The morning mist lay heavy in the graveyard as the four black-plumed horses pulled the glazed hearse to the open grave. Behind it walked the stark figure of Miss Penelope Evelyn Dreadful, niece, lone mourner and sole heir of the principal actor in the tragedy, to whit the corpse, the late Lord Cornelius Dreadful. Beside her walked the aged Reverend Hezekiah Hawthorne, stumbling over his prayers and occasionally stopping, drawing a deep breath and letting out a staggering sneeze.
At each resounding sternutation the crows in the trees bordering the cemetery let forth a barrage of answering calls, adding to the eldritch mood that October morning and causing the team of four to skitter on the tarmacadam pathway. Finally, the hearse halted and the pall-bearers stepped forward, sombrely extracting the coffin under the watchful eye of the top-hatted undertaker.
Miss Dreadful stood, perfectly erect and perfectly still, svelte in black silk and veiled hat, as her uncle's remains were brought to his final resting place. At which the Reverend Hawthorne recited, with periodic interruptions and the resultant excited replies of the crows, the committal. A careful observer might have noted a certain lack of emotion in Miss Dreadful's stance, though she was respectful, and this was not to be wondered at. For in truth, she had never met the unlamented, and indeed unlamentable Lord Dreadful, despite his being both her guardian and nearest relative.
Thus was Lord Dreadful was committed to the earth, alone but for people who had never met him and a vicar who was privately convinced of his damnation. It was a fitting end for a man most unfitted for society, and if but half the things said of him were true he was at that moment dining most uncomfortably with Lucifer and his minions. This was the view not only of Reverend Hawthorne, but of all right-thinking people in his Lordship's village of Bleak Marshland, winner of the 'most aptly named village in England' award every year since its inception.
The interment complete, Miss Dreadful accepted the Reverend Hawthorne's commiserations but refused his offer of scones in the vicarage, a prior engagement taking precedence. The Reverend Hawthorne was barely able to conceal his disappointment, and indeed his eyes lingered long upon her, though Miss Dreadful thought it merely sympathy. And so she turned, and alone in her thoughts walked under lowering clouds the mile back to the crumbling edifice of Dreadful Hall, a rambling gothic monstrosity located beneath the stern presence of Dreadful Fell.
Though in truth she was not quite alone. Unbeknownst to her she was being surveilled from a closed carriage that stood across from St Aelfnoth's, the parish church of Bleak Marshland.
"It makes one melancholy to see her, alone and friendless," said Commodore St George, a red-faced man, much fatter than he had any right to be, his round face crowned with salt and pepper hair.
"She was friendless before, Commodore," said Miss Burlington, a serious but attractive woman in her thirties who strived to disguise her beauty with plain clothes and an intelligent mien. In which she succeeded, largely, for were most men not truly cognisant of their surroundings?
"Indeed," opined the Commodore, with a yearning sigh, "and were I not forty years her senior I might seek to rectify her solitude."
"Need I remind you that the security of the nation, indeed the Empire, is at stake? Please try not to behave like a herniated subaltern!"
"Miss Burlington, I protest!" said Commodore St George, "my emotions are purely paternal. The poor young thing is an orphan..."
"A very rich orphan, who has been without her parents since the age of nine," interrupted Miss Burlington, "and she is hardly young, either, at twenty-two."
"Still, in my younger days I would have escorted her to as many Admiralty balls as she desired." And the Commodore assumed a noble, faraway look.
"Please, Commodore, to business," said Miss Burlington, "once she has finished with the lawyer we must introduce ourselves. It is a matter of urgency, you will agree?"
"I concur. And perhaps we might offer her some small consolation amidst the exigencies of state."
"Perhaps, we might," said Miss Burlington, and she too assumed something of a distant gaze, though it was better concealed.
* * *
Mr Barren, of Palling, Barren and Curt, attorneys-at-law, was a boring man who proudly cultivated his monotony. He was currently ensconced on one side of a George IV satinwood writing table in the library at Dreadful Hall. Opposite him sat Penelope Dreadful, her hat and veil now removed to reveal her exquisitely symmetrical features framed by her lustrous golden locks, her nose slightly upturned and her lips full. Her clear cerulean eyes, enlivened with a perceptive intelligence (of a sort appropriate for respectable society, naturally) were mesmerising -- or they would have been had Mr Barren had any other interests bar the law.
Next to Penny Dreadful sat Mrs Keppel, housekeeper and sole remaining servant at Dreadful Hall. She sobbed incessantly, holding a worn cambric handkerchief dramatically to her face, her matronly bosom heaving with each tormented wail.
"As I informed you, Mrs Keppel," said Penny, gently, "your presence would have been most welcome at the funeral."
Mrs Keppel's lamentations redoubled at that last word, forcing Penelope to a degree of patience rarely displayed even by that angelic personage.
"Nay," said Mrs Keppel finally, her voice broken by glutinous sniffles, "'tis not the place of servants to grieve with their betters. No matter that I was the only one who truly cared for him..."
At that, Mrs Keppel dissolved once more into plaintive howls. Mr Barren, keen now to press on, cleared his throat.
"I wonder if we may not venture to commence?" he began, his voice reedy, the document poised in his hand, "with your permission, Miss Dreadful?"
"Pray, continue," said Penny, with a gentle wave of her hand.
"The last will of Lord Cornelius Macaroon Philomon Dreadful, fourth Baron Dreadful of the county of Derbyshire," Mr Barren began, speaking over the continued snuffles emanating from the person of Mrs Keppel, "the will begins with the usual assertion that the testator is of sound mind, the same being witnessed by his doctor, Sir James Faverney of Harley Street, and myself. It continues in traditional vein, and as you must suspect, Miss Dreadful, you are his lordship's sole heir, the details of which estate are as follows.
"There is the Hall, of course, and the village, the rents from which form one half of the Dreadful fortune. There is also a very substantial stock portfolio including major holdings in the Express Airships conglomerate, the Robson Domestic Appliance Company, Steam Cars PLC, and a holding amounting to almost ten percent of the Robotic Mining Equipment Consortium. That amount would have entitled Lord Dreadful to a directorship, however he declined.
"There are also some bequests to be honoured," said Mr Barren, turning the page, "first, to Mrs Keppel..."
And here Mrs Keppel's wails reached a crescendo.
"To Mrs Keppel," Mr Barren continued after a pointed pause, "I leave the sum of one thousand pounds..."
The size of the bequest stunned Mrs Keppel into silence, and she could only stare at the lawyer with red-rimmed eyes.
"I leave one thousand pounds," Mr Barren repeated, "in the hope that this amount will enable my faithful housekeeper to turn away from menial considerations, and instead immerse herself in the creative works her nimble fingers were brought into this world to produce."
"Aye," said Mrs Keppel in response to the silent question on Penny's visage, "my father was the best leatherworker in the entire county, and as a girl I learned at his knee. I can turn my hand to the production of any item in leather, as his lordship and some other gentlemen often requested, and now he has gifted me enough to..." but she got no further, dissolving into heartfelt sobs once more.
"There are some other small considerations," Mr Barren went on, "money for the village to drink a barrel in his lordship's memory after their next football match with Good Marshland, a charitable bequest to the Missionary Society of London to rescue fallen women from amongst the benighted streetwalkers of the Haymarket. And there is also his lordship's apartment in Mayfair, however nobody but his lordship visited the property, so I cannot tell you its contents or condition. I am, of course, at your service, Miss Dreadful, and I would deem it an honour to investigate said apartments on your behalf."
