Death in the West Wind by Deryn Lake

best.”
    It was very pleasant, John thought, to have a wife who said soothing things in moments of great distress. In fact had he known how comforting it was he would have got married long ago. Then Coralie came into his mind and her stubborn refusal to be his wife, and he felt a sudden rush of guilt, as if even thinking about her was somehow betraying Emilia.
    “Where to now, Sir?” called Irish Tom from the box.
    “Back to Sidmouth. We’ve completely wasted our time in coming here.”
    “You’ve left word for the poor man, Sir, so something’s been achieved.”
    “I suppose so,” the Apothecary answered wearily, feeling the day’s events start to catch up with him and every bone in his body begin to ache.
    “You’re exhausted,” said Emilia.
    “I know,” and pulling his hat down over his eyes, stretching out his legs and putting his arm round his bride, John fell fast asleep.

    *   *   *

    He was woken abruptly by a sudden sound, or rather two sudden sounds. Simultaneously, Irish Tom called out, “Christ, what’s that?” and Emilia shrieked close to the Apothecary’s ear. Startled witless, he sat bolt upright.
    “What’s going on?”
    But Emilia did not answer, instead pointing a trembling finger at the carriage window. Following the line of her hand, John looked out, and the sight that he saw in the vivid moonlight froze him to the marrow.
    Presumably tiring of driving across the city, Tom had taken them through the country on an entirely different route, and they were presently passing over some rugged gorse- covered terrain, a bleak and desolate place with not a sign of life anywhere. Yet ahead of them on this God-forsaken heath was another coach. And though there was nothing particularly extraordinary in that, it was the conveyance itself and its occupants that chilled John’s spine.
    The carriage was all white except for the springs beneath, which seemed to be blacker than most, like cruel dark fingers supporting the bodywork. As if this weren’t odd enough, within its shadowy interior sat several people, if human beings they indeed were. For large floppy brimmed hats with a veil in the front entirely masked whatever face may lurk behind, concealing from the world exactly what these creatures might be. The hats were white and so were the greatcoats that covered the shoulders with many capes.
    “They’re skeletons,” gasped Emilia.
    “Nonsense … “ started John, but his voice trailed away as his eyes travelled up to the coachman.
    He was dressed in exactly the same gear but with one horrific difference. The head, complete with shrouding hat, lay beside him on the coachman’s box, and the neck sticking up out of the caped coat ended in a jagged cut.
    “Holy Mary,” Tom was shouting loudly, and with that let off a blast from his pistol.
    The occupants of the white coach did not fire back but sped off into the night, their black plumed horses, just like those of a funeral cortege, rolling their eyes and foaming as the headless coachman urged them on with a snake-like whip.
    “Oh my God,” said Emilia, and threw herself into her husband’s arms, trembling violently.
    “Do I give chase, Sir?” shouted the Irishman.
    “No, get us back as quickly as you can,” John called in reply.
    Despite the fact that all his attention was taken up by his terrified bride, he himself was thoroughly unnerved. Though up to this moment he had had no belief in the supernatural, he had to confess that what he had just seen had shaken him to the core. That the West Country was full of tales of unearthly occurrences was a known thing, though the Apothecary had laughed at the stories when he had been told them. But this ghostly carriage with its terrifying occupants was difficult to discount. John turned to Emilia.
    “It was probably just a trick of the moonlight. The whole thing was an optical illusion,” he said, more to convince himself than anyone else.
    She looked at him quite angrily. “John, please