It was not until after the small party retired to the drawing room that the conversation, much to her uncle’s disgust, degenerated—his word, not Emma’s—into talk of death and the macabre, and from there into the supernatural. The evening from that point onwards was rather lively, despite such morbid topics, and Emma was exceedingly disappointed when her uncle suddenly announced that it was time to depart. On any other occasion she’d have been only too happy to rush away, but this evening was unlike any other.
“What an ungodly night,” said Mrs. Stapleton, drawing back the drapes and peering fretfully into the gathering fog and twilight. “So frightfully dark already. I daresay, I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”
Mr. Haywood’s mouth flattened at the remark. “Yes, well, that is because you were all so determined to speak of nightmarish things.”
Mr. Stapleton joined his wife at the window. “Hmm, rather too dark to walk home, Haywood. Fog’s thick enough to chew on.”
“And thick enough to conceal a killer,” said his aged mother, the wobbling candlelight throwing long shadows over the many folds in her face.
Mr. Stapleton, nodding at his mother, offered the Haywoods his carriage. The mixture of fog and black London smoke had completely blotted what little indigo light remained in the west.
Emma’s uncle, however, ostensibly flouting the notion of danger, promptly and politely declined the kind gesture. After all, he declared, the townhouse was not so very far away and the walk would do well to clear their heads of all the nonsense. Aunt Sophie merely acquiesced with an unenthusiastic nod and a wary glance out the window.
“I insist,” said Mr. Stapleton. He then turned to give the order to his footman, but the servant promptly reminded his master that the carriage had yet to have its axle repaired. “Ah, yes, I quite forgot.” But he smiled, appearing determined to see to it his guests were conveyed home in safety. “I believe my neighbor has a hansom he can spare. I daresay you’d all squeeze in nicely.”
“Never mind that,” said Mr. Haywood, impatient, “it’s early yet and we could do with the walk.” He then gave his wife and niece a bolstering grin.
We? Emma turned a dubious glare towards the blackness pressing at the window. There was no ‘we’ here. She decided her uncle must have a rat in his pocket, for she and her aunt certainly were not inclined to take that deuced walk.
But the footman cleared his throat and informed his employer that the esteemed neighbor in question was out of town…with his conveyance.
“Devilish inconsiderate of him,” their host grumbled, following Mr. Haywood and his family from the room. “We’ll flag down a bone-shaker then.”
“Give over, Stapleton, I shall be climbing my doorstones before your man has even spotted a hack.” Uncle Haywood took his coat and hat from the servant. “The fog’s too thick to see through, never mind drive in.”
“I never met with a more stubborn man.”
“I have no doubt of it,” Mr. Haywood replied, grinning as the rest of the party assembled in the foyer to see the intrepid pedestrians off. Emma and her guardians departed shortly thereafter. Would that she had not glanced back at the house, though, for it was dreadfully disconcerting to see the silhouettes of Mr. Stapleton and his family gathered at the window, safe in their circle of light. The malignant street lights hovered in the darkness like disembodied Lampades dancing in the mist.
A lamplighter was scurrying down his ladder as they turned a corner, leaving Mr. Stapleton’s street. Visibly startled, the man froze and watched them as they passed him by; the street was otherwise uninhabited. His gaslit eyes glimmered with carnelian dread and his mouth parted as though he might be on the verge of saying something, but after a moment he shook his head and hurried off with his ladder. The man then disappeared into the gloom that seemed to suffocate even the orange glow of the gaslights.
How dark it was tonight, Emma thought, looking up at where the eaves and upper windows disappeared into the fallen clouds so that any candlelight swaying dismally at the glazing appeared otherworldly. Shivering, she endeavored to keep pace with her uncle’s militant stride, loath to admit even to herself that the night was starting to disquiet her. The shadows themselves glared from the fog, raising her hackles. Only silence prevailed. The silence of the night and brume disrupted only by the rhythmic strike of her uncle’s cane and three pairs of heels slapping briskly upon the cobbles as they marched through the white, creeping drift. Rhythmic until, unexpectedly, a fourth set of sinister footsteps was heard to echo in the street, the discord instantly tripping Emma’s heart.
She froze and listened, her gaze furtively cutting through the fog that lay behind them. “Do you hear that, uncle?” When he made no answer, she turned to find that he and his wife had been wholly swallowed behind the milky silence of London’s wraithlike curtains. Gone! Even the terse staccato of his cane was utterly drowned. There was no one there but she alone, and the unearthly footfalls that pursued her. “Uncle?” She was looking all about her, febrile with panic as her pursuer drew ever nearer.
As she hurried after her guardians, she felt the icy fingers of presentiment stealing over her heart, threatening to unroot it with a rip. There was something so awful about the quiet, swirling fog around her that it seemed to defy the scream that threatened, locking it fast in her throat. She feared that by calling out, she’d only be inviting the monster at her back to descend upon her all the sooner.
She gave a sudden yelp of fright as a large cat streaked past her, nearly tripping her before vanishing like a wraith into the alley to her right. It was almost as though something had startled it from across the road. And then, with a sudden gust, the fog parted and she saw for herself what had frightened the cat.
There was a shadowy figure standing in the park, behind the iron fence. The face was hidden behind a cloak, only the long locks of hair escaped the hood, floating about like white chaos. But she could feel the eyes staring fixedly at her. So unmistakable was that intrusive stare that it pierced her and crawled its way up along her spine like an insect. One moment the stranger was there, watching, and then, the very next instant, the fog closed around him and he vanished, melting into obscurity.
Terrified, she flattened herself against the brick wall, near the alley. Her hair, like the cat’s, was rampant with terror. How had her aunt and uncle gained so much distance so quickly? Or had she turned to stare behind her longer than she’d thought? She tried to ignore her fear—tried to force her frozen limbs into action—but fear seemed to coil about her feet like an adder, entrapping her. If she screamed, would her aunt and uncle hear her? They could not have wandered too far ahead—were perchance already waiting for her to catch up. All she had to do was run. Run!
The townhouse was close and if she hurried, she would be home in a moment. Finally, she pushed herself off the wall and compelled her feet to move. Sprinting, she passed under another gaslight pouring its dull light into the mist. Here she stole another glance over her shoulder like a frightened heroine of a penny novel romance. Who the devil was lurking behind her? The mad butcher, to be sure.
The thought had no sooner crossed her mind when the church bells began to toll. Her hand was suddenly wrenched in a vice grip. She shrieked and spun toward the malefactor. She’d been so busy watching the fog at her back that she had not looked for danger ahead.