A Parish Darker: A Victorian Suspense Novella (4 page)

Some feeling of urgency compelled me to investigate further. I pulled on the handle with a fair amount of weight to test its strength. However, just as I was admiring the artisanship that no doubt went into the construction of such a door, a sound that appeared to resonate elsewhere in the castle gave me pause. Unwilling to wait to explain myself should I meet a returning Baron, I scampered back to the main hallway and was fortunate enough to not be greeted by him or anyone else for that matter.

The incident just the night before had rattled my nerves, if only slightly. While I had no inkling suggesting my host intended me harm, I nonetheless thought it strange enough to endeavor to familiarize myself with the castle while the opportunity was at hand.

Being such an old construct, the castle was not immune to the occasional creak or moan. As I stood by the entrance to the gallery hall, I heard another sound of some foreign origin. It was a sound akin to that of a boatyard, but magnified to an unfamiliar extent. The sound—itself only lasting a fraction of a second—resonated in such a way that I believed it to originate behind the staircase across from the main entrance.

I leered into the small storeroom on the far side, nearest the library, which had been outfitted with various packages of nonperishable ingredients for the Barons meals. Nothing was out of the ordinary, the small, thin door leading only to the room not large enough for one person to stand comfortably for long due to the protruding shelving.

Just behind the staircase itself, I took note of a series of decorative windows. Their designs varied in an atypical fashion, some having aged worse than others. No direct exit to the outside appeared to be present at the rear of the home. However, one prominent feature of the area was an enormous steel door that may have well served the purpose. The entryway had been affixed to the rear of the staircase itself, apparently leading to a cellar of some sort or perhaps being just another storeroom. I was unable to confirm either way on account of it being protected three times over with a bolt, key, and chain. All had been of considerable strength; none of the three could possibly be circumvented with strength alone.

Prior to returning to my room, I decided to stop by the library with the aim of finding reading material that could hold my interest in the remaining time I had at the castle.

The library, contrary to the rest of the estate, was readied for lighting that rivaled that of the daytime. Gas lamps had been affixed around the room, with a sophisticated array by the door serving as a switch to light them all at once. It was evident to me even in daylight that the Baron wished to keep the room accessible at all hours.

Without Baron von Savanberg to guide me, I was now free to browse the wide selection of works at my leisure. By the door, I saw the shelves lined with medical and biological studies that I had familiarized myself with earlier; ones I can safely confess to you now were entirely beyond my comprehension.

A sliding ladder had been affixed to the row of bookshelves on the lower level. It had most recently been set just affront a bevy of medical texts. One tome of considerable size jotted from the row, suggesting it had only been recently replaced. Taking it in hand, I muttered the title aloud in a low whisper:
Dissection and Amputation of the Feeble
.

The macabre title piqued my interest. Inside the cover were immediate illustrations of the contents: humans, animals, insects, all dissected and opened from the center as if a book. The book itself appeared to be part instruction manual and part academic study.

On one page would be a guide to the removal of the kidneys post-mortem from a recently deceased human subject, with a sketched diagram of a dissected mouse on the next. I had always imagined human autopsies as a gruesome prospect but never had I seen such detailed illustrations and graphs of human anatomy.

I recalled as I winced at various pages of the Baron’s medical background in the armed services. What he would need with such literature at this stage of life was beyond reasonable speculation.

Upon landing on a page demonstrating the “modest removal of flesh” and the illustrations of skin being peeled from a forearm as if the coating of an apple, I replaced the book on the shelf as I’d found it and descended the ladder. I was lighter for wear, likely prone to fainting if I had spent any longer with such grotesqueries.

There were few works of general interest within the library, at least in languages I was familiar with. Copies of Shakespearean works had called for a dedicated shelf of their own, but apart from some fellow classics, it appeared Baron Lechner von Savanberg had little interest in fiction. In the end, I took down a volume of Dickens from the sparse modern offerings and took my leave.

As I quietly closed the door to the library behind me, leaving it just as I’d found it, I heard another strange sound. A ringing had echoed from somewhere on the premises—initially, I presumed it had come from the second floor, in the proximity of my own chambers.

There, however, I found no evidence of anything amiss. Peering outside the window, just off to the right, I made out the column of a tower that was connected to the castle but inaccessible to me. Retreating from my room to the hallway, I made my way down to the end of the corridor.

Something drew me to that door, that room. A strange, omnipresent feeling I could not separate from my innate instinct. The handful of others lining the walls on each side did not appear extraordinary in any sense, but that which was before me was an exception. Unlike the metal door below, the door here was unlocked, though it did appear well-reinforced. Perhaps the Baron had left in haste earlier in the morning. Nonetheless, despite not expecting anyone inside, I knocked before entering.

Inside was perhaps the best furnished room in the entire estate. As the door groaned open, I felt a sense of guilt that I had not felt since childhood. I felt as if a trespasser in the home of a host who had not done me wrong and had, indeed, only offered me shelter.

