The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 23

THANA NIVEAU White Roses, Bloody Silk

“AND WHO IS your German guest, Elizabeth dear,” asked Harriet Dalrymple, narrowing her small piggish eyes at the hand-written list of names, “Wilhelm — Cross, is it?”

Frédérique Cheniere giggled from behind a cloud of face powder at the dressing table. “I believe they pronounce it Krauss,” she offered in heavily accented French, “and I hear he is quite the roué!”

Cornelia Myler nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “Yes, a positive scoundrel! Why ever did you invite him?”

Their hostess, Lady Elizabeth Rossiter, continued to admire herself in the cheval mirror, turning this way and that as she kept her friends in suspense. At last she finished smoothing down the heavy brocade gown and turned to face them, her crinoline swinging round her like a bell. “He was once a doctor,” she said, her birdlike features producing a malicious grin, “but a scandal with a certain lady patient led to his disgrace and exile.”

“I hear she was the wife of an archduke,” said Cornelia. “Or whatever they call it over there.” She waved her hand dismissively. Gossip was always more important than facts.

Frédérique sniffed. “No, she was only the wife of a clergyman,” she corrected, “but he was — how do you say? — ex-communicated. And later the church, it burned down.”

“It did,” Cornelia was quick to confirm, as though she’d seen it with her own eyes. She added in a scandalised whisper, “They say he’s in league with the Devil.”

Harriet gasped and fluttered a hand to the ample bosom straining beneath the confines of her apricot gown.

“I have it on good authority,” said Lady Elizabeth, “that when his lodgings were searched they found the skulls of a dozen maidens in a velvet hatbox beside his bed.”

“Oui! And hidden inside a big black piano, he kept. other parts.”

Harriet’s face was contorted with both horror and fascination. “Good heavens! And you have invited this man to dine with us? And stay the weekend? Elizabeth, are you quite mad?”

Frédérique laughed and Cornelia immediately joined in with her.

“Now, now,” Elizabeth said, placing a hand on Harriet’s meaty arm. “My dear, you’ll work yourself into a state. Who knows what the truth of it is? But I find the prospect of his company rather stimulating. His manners are impeccable after all even if he is a bit. eccentric.”

“You haven’t paired him with my Jane for dinner, have you?” Harriet asked suddenly. “The child’s only sixteen and—”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Of course not, dear. Nor you,” she hastened to add, seeing Frédérique’s worried expression. “I’ve put him between Aunt Florence and me. That grizzled old harridan is in no state to complain and she’s lucky George and I don’t keep her locked in her room all weekend. His little maid can amuse him if he finds Florence too tiresome.”

Cornelia’s head jerked up immediately, like an animal scenting prey. “Maid?”

“Oh! I quite forgot to tell you. He travels with a female valet. Never lets her out of his sight and he won’t allow anyone else to serve him.”

“Goodness me,” Cornelia said archly. “Where does she sleep — on the floor at the foot of his bed?”

They all giggled at the thought and fancied themselves quite decadent.

Elizabeth dabbed her throat with scent and grinned at the others. “I’ve given him the room at the end of the east wing. It has an antechamber and Perkins was just able to fit a small bed in for the maid.”

Frédérique’s eyes glittered as she fingered the black velvet choker at her throat, her mischievous thoughts obvious to everyone.

“Well, perhaps they do things differently in Germany,” Harriet conceded.

Cornelia grinned. “He might at least make some concession to decency by disguising her as a boy!”

There came a soft knock at the door and the ladies stifled their giggling as Elizabeth called out “Yes?”

A dull-eyed girl shuffled inside and stood staring sullenly at the floor.

Harriet swooped down on her at once. “Jane darling, I thought we agreed you looked best in the yellow silk! This green is far too sombre for you. I wonder you even brought it!”

“I don’t feel very well,” Jane moaned, clutching her stomach.

“You’ll feel much better out of that dreary green,” Harriet insisted. “Now come along and let’s find you a nice summery frock.”

