The Red Casket

Synopsis

Gabriel Enys is a junior solicitor from London. Still grieving from the death of his beloved mother he is sent by his employer to Bodmin Moor on a fateful assignment to recover the final will and testament of the newly deceased, eccentric and reclusive former occupant.

But Nathairden House, is a forbidding and unforgiving structure, situated as it is on an isolated island on the border of Bodmin Moor, and it holds more than its fair share of tormented, dark and twisted secrets.

PART ONE — The Avalow Inn

I am currently standing entirely alone in the middle of Bodmin village, and I cannot avoid raising my weary eyes up to that vast, morass of swirling sky above me and to wonder if it wishes to swallow me whole. I sighed loudly, but my voice was lost to the wind, as I examined that morose sky wondering if it’s sombre disposition was a portent for my fortunes here. This whole day the climate has been cheerless and has not ceased in its’ relentless devotion to dreariness!

The granite grey clouds have been present about me ever since I had left London at an ungodly hour this morning. I studied my watch then and saw that It is only three thirty in the afternoon, I do believe that by four o’clock it will be completely dark. I grumbled to myself. I had no lantern in my small overnight carry case, and lamented that I had not the foresight to bring one with me as above my head the wayward mists had formed a type of barrier that blocked out any remaining silts of satisfying sunlight. The formation of those vapours having fashioned themselves, it appeared to me, into in a row almost symmetrical arches and the uncanny effect reminded me of the design of the crypt at Nunhead cemetery which I had unfortunately endured the sight of only recently when I attended the burial of my beloved mother. The oppressive nature of these arcs produced a type of barricade which bore down on this deserted village, containing the air, and trapping the strange silence here within it. The noiselessness only adds to my unsettled feeling and makes me feel even more like I am standing in a void.

Nonetheless, despite the wearisomeness of my journey I am determined to retain my generally positive disposition, even though my typically good humoured nature and my patient temperament are being tested by extenuating factors. I have been waiting here in the dismal elements now for about thirty minutes having initially trudged down a rather long, muddied, and furrowed lane, dragging my small leather case containing a couple of changes of clothes and my shaving accoutrements with me, from Bodmin station to the village. I am now extremely damp and considerably chilled having been doused all the way by that fine drizzle that never completely soaks you through but makes your skin clammy and your shirt bind unpleasantly to your back. When I had first been given this fateful task by Mr Simons I thought I had made, what I determined, at the time, was a shrewd decision to catch the earliest train possible from London, where I am a junior solicitor at Simons and Nichols solicitors firm and my plan was to arrive at Bodmin village in daylight. I thought this a sage and wily preparation as I know nothing of this area, not having travelled much outside of London at all.

My astute planning though seems to have little consequence against the command of the climate whose impulses and compulsions made a mockery of my naïve scheduling. My entire excursion has been accompanied by this continuous drub-drumming of mizzling rain tapping its monotonous rhythm, firstly against the window of my carriage and now against the cobblestones in the square around me. I was already drained and depleted by the nine-hour train journey, but these lamentable conditions are not helping to give me a favourable first impression of the place. Added to this, I am finding it a little bizarre that in thirty minutes of standing here waiting for my guide, I have not seen a single soul pass me by. No living being seems to haunt this place! I had expected a bustling stream of hardy farmers and ruddy-cheeked labourers to be going about their work as it is only three thirty in the afternoon, but the streets are deserted. I suspect it is threat of further torrent or tumult that keeps the villagers at their firesides, and I suppose the locals appreciate how beneficial the comforts of the homestead are on such an unsettled day as this. Still, it does seem a little peculiar that the village is so vacant? I thought country folk were of hearty and robust stock! I presumed they were used to the tempestuous inclinations of the environment! Perhaps I am merely showing my unworldliness and naivety in believing this? This sturdiness being in contrast to my own fettered fate where I seem destined to catch every wretched chill I am exposed too.

