The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood

by Rupert Harker

  “Rupert!” he bellowed. “Rupert! What has happened?”

  I turned and pawed at him in a state of near hysteria. He grasped me by the shoulders and shook me firmly. “Rupert! Calm down!”

  “It is true,” I panted. “The beast lives!”

  “Calm down! Where is your torch?”

  I flapped my arms like a deranged mallard. “I don’t know.”

  Urban-Smith shone his light hither and thither and quickly recovered the lost item.

  “What did you see, Rupert? What did it look like?”

  “It was appalling,” I spluttered, shining my light at the spot where the monstrosity had lurked. “It was right there, crouched and ready to strike me dead. It had a shaggy coat, and its eyes….oh my Lord, its eyes; twin lakes of emerald fire. And that mouth! God help us. God help us all.”

  I swear to you, dear reader, that at that moment, I did not believe it possible to experience a greater loathing and revulsion than that which coursed through me, but I was mistaken. Not a hundred yards from us, an ungodly howl rang out into the gloom, one which will haunt me until my dying day, for it was not the howl of any wolf; this was the howl of a man in torment, a fellow soul in the throes of agony. The scream was repeated, not once nor twice, but thrice again, and then no more.

  “Come on, Rupert.” Urban-Smith grabbed me by the arm and began dragging me towards the sound. I confess that my legs did not wish to draw me any closer to that anguished wail, but my humanity prevailed, and I shuffled cautiously along at Urban-Smith’s side, our torchlight cutting a swathe to and fro as we searched amongst the trees.

  It was some minutes before we picked up the scent.

  “There,” I gasped. “Footprints.” And no ordinary footprints were they, for my torchlight fell upon the same bizarre tracks that had haunted the scenes of Vic Timone’s and Edna Clearing’s deaths.

  “They lead this way,” observed Urban-Smith. “Hurry, Rupert! Perhaps there is still hope.”

  We followed the prints for maybe fifty yards until we came to a small clearing at the bank of a brook, its waters flowing high from the torrential rain. The bank was punctuated by torn clothing and puddles of freshly spilled blood, inky black beneath the moonlight, and a wide, shallow rut led to the water. From here, the trail went cold.

  “He has dragged the victim into the water to prevent our following,” said Urban-Smith. “He knows that we are on his trail.” We shone our lights this way and that, but there was no clue as to which way he had fled with his quarry.

  “We must summon the police,” I said. I was aware that I was shaking violently from a combination of chill and shock. My teeth chattered in my skull, and I was barely able to force out the words.

  Urban-Smith retrieved his mobile telephone from his pocket. “Let me just ascertain our GPS coordinates, then I shall ring nine-nine-nine.”

  I sunk to my knees. “This cannot be,” I muttered, shaking my head. “My eyes have deceived me.”

  I prayed for the driving rain to wash the vision from my memory, but it could not, and I knelt helpless before both God and man with fear in my heart.

  “Save us,” I whispered. “Save us from this Hell!”

  *

  Fortunately, one of the attending officers recognised us and consented to take a brief statement before allowing us to return to Ulysses’ cottage, with the understanding that we would present ourselves to Scragnell Police Station at ten a.m.

  That night, I slept fitfully, my dreams haunted by a malign, fanged shadow with coarse fur and glowing green eyes. I waded through treacle, my voice dead in my throat, trying to escape as the tap-tap-tap of the hunter’s cane followed me ever closer.

  It came as no surprise when, over breakfast, Ulysses informed me that I looked, “rougher than a pair of sandpaper underpants.”

  “Thank you, Ulysses. It is always a pleasure to be at the receiving end of that legendary Urban-Smith family charm.”

  ◆◆◆

  8. A Malign and Eldritch Rancour

  Saturday, 6th January 2007

  Fairfax and I arrived by taxi cab at Scragnell Police Station at ten, and presented ourselves to the front desk, where we were greeted by a young sergeant.

  “The DCI wants to see you two.”

  Fairfax and I exchanged uneasy glances. “Perhaps Professor de Wolfmann has lodged a complaint,” I whispered.

  “Unlikely,” replied my co-conspirator. “As first time burglars, we could escape with non-custodial sentences, whereas possession of a firearm with intent to cause fear of violence carries a lengthy minimum sentence. The professor has more to lose than do we.”

  The sergeant led us through the main reception, down a short corridor, and to a glazed office stencilled with the words, Detective Chief Inspector T.M Arsole

  The sergeant rapped on the door and ushered us inside.