The remaining three rolled their eyes as the garrulous woman dragged her daughter off down the corridor, prattling incessantly.

Wilhelm Krauss was a man of imposing physique and imperious countenance. His dark hair was combed back and his temples and sideboards were shot through with silver. His eyes were deep pools of black that seemed to reflect no light. He rose from his chair by the fire as three of the ladies entered the library with a rustle of skirts.

“What did I tell you, Krauss?” said Lord George Rossiter, clapping his companion on the shoulder with a hearty laugh. “I believe they call it ‘fashionably late’.”

“George!” Elizabeth scolded, affecting a debutante’s pout that was dramatically at odds with her ageing features.

Captain Charles Myler and James Dalrymple glanced up from a game of chess in the corner. Myler aimed a polite smile at Cornelia and immediately returned his attention to the game while Dalrymple didn’t seem particularly bothered by the absence of his own wife and daughter.

“Good evening, my lady,” Krauss said with a sharp little bow to Elizabeth. “I want to thank you for your generosity this weekend. I am aware that my company is unwelcome in certain circles.”

Elizabeth inclined her head graciously, ignoring his indiscretion despite the flutter it provoked in her friends. “You are indeed very welcome, Mr Krauss,” she said, unable to avoid glancing at the maid who stood like a ghost behind him, her hands folded demurely.

Cornelia and Frédérique were sizing her up too. The girl was certainly fetching — a pretty, petite creature with delicate features and wide blue eyes. Her hair was pinned beneath a scrap of lace and she wore a white pinafore over a plain black uniform.

Elizabeth seated herself on the chintz-covered sofa opposite the fireplace and Krauss resumed his seat in the chair beside it. Cornelia and Frédérique arranged themselves on the sofa next to their friend. They each accepted glasses of sherry from the butler in turn.

“I do hope you are enjoying your visit to England,” Elizabeth said.

“I find your countryside most invigorating,” Krauss replied, his voice deep and resonant. “And you have a most impressive estate. Exquisitely furnished. However, I am not merely visiting.”

The lady had just raised her glass to her lips. “Oh?”

“Yes, I intend to make my home here. There is nothing for me back in Germany.”

The ladies exchanged glances, recalling their conversation upstairs.

“How delightful,” Elizabeth said. “Then perhaps we shall be seeing more of you.”

He smiled slyly. “Perhaps you shall.” As he drained his sherry glass the maid took it from him and set it on the little mahogany table beside him. The butler was quick to follow with his tray, collecting the glass and hovering beside the maid until Krauss waved him away.

There followed an awkward silence, which grew until it was broken at last by a shrill barking voice. “That machine makes a frightful noise!”

The group turned to regard the elderly lady installed in an armchair by the bay window. She had looked up from her needlepoint and was staring about like someone who’d woken to find herself in strange and disagreeable surroundings.

“No one is using any machine, Aunt Florence,” said Elizabeth, miming a long-suffering expression for Krauss’ benefit.

George cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted across the room. “Sit tight, old thing! We’ll have supper soon!”

The old lady blinked at the sewing needle in her shaky hand as though someone else must have put it there. Then she plucked at the pattern and set to work again, taking a full minute to complete one stitch.

Amused, Krauss watched her efforts for a moment and then turned back to his hostess. “These roses are enchanting,” he said, gesturing to the display.

A large crystal vase sat atop a marble table in the centre of the window alcove, holding an extravagant spray of white roses.

Elizabeth beamed. “Why, thank you. They’re called ‘Purity’. I find them so much more appealing than those garish ‘American Beauties’ that are all the rage in London at the moment.”

“Far more elegant,” Frédérique agreed. “But ever so thorny!”

“Do you have roses in Germany?” Cornelia asked.

Frédérique shot her a withering look, as though Cornelia were a crass rival who had nonetheless managed to upstage her.

“Oh yes, we have magnificent flowers. Some brash and colourful, some rather more. delicate. Subdued.” He turned in his chair just enough to meet the eyes of the maid. “Some requiring, shall we say, very special care.”