I study my watch again, barely able to discern the hands in the dimming light and I cannot believe it is, in actuality, only early afternoon. My coach is now forty minutes late and I discern with a groan that it would be almost completely dark in a matter of minutes. Yet here I continue to wait as instructed by Mr Kippley, not daring to move from this spot in case I miss the old coachman and lose my chance of passage today to Nathairden House.

I scan my eyes about in vague hope, searching around the village again. Perhaps I am being a little unfair to the quaint but slightly antiquated looking village, I ponder? It is possible that I find the silence here unnerving because I am used to the frantic bustle and commotion of London. In fact, as I stand next to the Celtic cross in the centre of the village square which is surrounded by a wrought iron gate and survey the vicinity I am becoming increasingly certain that in clearer, less sombre weather this village must be both vigorous and lively as well as charming and picturesque. It is the oncoming turmoil that makes it so unwelcoming to a wearied stranger I conclude.

In the distance I thought I could hear the faint mobilising of the turbulence, the thunder announcing its passage which would signify the commencement of a furore that would resound around these fertile fields and fill this vacated lanes with flood. Frustrated, I again considered the sense of remaining, waiting where I was. But by this old cross I had been instructed to wait for Mr Kippley, who was the groundkeeper at Nathairden House and by whom it had been arranged would escort me on the final stretch of this tedious journey. I have corresponded with the aforementioned Mr Kippley only twice, but he sent me an extremely terse letter clarifying that he would pick me up from the centre of Bodmin village and shepherd me on the remainder of my journey. As there is not yet a direct route from Bodmin village to Lacerta Marsh, the isolated island where Nathairden Manor House is situated, it must be completed by pony and trap and apparently it is only Mr Kippley who is prepared to perform this duty of conveying me there.

Examining again the deepening hue of the murky gloom that enveloped me, and the darkening mood of the treacherous skies above I began to conclude that I had been abandoned here. I was almost certain that Mr Kippley had aborted the expedition having determined it too hazardous to be jolted and bounced around in a rickety cart, in the middle of a thunderstorm especially on these uneven country lanes. I was mildly perturbed by this realisation as I had only intended to be here in Bodmin for two or three days at the most, and had only packed a small case for that eventuality, but I supposed one extra day of staying at Nathairden House was a minor set back. Finally, I believed I had suffered enough at the will of this abhorrent environment and sought to seek shelter in the Avalow Inn, a pleasant looking establishment just across the way from where I was stationed. I could see warm, welcoming lamp-light now protruding from the windows.

Just as I was bending down to pick up my leather case I caught sight of something that sent a jolt straight through me and made me step back. the surprise of seeing it there made me stand cautiously upright again. There was a flicker, a glint of white circling in the gloom. Against the muted, sombre shade appeared a white glimmer. Was it a distant lantern I wondered? Well, whatever it was it now appeared to be barrelling straight towards me. Its vivid appearance reminded me of an opal I had seen recently, which had been pinned to a black velvet shawl that I had seen one of the mourners wearing at my mother’s funeral. Despite my melancholic disposition on that day of the funeral, the appearance of this jewel had been dazzling to me, striking an enchanted sensation within me. The gemstone was luminous, a matchless marvel and a mesmerising beacon against the backdrop of sable coloured shawl.

I was temporally lost in this reflection until a low, guttural, growl of thunder drew my attention back to the present. I again became entranced by the irregular movement of the ethereal being in front of me and became convinced that it was the figure of a woman. I could just about trace her mercurial outline against the dim miasma and I noted that she seemed to have an extraordinarily incandescent radiance about her as if emitting an uncanny fluorescent glow. Although I thought this bizarre I believed it could be easily explained away by some environmental condition or one of those astonishing marvels in nature. While at university I had been privy to some experiments conducted by my scientific alumni who had investigated phenomenon such as this. These studies pertained to discovering the causes of the gleaming effect produced by certain minerals and salts under certain types of light. Therefore with this knowledge fresh in my mind, I put the woman’s lustrous aura down to a spectacle adjacent to one of these wonderous occurrences of the natural world. Still, the sight of it up close was both remarkable and slightly unnerving.

