Submitted for the May 2024 prompt: Gothic Sci-Fi

Cecil Bellingham stared into the mirror, imitating Drummond’s gruff morning admonishment in London, “Rumors say the granddaughter is already dead. Influenza.” He straightened his necktie. “Find the truth, Bellingham.”

 

But how? Wexley Hall was exquisitely kept, dustless polished perfection. The grounds were preternaturally precise. Every shrub, hedge, and blade of grass mathematically curtailed. Such immaculateness required a servant army. Yet, he’d found no one. Well, other than the monstrous steward, Mr. Elmer. The addled solicitor who’d read the will? Useless.

 

Cecil reached for his waistcoat. A cacophonous clicking suddenly invaded the room. Cecil strained to pinpoint the source. He rushed into the dimly lit hall. Empty. Then, equally abruptly, the sound disappeared.

 

He’d first heard it immediately upon arriving this afternoon. Mr. Elmer, voice like grating gravel, had claimed it was merely the massive timepiece hanging around his neck. “One of Lord Wexley’s many creations,” the man had said. Not unless the seven-foot tall, twenty-stone steward was somehow crawling through walls.

 

Find the truth. Thinking of young Louisa Drummond’s coy smile, Cecil replayed her father’s final words, “Succeed and you’ll rise quickly at Drummond & Co.” I intend to rise high indeed, sir.

 

The dinner bell rang.

 

* * *

 

An ornate chandelier cast its delicate glow over the dining room’s table. Lady Wexley, shrouded in black mourning veils, remained an enigma.

 

“I must apologize, Mr. Bellingham,” she said, every syllable its own musical note. “I fear I’ll be dreadful dinner company. My grandfather…”

 

Cecil inclined his head. “My condolences again.”

 

Mr. Elmer entered, carrying a steaming tureen. After ladling out two bowls of delicate white soup, he towered rigidly behind her Ladyship. His wild unfashionable beard hid a face seemingly carved from wood. Thick spectacles covered his eyes, yet for a brief moment, Cecil thought they flashed red.

 

Lady Wexley idly spooned patterns in her soup. Cecil watched, mesmerized. Just as he’d been as she’d untiringly signed innumerable bank documents after the will’s conclusion. Later of course he’d checked — her elegant signature precisely matched the one from the bank’s files.

 

Cecil took a spoonful of soup. “Absolutely exquisite,” he blurted.

 

“The cooks will be delighted. Company has been infrequent of late. My grandfather entertained Professor Charles Babbage regularly. Until they fell out last year. Do you know Prof. Babbage?”

 

“I know of him. I’m an Oxford man, though.” Cecil hesitated. “Was your grandfather ill for long?”

 

Lady Wexley, her lace gloves hinting at porcelain-white skin beneath, waved away her uneaten soup. Mr. Elmer promptly removed it, disappearing through the galley door.

 

“At almost ninety, my grandfather’s only malady was old age.”

 

“I understand you battled influenza last year, Lady Wexley.”

 

“Please, Elsie. My grandmother was Lady Wexley. I am—”

 

Mr. Elmer re-emerged carrying a platter laden with Haricot lamb.

 

Elsie resumed, “A dreadful outbreak. Many villagers, mostly children and elderly succumbed. I, luckily, recovered. My grandfather became even more protective afterward.”

 

“You are certainly worth protecting, m’lady,” Cecil said.

 

Elsie bowed her head. She began delicately slicing her lamb.

 

“Coventry Station opened just this month. I have yet to ride a train. How was it?” she asked.

 

“Miraculous and disconcerting. A hundred miles in under five hours, yet with eyes closed one could barely discern any motion. I much prefer a good horse.”

 

She took a dainty bite of lamb. She paused as if contemplating the taste. She began to sob.

 

“Did I offend?” Cecil asked.

 

Elsie’s sobbing intensified. Suddenly, mid-sob, she froze completely still. Mr. Elmer dashed forward, scooping her up like a small child, and rushed past, rumbling. Cecil heard something like, ‘prelude to convulsions’ and ‘medicine.’

 

Cecil rose, bewildered. Was going rigid prior to convulsions typical?

 

A clinking bedlam erupted in the hall. Cecil, remembering the poor lighting, removed a chandelier candle before exiting. He listened, then turned left, following the noise. Finally, he spied light peeking from beneath one door. He opened it.

 

Countless volumes filled shelves floor to ceiling on every wall. Sinumbra lamps cast warm light across a cluttered table. Cecil strode forward. Al-Jazari’s The Book Of Knowledge of Ingenious Mechanical Devices anchored a large parchment. He moved the book aside. Underneath rested Da Vinci’s plans for a seven-foot mechanical man. I must find Elsie!

 

Whirring clicks drew his attention. A bookcase stood ajar behind a comfortable reading chair. Cecil approached. On the chair lay Mary Shelley’s Falkner. A letter protruded midway through. Was that Louisa’s handwriting?

 

The infernal ticking amplified. Ignoring the letter, Cecil pulled the bookcase open further. Spiral stairs descended. At the bottom stood a doorless stone archway. A cacophony of whirring clanks and Mr. Elmer’s muttering echoed through.

 

“Not ready for food yet, Elsie.”

 

Peering through the arch Cecil beheld a mechanical menagerie. Half-finished mice, cats, and birds littered tables. Could that be a mechanical human baby? All around dozens of human-like automatons stood clutching garden shears, feather dusters, kitchen knives, …

 

Mr. Elmer, back to the door, hunched over Elsie. The steward raised his hand, inspecting a fine screwdriver clasped within. Not grasped! Embedded in his finger?!

 

Cecil crept forward, searching for a weapon. Edging closer, he realized Elsie’s dress was pulled down around her waist. Enraged, Cecil sprang forward.

 

“Unhand her, fiend!”

 

Mr. Elmer turned. His beard and spectacles were gone. Glittering crystals flashed in wooden sockets.

 

“Ah, Mr. Bellingham, we have a proposal. With our creator gone we need a human ally.”

 

“Elmer, I’ve already procured one,” Elsie’s melodic voice said. “A willing protégé for a now obscenely wealthy Lady Wexley. One eager to free herself from her father and the machinations of men.”

 

Elsie sat up. Cecil stared in disbelief. Inside Elsie’s chest cavity gears and pistons whirred. Her beautiful porcelain face, hinged open like a book, revealed intricate analytical engines spinning behind.

 

Elsie swung herself off the table. She reached forward and gently stroked Cecil’s cheek. He flinched. Louisa had flinched as well, Cecil suddenly admitted to himself.

 

“I need merely pay her price,” Elsie finished.

 

Elsie’s segmented alabaster hands locked around Cecil’s throat and squeezed.