Elizabeth frowned and glanced at her husband, whose bushy eyebrows had climbed to his hairline. For all their perceived decadence, they were really rather squeamish.

“But appearances can be deceiving,” Krauss continued, his voice compelling and seductive. “You would be surprised. Some things are much hardier than they look.” The maid blushed and looked down at the floor.

“I’ve never been to Germany,” Elizabeth said, hurriedly changing the subject. “Where is it you are from. Mr Krauss?”

If he noticed her slight hesitation over how to address him, he didn’t let on. “Hamburg,” he said with pride. “It’s a lovely and prosperous city in the north, on the River Elbe.”

Frédérique made at once for the ornate globe that stood adjacent to the fireplace. “Will you show me where it is?” she said. “I am so hopeless at geography.”

The other guests exchanged a knowing look. It was extremely unlikely that Frédérique didn’t know where such a famous city was.

“Certainly, my dear,” Krauss said. He took her pale hand in his and drew her finger down the length of the painted surface until it rested on Hamburg. “It’s just. here.”

She shuddered girlishly at his touch. “Ah yes, I see it.”

“Has it recovered from the epidemic?” George asked suddenly.

Frédérique gave a little squeak of surprise and yanked her hand away as though the globe itself could contaminate her.

“Epidemic?” Cornelia spluttered.

The word was enough even to distract Myler and Dalrymple from their chess game. Elizabeth looked nervously from her husband to her guest.

But Krauss’ polite expression did not waver. “Cholera,” he said simply. “Two years ago there was an outbreak of the disease.”

Captain Myler grunted. “Hmm. Saw plenty of that in India. Nasty bug.” With that he picked up his remaining knight and advanced it two paces. “Check.”

“Blast!” said Dalrymple.

“Were there very many deaths?” Cornelia asked, her eyes shining with unhealthy interest.

“Oh yes. More than eight thousand people died. They said the Devil had signed his name in Hamburg. Of course, it was mostly the lower classes who succumbed. ‘Untouchables’, I believe you say in English?”

Frédérique nodded awkwardly as she edged away from him and resumed her seat.

“We say common,” Cornelia informed him, wrinkling her nose to emphasise her disgust at such creatures. “Peasants.”

Elizabeth grimaced. “Yes, well, I’m not quite sure they deserved to die.”

“Bah!” said George. “Bloody vagrants, the lot of ’em!” He lifted his glass as though to toast their demise.

“Disposable in any case,” Krauss said offhandedly. “Anna, I seem to have mislaid my glass.”

If the little maid was disturbed by the conversation she gave no sign. She scurried to retrieve the glass from the butler who, despite his obvious contempt for Krauss, clearly didn’t appreciate being made obsolete. Anna refilled the glass with sherry and returned it to her master.

“Good idea,” George said, nodding approval. “Perkins, make the rounds. Er, everyone except Krauss obviously. Incidentally, is it ‘Mr’ or ‘Dr’?”

Elizabeth looked startled. “George!” It was shockingly poor etiquette not to know the correct form of address for one’s guests and she quickly covered her embarrassment with a nervous laugh. “You must excuse my husband’s directness,” she said, “I’m afraid we. ”

But Krauss raised a hand and offered her a forgiving smile. “It’s quite all right. I would be very pleased if you would simply call me Wilhelm.”

He had deftly avoided answering the question in everyone’s mind (Just how “disgraced” was he?) and the offer of his Christian name imposed the same vulgar familiarity on everyone present. Frédérique in particular looked horrified by the suggestion.

“I suppose they do things differently in Germany,” she said, resuming her seat on the sofa.

As if summoned by the echo of her earlier comment, Harriet Dalrymple appeared in the doorway, looking breathless and stricken. “I’m most dreadfully sorry, Elizabeth, but we must make our apologies. Our Jane has suddenly been taken ill.”

“Oh dear! I hope it’s nothing serious,” Elizabeth said. She glanced nervously at Krauss, as though at the same time hopeful and afraid that he might volunteer his services. It was clear he did not have what one would term a “calling”.