I stood still and watched her, not daring to move and transfixed by her erratic energy. She seemed to buzz frenetically, insect-like with a glow like a firefly, fighting to keep her straight path against the coercive breeze. The wind arrived rapidly in short bouts of violent flurry and then in contrast as quickly as it had begun it completely abated. When it did manifest itself it thrashed around in strong sporadic spells which seemed to temporarily knock the tiny firefly of its’ course, and when the tempest returned to tranquillity the firefly appeared temporarily disoriented. As the figure neared me, without any detectable fear or hesitation on her part, I realised then that my assertions had ben correct. It was a young woman, and she appeared to be only a little younger than myself, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years. She was dressed completely in white, a white bustle, with a white shawl and cap. And as she closed in unconscionably close to me, bewilderingly close in fact, I suddenly began to fear she may not stop and barrel straight through me.

I thought I may have to leap out of her path but as I was so close to the iron fencing around the cross I feared I may be crushed against it. Luckily, and only meters away from me she did finally come to an ease, and stopping stone-like and still she stood eyeing me with a look of misgiving and suspicion. I admit the rigidity in the way she positioned herself now was just as disturbing as her previous uninhibited behaviour and in such a bizarre contradiction She was clearly in the mood to study me, I, this interloper in her village. I took off my hat to try show her I was no threat but still she cautiously examined my person, with look of wariness and circumspection on her youthful face. All this time she said nothing but I was saddened that she seemed to show distrust on her pretty oval shaped face. I thought I would go over and introduce myself to her to show that I was amicable not hostile, but just as I was about to move a tremendous gust of furious wind caught under the girl’s shawl lifting it up and she appeared to float under its force. Her former frantic movements were evident again and she swirled around, laughing manically, as if corrupted by some malevolent force. She tore off her genteel bonnet and immediately wild fronds of long, vibrant-red hair that had been previously coiled neatly about around her head, flailed and reeled about her. These curls appeared completely unkempt and untameable as though they had escaped from under her bonnet like small flames that could not be contained there.

When the wind calmed to a softer breeze replacing the disruption again the young woman’s temperament became more serene her movements quickly returning back to tranquil again. She glided in an unfeasibly weightless manner over to me and I admit I thought that switch in her temperament a little alarming. The proximity allowed me to observe her closely and I noted how shockingly pale her skin was and how virtually transparent it was in nature. The texture is virtually transparent and stretched so finely over her high, jutting cheekbones, of which I was taken aback by how aristocratic they were in aspect and design. I thought these far too refined for a farm girl, and when my eye happened to glance upon her elegant hand I could detect no evidence of callus or coarseness from long days of labour in the field. I admit this was puzzling to me, and wondered why a refined lady might be wandering out alone in such despicable weather? But perhaps my inexperience in such matters was causing me to form misconceptions, I confess I know very little of the country lifestyle having only been a dweller of the city for my whole twenty-one years on this earth.

I observed her cautiously now, noticing she had the most astonishing hue of emerald, green eyes that I had ever seen. I was about to say something to her, but honestly her manifestation in front of me had so startled and transfixed me that I felt bewilderingly tongue-tied.

The young woman was perched so close to me now, with her emerald green eyes fixed so intensely into mine, as if she was searching for something there. She stared at me for what seemed like an age and either of us made a sound or any attempt to break the fascination. Across her delicate cheek and under that lucid skin I could see the faint and fine etchings of her purple veins and I felt as though I was looking straight inside her as if examining the mechanisms of a clock. I felt her icy-chilled hand brush against mine and I wanted to take off my own coat and place it around her shoulders to warm her. The only thing preventing me from taking this course of action was that I had but one coat with me and I was not certain how cold I would find it at Nathairden House, when I finally reached that desolate place. As stated previously, I am prone to ailments such as fevers, malaise and chills myself and I am not sure what the arrangements are with Mrs Drayton the former housekeeper.