Silk sheets lined a very wide bed surely crafted for a pair of regents. A dressing mirror and closet were on one side and the other, accompanied by a dresser for tending to cosmetics. Despite the wealthy trappings of the room, it did not appear to have been used in a considerable amount of time.

Feeling uncomfortable invading the private space of the master bedroom, I spent no consequential amount of time inside and returned to my quarters. For the next hour, I prepared the documents to present to the Baron with regard to the inheritance transaction from his relative that had only just passed at the time. With the remaining hours, I composed a lengthy letter to deliver to Emilia Robertson upon my return to London.

Those of you reading this account may recognize the name. She married Maximilian Parker, the son and, at the time, heir of the wealthy industrialists of the same namesake. They, as his father and mother before him, became fixtures in the social scene in London after the exchange of vows. Their two children, now entering adulthood, are adored by one and all.

The misfortune that I brought back upon my return was not something with which I wished to burden another, especially someone so lovely that could brighten this world in a way few others could. While one may find questionable actions in my decisions since, I do not feel this is one that could be considered regrettable. Miss her as I do and dream often of how what was may have been, the decision in this instance was one that required no decision.

Life may well have been different, for all involved. Perhaps all has turned out best—Emilia, dear girl as she always has been, has lived a lavish life free of worry. I have debated reproducing the unsent letter here. I have kept it with my papers for over two decades and have intended to destroy it sometime along the way but have never summoned the courage. A part of me regrets not telling her the reason for suddenly severing communication and no longer showering her with the warmth I always had. Yet, I have always felt the truth in this instance would only amount to an infinitely greater encumbrance.

Emilia, if you are to come to read this, I only ask that you cease here. There is a world for you where what transpires here is not to be known, and it is a better world than the one I have called home for the past twenty years. All you must know is that nothing ever changed, for me. Even today, I count the fortune of meeting you as life’s greatest reward. There will never be another more delightful to be born, of that I am and always have been convinced.

Despite his assurance he would return by early evening, it was not until well into nightfall that I would see Baron Lechner von Savanberg again. All that transpired next is a series of moments I share with you now with absolute recall. No detail is embellished, for better or for worse, and I can only offer my sincerest apologies for the thoughts that may forever haunt your mind, just as they have mine all these years later.

Baron Lechner von Savanberg knocked once on the upper panel of the door to my room upon his return. Putting aside the book on my lap as I sat upright on the bed, I waved and rose to greet him.

Before I could offer my hand, however, he said only, “Edwin, dinner will be ready shortly. I do not wish for you to subsist on an empty stomach for too long. I will call upon you when all is ready. Do forgive my tardiness in the meantime.”

I had not heard him return to the castle but assumed it was only my distance from the entrance to blame. Nonetheless, I thanked him and waited in the room some odd hour before he returned and quietly escorted me to the dining hall. It was well past eight o’clock when we finally settled into the table to dine.

I watched as the Baron did not attack his plate with his former vigor as he had the night before. On this occasion, he took a more solemn approach by portioning his bites of the roasted chicken he had prepared with little finesse. Each portion dwindled in size until he was no longer consuming anything. Soon enough, he gracefully placed his utensils back into place and abandoned the act of eating in favor of silence, or perhaps contemplation.

On the contrary, my appetite had swelled after my poor luncheon and I consumed all there was to have. The aforementioned chicken was joined by a side of sirloin and complimented by potatoes and bread. My palate was normally quite discerning, but this meal was especially filling. As I ate, however, I became more uncomfortable by the moment by the Baron’s demeanor. I would look to him, he would smile and gesture with his glass—which he held as any royal would be conditioned to do—but would not speak.

“Baron, you have again outdone yourself,” I said, wine glass in hand, as the meal winded down and my plate had finally been cleaned. “Your cooking is truly exquisite. I am certain each of your guests must come to the same conclusion and profess as much.”

A seemly grin came over his features. “I am so very glad you have taken joy in whatever hospitality I have afforded. You have enjoyed the castle, then?”

“Why, of course! It is the most luxurious sight on which I have ever laid my eyes.”

The Baron took a drink from his glass. “What was it you thought of my quarters? Were they, too, of sufficient splendor?”

The silence said all I had to say. The Baron, though, had more to add.

“My mother and father were the previous tenants. As you may have seen elsewhere—perhaps in the gallery—she was a woman of great refinement. The act of decoration, she would say, was to tell a story. Each room was its own chapter that would need to stand on its own merit. As no one visitor could be guaranteed to see it all, no chances could be taken in giving an improper impression.

“My mother was very dear to me,” said my host. “She was dear to all, really. I do not recall witnessing a single moment of enmity that she shared with any other living being. Her passing was tragic to all but my father, who was always a stoic but personal man. Any grief he may have felt was instead channeled into anger and a sense of betrayal, some of which he took out on her belongings and portraitures. I had wrongly presumed he had readied himself after witnessing his love battling years of consumption—a terrible disease that saw her waste into a shell of her former self, at least on the outside. Yet, she remained as graceful the day she passed as any other. She never allowed us to see weakness in her. The world lost a true asset with her passing, I assure you of that.”