But Krauss made no offer of assistance. He merely expressed his disappointment at not being able to meet the young lady and wished her the best.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Harriet. “I’m sure the poor child will be fine, but I fear we must get her home.”

James Dalrymple grumbled as he got reluctantly to his feet, glowering at the chess game he was losing. “Sorry, Myler. We’ll have to finish this another time.”

George and Elizabeth escorted their friends out while an embarrassed lull fell over the remaining guests. Only Krauss seemed unfazed by the events.

“Snick snick snick, all day!”

“No one’s using the sewing machine, Aunt Florence,” Elizabeth said with patronising exasperation as she returned. Her cheeks were flushed and several strands of hair had come loose from her elaborate bun. She downed her sherry and nodded eagerly at Perkins for a refill.

The old lady was shaking with rage. “Those wicked, wicked fingers!”

“Aunt Florence—”

“It’s positively unbearable!” With that she flung her arm out to the side, pointing presumably towards the source of the noise only she could hear. Her hand collided with the crystal vase, knocking it to the floor with a great crash. She screamed and covered her face with her hands, one of which was bleeding.

“Oh, good heavens,” Elizabeth cried. “Whatever next?” She leapt to her feet and dragged the old lady up from her chair. “Perhaps it’s best if you had a little nap, Aunt Florence. You know the sound doesn’t carry as far as your room.”

“I’ll get a cloth, madam,” said Perkins, looking a little flustered himself.

“There was no need to throw it at me,” the old lady complained, staring round the room in bewilderment, her wrinkled face smeared with blood.

“Come on, Aunt Florence. I’ll have cook send you up some dinner.”

Cornelia and Frédérique squirmed like schoolgirls stifling giggles while George and Captain Myler merely looked bored. From the hall they could hear Elizabeth shouting for the cook.

When Frédérique got control of herself she turned to Krauss. “Shall I read the cards for you, monsieur?”

The evening was fast becoming a social debacle and a palpable relief flooded the room at the prospect of a diversion.

“My dear lady, what a charming suggestion.”

Frédérique placed a small table between herself and Krauss. She had just produced a deck of Tarot cards from a velvet pouch and begun to shuffle them when Elizabeth returned, looking even more dishevelled. She stared forlornly at Perkins, who was mopping up the spilt water and brushing the broken shards of crystal into a dustpan. He picked up one of the roses, intending to deposit it with the rest of the debris, but then dropped it with a sudden hiss of pain. A bead of blood welled from the tip of his finger and he grumbled as he wiped it on his cloth. He grabbed the rose again, this time by the petals, crushing the bloom.

“No,” said Krauss firmly, startling the butler, who promptly dropped the flower. “I won’t see beautiful things discarded so carelessly.”

Elizabeth smiled weakly, as though at a great compliment. “You’re quite right. Perhaps, Perkins, another vase. ”

“Very good, madam,” he said, his tone somewhat clipped. Clearly he didn’t approve of his mistress’s strange guest, but it wasn’t his place to say anything.

But Krauss shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. After all, that’s what the suffering classes are for.”

Perkins’ eyes widened slightly at the comment, but no one else reacted.

“Anna, would you collect the roses for me?”

She obeyed without hesitation, carefully picking up each thorny stem with her right hand and gathering them loosely together with her left. When she had retrieved all twelve she stood before her master with a shy smile, holding the roses carefully in a bunch with both hands.

He favoured her with an indulgent smile, as though she were a well-trained pet. Then he placed his hands around hers and squeezed them together sharply. Anna uttered a little yelp of pain as he slowly took his hands away, leaving her clutching the thorny stems. Tears shimmered in her eyes, but although the thorns must have been driven into her palms in a dozen places, she made no move to unclench her fingers.

“There,” he said, still smiling. “Now why don’t you go and stand where the vase was? The roses did look lovely in front of the window. There. Isn’t that a pretty sight.”