Still this young women’s regard captivated me, although I admit her proximity was beginning to provoke an uncomfortable feeling, a sensation that was slowly taking hold of me. Despite this uneasiness I struggled to look away from her nor to break her incisive gaze. I thought I saw her mouth twitch into a mischievous smile and I could not prevent my own tacit lips from repeating the gesture, The young woman seemed to recognise this and suddenly her eyes flashed and she smiled a such a bewitching smirk that I almost felt like some prey that had been snared in a trap. I frowned a little then wondering if I had been tricked or manipulated.

Suddenly that vile concentration of wind shocked us both out of our reverie by the nature of its sheer vehemence. The young woman began to back away from me then perhaps misconstruing my sullenness for rudeness. Another sensation took over me then and when she abruptly turned on her heel and began to exit as quickly as she had arrived, all of a sudden, I felt inexplicably and achingly bereft.

“Stop, Don’t go.” I cried out feebly in a type of desperation to get her to return to me. “What is your name, please?” Was the only woeful command that I could fashion my lips to utter.

The young woman spun around to look at me then and I observed how an anxious and grave aspect had distorted her fragile features. Still she said nothing but took a disquieted glance away from me, looking upwards towards the oncoming onslaught. One of her long slender arms lifted from under her shawl and she pointed towards the distant horizon and shrieked. “Dyowl”

I shook my head perplexed. “I do not understand you! I do not know the Cornish dialect.” I shouted back to her, for she had moved some distance away. “What is Dyowl?”

“He is coming. Don’t stay here, he comes.” She cried, tearing at her fraught mass of fire- coloured curls which splayed from her head in a manner one can only describe as feral and frenzied. Her pretty visage displayed genuine terror and panic.

“Stay let me help you.” I called. “Who is coming? Is someone coming to hurt you.”

She stopped then, dead in the centre of an incoming squall, standing so stationary-still that I actually thought for a moment that she had turned into stone. Her eyes seemed to be frozen on a fixed spot on the horizon just above my head and her milky-white, malleable form transformed to resemble the classical alabaster statutes that I had only seen in the British Museum during my student days.

“Are you alright? How can I help you?” I asked

She broke her trance then, her halted, immovable expression metaphorizing into another instance of inquisitive examination of my face. She eyed my with what I read as a mixture of curiosity, mistrust and disbelief. Had this young woman never been shown any compassion or consideration before? I wondered. She certainly did not seem to trust that my concern was genuine. Suddenly a torrent of gusts hit her again nearly sending her reeling sideways. at the force of these blasts this bizarre and otherworldly creature began to cackle hysterically, laughing riotously like a wild little savage, and I could genuinely not discern if it was at my concern for her safety which had provoked that bizarre reaction. She seemed so unnatural, so unruly in the manner in which she was howling?

Is she mad? I wondered for I knew that there was an asylum close to this place. Has she escaped from that wretched custodial? At the thought of this I was immediately worried for her safety. I was about to call to her again, thinking I may be able to escort her back to that gloomy infirmary which i know is situated behind Bodmin Moor, but before I could form the sentence the young woman spun around on her heel and fled.

Like a bright speck in the swirling mists gradually her light was dimming, The further away she ran into the murky dusk the more she vanished from sight. She disappeared practically as quickly as she had materialised and I was left alone again. After a few moments of contemplating this encounter, still a little shaken by this whole experience I made the determination to go and seek shelter in the Avalow Inn. Dragging my wares with me in my small suitcase and with it clattering over the cobbled street I made my way towards the perceived hospitality of the Inn. But just as I was about to enter the establishment and enquire if they had a room for the night, I nearly walked straight into a man in his mid-fifties with a flat cap in his hand and who was clearly worse for having consumed rather to much liquor. I was about to apologise when he plainly looked into my face with his sullen eyes ensconced with lead-heavy lids and I was shocked to see a look of recognition on hid face. Indeed that he seemed to know me! And I was even more intrigued when he spoke my name.