FORTY-NINE
The first inkling that something was amiss was when Mrs Gregson saw the monster in the headlamp of the motor cycle. As they entered the farm courtyard, the creature staggered out of the twilight and into the beam, and then ducked away. She was so shocked at the apparition that the front wheel of the bike wobbled, and she felt they must go over.
‘Stop!’ cried de Griffon from over her shoulder, and she managed to skid the bike to a halt on the cobbles. The captain was off in one quick hop, grabbed her by the shoulders and flung her to the hard ground. The bike crashed down beside her and stalled.
‘Stay still,’ he instructed. ‘Keep your head covered.’
She did as she was told, using her arms as a shield, trying to recall what she had seen of the being. A hideously featureless face, apart from two prominent, bulbous eyes and a kind of trunk where the nose and mouth should have been.
‘Stop right there!’ she heard de Griffon yell from behind. ‘You there.’
There came an incoherent reply.
‘Don’t be a fool, man. Put down the rifle.’
Another muffled sound was followed by two sharp reports from de Griffon’s revolver that made her start. There was a third shot, and a sound like a sack of coal or potatoes being dropped.
‘It’s all right,’ de Griffon said. ‘Oh, my good God. Hold on, stay there. Please.’
The alarm – no, sheer panic – in his voice made her jump to her feet. She wasn’t going to lie there whimpering.
The captain was illuminated by the fading, tallow beam of the motor cycle. To his right was a prostrate form; the creature, she assumed, rifle at his side, arms spread akimbo. She was too distant to see any wounds, but was in no doubt that de Griffon had shot him. The captain was bent over a gas cylinder that lay in front of one of the barns, frantically turning a small hand wheel.
‘Stay back, Georgina!’ he shouted and began to cough. ‘For God’s sake, stay away.’
She could smell petrol. The tank of the fallen bike was leaking through the cap and she heaved it up, training the headlamp on de Griffon as he rolled the cylinder away, bringing a length of tubing with it. Mrs Gregson pulled the motor cycle onto its stand and ran across the cobbles towards the barn, but as she drew level with the farm’s well, de Griffon again waved frantically and warned her to stay put.
He lifted the bar across the double doors, flung them back and retreated as fast as he could from the billowing cloud that rolled out.
‘It’s gas!’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Cover your mouth—’
His words were knocked clear out of him. Head thrown back in pain, trailing streamers of green fumes like a horse from hell, Lord Lockie burst from the folds of smoke and barrelled into de Griffon. The captain tried to keep his balance, but his feet went from under him and he slithered along the cobbles.
‘The major!’ she shouted. ‘Dr Wat—’
De Griffon began to cough and heave, and even at that remove, Mrs Gregson felt the first stinging attacks by the vile substance burning her nose and eyes. She pulled the collar of her coat to her mouth to create a barrier.
De Griffon was up again now, clawing frantically at the face of the dead man, when another living thing emerged from the gas rolling out of the barn. He was staggering, and holding a cloth pressed flat against his entire face. He careered around blindly, one arm outstretched, and appeared to crash into the horse trough, but at that point he threw away the handkerchief and plunged his head into the water, submerging it to his shoulders.
De Griffon was before her, holding up something that smelled disgusting. ‘Put this on. Now!’
It was a gas mask. One of the new respirators she had heard about but not seen. That was what the creature had been. A man in a respirator. She slipped the suffocating rubber and canvas contraption over her head. It was damp with a dead man’s breath, the mica eyepieces were fogged up and one was cracked. But at least the gas wasn’t scratching at her throat now.
‘Get the major clear,’ de Griffon instructed. ‘Out of the farm. On the bike.’
‘Wha’boutoo?’ Her words came as if she was underwater.
‘What?’
She tried to enunciate more clearly. ‘What about you?’
‘I have something to do. I’ll be all right, now go.’
Mrs Gregson walked back over to the parked bike, straddled it and, to her relief, it rumbled into life on the second kick. She opened the throttle just enough to take her alongside Major Watson. He put his dripping head on her shoulder, his chest heaving.
‘Can you get on?’
A nod was all the wheezing doctor could summon, but he managed to throw a leg over the pillion.
They both watched, frozen, as de Griffon walked over to Lord Lockie. The horse’s legs had buckled from under him, his breath was coming hard and the flanks were glistening with sweat. As he approached, Lockie shook his head and gave a pitiful neigh. Then, with a ground-shaking impact that felt like it reverberated for several seconds, he keeled over. The hoofs began to paw the air, as if he were still trying to race away from this terrible place. A piercing whine escaped from foam-flecked lips.
De Griffon stood watching for a second, but even that was a cruel hesitation. He knew what he had to do. He stepped forward, raised the revolver, took careful, merciful aim, and pulled the trigger. Lord Lockie gave one almighty thrash and lay still.
As the motor bike growled and popped out of the farm gate, Cecil ran past it, his little legs pumping, tongue hanging from the side of his mouth.
De Griffon picked up the dog and put his cheek to its muzzle, walking away as quickly as he could, his eyes streaming with tears that weren’t entirely due to the chlorine still swirling around the farmyard.