The guests stared, shocked into silence, as blood began to seep from between the girl’s fingers and run down the ends of the stems. Bright red droplets soon speckled her pinafore and Perkins spread his cloth on the floor at her feet. He turned away, ashen-faced. Anna stood silently, trembling and drawing quick shallow breaths as she held the torturous bouquet, for all the world like a statue come to life.

Krauss gazed at the spectacle for a few moments, then clapped his hands together, making everyone jump. “Now then. You were going to tell us the future, madame.”

Frédérique blinked slowly, as though emerging from a trance. “Future? Oh. Oh, yes.” She tore her gaze from the maid’s plight and focused on the cards as she fumbled them between fingers suddenly grown clumsy. She shuffled the deck and dealt a row of cards face down, her eyes occasionally flicking back to Anna.

She turned over the first card. It depicted a woman, bound and blindfolded, standing helpless within a cage formed of eight swords that pierced the ground around her bare feet.

“That looks like rather an unhappy state of affairs,” Krauss said genially. “For someone.”

Frédérique pursed her lips and stared determinedly at the card while everyone else in the room glanced across at Anna, as though compelled by the image to look. “Yes,” she said at last. “But perhaps it is not all bad. We must see what the other cards have to tell us.”

She hurriedly turned up the next card and gave a little gasp. Nine swords hung menacingly over a figure waking from a nightmare. “The Lord of Cruelty,” she whispered.

Krauss smiled. “Indeed? How very interesting.”

The next card was even worse. The nightmare had come to fruition. A body lay on the ground beneath a black sky, pierced by ten swords.

Frédérique’s hand hung trembling above the card while the others craned their necks to see the strange sequence of doom.

With a strained laugh Elizabeth said, “Freddie dear, are you quite sure you shuffled the cards properly?”

Frédérique bristled. “Of course! You saw me.”

“Show us the next one,” Cornelia said, entranced.

Frédérique took a deep breath and revealed the next card. The Tower. She stared at it in silence. Two figures were plunging to their deaths from a flaming tower that had been struck by lightning.

“Well, that can’t be good,” George said with a scowl.

“No,” Frédérique whispered. “It is not good at all.” She hesitated for a long time before turning over the final card. The Devil. Her eyes widened. Then she swept all the cards together with a violent movement and shoved them back inside the velvet pouch.

Cornelia plucked at Frédérique’s sleeve like a child. “Are we in danger?” she asked.

Captain Myler snorted. “Poppycock!”

Frédérique shot him a poisonous look. “Do not mock the cards, monsieur,” she warned.

Myler spread his hands. “Are there any swords in this room, madame? No. Nor are we in a tower. Why, there isn’t even a storm raging outside. You’re all a bunch of bloody fools if you believe in any of that rubbish.” He tossed back the last of his sherry and made for the door. “I’m going out for some fresh air. If you will excuse me.” With a curt little bow he made his exit.

“The cards, they are symbolic,” Frédérique said petulantly. “Swords do not necessarily mean real swords.”

From the window alcove Anna whimpered softly. Her pinafore was soaked with blood. Krauss went to her and stood regarding her for a moment. Then he gently unlaced her fingers from their cruel burden. She gasped with pain and relief as the roses fell one by one to the floor.

Krauss held her wrists and examined her hands, which had begun to bleed again. Then he positioned his glass beneath her left hand and squeezed her wrist. Several drops of blood splashed into his sherry. Anna closed her eyes in almost beatific surrender. Krauss swirled the liquid in his glass and sipped it, smiling as though tasting a particularly fine vintage.

For several moments no one moved. Then Cornelia pressed a hand to her mouth and ran from the room. They heard her shoes slapping the mosaic tiles of the hall and then for several seconds there was nothing. A piercing scream shattered the silence.

The ladies froze in horror and George ran after Cornelia. The screams ceased abruptly as he reached her, to be replaced by howling sobs.

Frédérique wrapped her arms around herself on the sofa and Elizabeth drifted uncertainly towards the door, glancing back and forth from her guests and then into the hall.

“My poor Charles! How could she? Why did she—?” Cornelia was demanding in a voice choked with tears.

