentleman in question was so liked.”
“I believe it is more that he is one of them,” Cassandra whispered in reply as they sat down. “That counts for a great deal.”
“Clearly.” They quieted as Reverend Jennings came to the pulpit. He was not smiling, but there was something serene about his expression that made it easy for Cassandra to quiet her internal voices and simply listen to the service. It helped that it was short – it was, after all, a working day, and people had things they needed to do.
Speaking of which, where was Mrs Hobb? She had been such a commanding presence yesterday on this topic, why would she demur and hold herself back now? Cassandra knew she was not the only person who had noted her absence as well, for there was a tightness around the reverend’s eyes that worsened as he got to the end of the funeral.
“I have one request before you go,” he said before people began to file out of the church. “Would anyone who lives near Mrs Hobb’s farm be good enough to pay her a visit?”
“Not I,” a man grumbled, and the people near him laughed.
“Consider it an act of charity towards those less fortunate than yourself,” Reverend Jennings said, a hint of censure in his voice. The laughter died. “If you like, I will accompany you there.”
“Best you do,” the man said, now sounding resigned. “So’s she don’t bite my head off for botherin’ her in her own home.”
Once they were outside, Thomas turned to Cassandra and asked, “Who is Mrs Hobb?”
“She is a local woman of very strong character,” Cassandra said diplomatically, “who had a guiding hand in planning John’s funeral. I met her yesterday and she seemed quite well then. It is strange indeed that she would not attend the service today.”
Thomas stopped moving. “And she lives on a farm? Outside the town proper?”
“I…” Oh, heavens. Cassandra did not like the direction that Thomas’s mind was moving in. “It seems so.”
He let go of her arm. “Stop the reverend from leaving, tell him to wait until I return with my gun,” he said, then hurried in the direction of the inn. Cassandra, trying to quell her rising heartrate, returned to the church and caught Reverend Jennings and a severely dressed man who must be the undertaker just as they were leaving the churchyard.
“A moment, sir,” she said. She explained Thomas’s desire to go with them, and that he was in the process of arming himself.
“Is he truly concerned?” Reverend Jennings asked. “In all likelihood, Mrs Hobb is simply under the weather. She did not return to her home past dark yesterday, I can assure you of that.”
“Might have followed her damn cat outside, though,” the undertaker, a long-jawed man respectably clad all in black, said unexpectedly. “Treats that little thing like a child, she does. Last gift her husband ever gave her, a good mouser for her kitchen.”
Thomas returned then, his gun under one arm and his sword at his side. “Good day, reverend,” he said with a bow. “I hope you do not object to my accompanying you.”
“Us accompanying you,” Cassandra added.
All three men looked at her like she was mad.
“It’s a fair walk to the Hobb farm, miss,” the older man said.
“I shall be perfectly well.”
“Miss Wright,” Reverend Jennings began, “I think it might be best if you remained in town, in case of… ah…”
“Nonsense.” She took Thomas’s arm with a determined smile. “I do promise not to slow your pace. Shall we be off?”