George led her back into the room, looking bewildered. He guided the hysterical woman into a chair near the fire and beckoned his wife over.

Elizabeth hurried across to them and placed her hands on Cornelia’s shoulders. “What happened, dear? Who’s ‘she’?”

“Her!” Cornelia shrieked, gesturing wildly towards the ceiling. “Your ‘old harridan’! She killed my husband!”

Elizabeth shook her friend gently as she began to dissolve into sobs again. “What are you talking about? Aunt Florence? She’s asleep upstairs. She couldn’t have—”

But George was nodding his head solemnly.

“What?” Elizabeth snapped.

“She’s right. The captain’s dead. Cook too.” He shuddered and put a hand across his eyes, recalling the sight. “Their eyes. There were — knitting needles. ”

“Have you gone mad? Aunt Florence is—”

The sound of breaking glass drew everyone’s attention to the doorway. The old lady stood there, clutching two fistfuls of vicious-looking sewing needles of every shape and size, some of them as long as meat skewers. She glanced at the china figurine she had knocked over and then turned her malevolent stare on the occupants of the room.

“He ought to have known better,” she said, her voice as unsteady as her hands. “I can still count, you see. Eight, nine, ten!”

Frédérique gasped. “The swords,” she whispered.

Perkins was edging slowly towards the old lady, apparently intent on catching her off guard and disarming her. George noticed and moved to distract her.

“Look here, Flo,” he said. “Let me have those things. You’ll do yourself an injury, old girl.”

“I know what the numbers mean,” Florence said icily, brandishing the needles at him. As she raised her arms they could see that she was only holding a few of the needles; the rest had been shoved through her palms like crucifixion nails.

Suddenly Perkins rushed her. But he wasn’t quick enough. The old lady drove her hands against either side of his head as though crushing a mosquito in mid-air. Some of the needles remained in his face while others were simply forced through the backs of Florence’s hands. Perkins shrieked with pain as he fell to the floor, clawing at the pincushion his face had become.

With unbelievable speed Florence went for the next nearest victim. George and Elizabeth had already dodged away but Cornelia was unable to get out of the chair in time. She screamed and flailed helplessly as the old lady fell on her and set about raking the metallic claws across her face and throat.

Frédérique saw her chance and fled. Perkins lay writhing and groaning in a spreading pool of blood as he tried to dig the needles out of his face. George and Elizabeth watched in horror for a few moments before running after Frédérique. Perkins got to his feet and stumbled after them, trailing blood in his wake.

The old lady soon grew bored with Cornelia, whose cries had grown weak and feeble before she finally lost consciousness. Her baleful gaze swept the room and fell for a moment on Krauss and Anna, who stood calmly by the window.

The remaining needles clicked together as the old lady moved her fingers in the air like skewered spiders. “Snick snick snick,” she mumbled. Then she turned back to where the butler had been. Seeing he had escaped, she smiled like a child at play and crept after him. From the corridor came the sound of a struggle. There was a shout, then the sound of gurgling, moaning, then silence.

Alone at last, Krauss turned Anna to face him. A slow grin spread over her features and she placed her bloodstained hands on either side of his face.

“Apparently I’m the daughter of a clergyman,” she said. “And you’re in league with the Devil.”

“Is that so?”

“I suspect the Dalrymples have already made his acquaintance.”

Krauss nodded. “A few drops in the jug of water by their daughter’s bed earlier this afternoon. If she isn’t dead by morning she’ll wish she was.”

From somewhere outside, Frédérique began to scream.

“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” Krauss said.

He led Anna up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Once there, he undressed her slowly and laid her naked on the fourposter bed. She writhed in anticipation, her hands leaving streaks of blood on the white silk sheets. Krauss kissed her gored palms.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” she said, breathless. “But not nearly enough.”

He withdrew a knife from his pocket. It gleamed like a smile in the candlelight. “Where shall we begin?” he asked.

She guided him to the soft skin of her abdomen and lifted her hips, pressing herself against the tip of his blade. “Here,” she said. “Sign your name.”