  “Mr Urban-Smith and Dr Harker here to see you, Sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  DCI Arsole rose from his chair. He was of modest height, only a few inches taller than I, but brawny, aged about forty, and with the look of a rugby player about him. He was neatly groomed, and his navy suit and white shirt were immaculately pressed. He extended his arm and greeted each of us with a firm handshake.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Detective Chief Inspector Arsole,” said Urban-Smith.

  “Ar-so-lay,” corrected the DCI. “It’s Spanish. There is an accent over the ‘e.’”

  Urban-Smith was quite taken aback. “You are not by any chance a descendent of General Joaquin Álava Arsolé, who led his troops against Napoleon’s armies at Galicia?”

  “You know your military history, Mr Urban-Smith. He was my great-grandfather’s great-grandfather.”

  “Then it is both a pleasure and an honour to meet you, Chief Inspector Arsolé.” Urban-Smith indicated our host’s tie. “And an old Etonian to boot.”

  DCI Arsolé motioned for us to be seated. Like the man himself, his desk was neat and tidy, and the office was sparsely decorated, though there were framed photographs of an attractive middle-aged lady and two jolly older children upon the walls.

  “So, gentlemen,” said the DCI, “tell me what happened last night.”

  Between us, Urban-Smith and I recounted the tale of our unscheduled meeting with the beast of Wottenham Wood, carefully omitting any mention of our bearding of de Wolfmann in his den, lest we incriminate ourselves.

  “Did you see the victim?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied. “Just blood stains and torn clothing.”

  “I’ve arranged for you to meet with our sketch artist, Doctor Harker. I’d like you to give her a description of the animal that you saw.”

  “Hmm,” I murmured. “I only really caught a brief glimpse.”

  “It’s all we have, Doctor.”

  “Very well, Chief Inspector. I’ll do what I can.”

  DCI Arsolé turned his attention to Urban-Smith. “Have you ever come across a case like this before?”

  “Only in books, Chief Inspector. I fear that we have surfed onto unfamiliar shores.”

  “How will the police proceed?” I enquired.

  “We have men following the brook, and we’ll start dredging it this afternoon. Once we have the artist’s impression, we’ll have it emailed to Professor Ocelot at the University’s zoology department for his opinion. The council are sending their animal control officer, and we have someone from the Met coming up to advise, but at present, it’s mostly leg work and house to house enquiries.”

  “Is Inspector Mallow still leading the investigation?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “Yes, he is. I would like you to contact him directly if you have any further information. Do you have his number?”

  “Yes, thank you, Chief Inspector.”

  “Excellent.” DCI Arsolé rose and Urban-Smith and I followed suit. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  We made our way back to the front desk and reported to the sergeant, who directed us down the co
rridor to interview room three, where the sketch artist, a stout young lady with a capacious bosom, awaited.

  “Good morning. Which one of you gentlemen is Dr Harker?”

  “I am.” We shook hands. “This is my colleague; detective, author and paranormal researcher and investigator, Fairfax Urban-Smith.”

  Having exchanged pleasantries, we seated ourselves, and the young lady flipped open her sketch pad and bade me to begin my description.

  “Start with the eyes please, Doctor.”

  “Erm… green, heavy-lidded, close set.”

  She scribbled for a few seconds. “Nose and mouth?”

  “Quite a long snout. Flared nostrils.”

  “Like this?” She turned the pad around to show me.

  “A little longer.” I waited while she extended the snout. “Yes, that’s more like it. And teeth. The teeth were uneven, crooked but sharp.”

  More scribbling.

  “How’s this?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed. “That’s about right.”

  “Hair? I mean, fur.”

  “It had a mane of matted fur around its head, like a lion. It was too dark to see if its face was furry too.”

  “Ears?”

  “Didn’t see the ears. Sorry.”

  “How about the rest of it?” she asked.

  “Well,” I replied, “it was rather dark, and I only caught the briefest of glimpses. All I can say for certain is that it was broad-shouldered and crouching close to the ground.”

  She scribbled a little more, then rotated the pad for my perusal. I readily admit that the sight of it sent a shudder through me. It is a testament to her talent that in just a few short minutes, she had managed to capture the beast’s essence, its malign and eldritch rancour exuding from the paper like a stench.

  “Yes,” I whispered hoarsely. “That’s it.”

  Urban-Smith leaned in and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It would seem,” said he, “that the mystery is solved.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “Obviously, Rupert, you must have caught a glimpse of your own reflection in a puddle.”

  “Oh, very droll.”

  He bowed humbly. “One does what one can.”

  *

  Our constabularious duties duly discharged for the morning, Urban-Smith and I elected to travel into Cambridge city centre in order to peruse the contents of the University library. We presented ourselves to the main reception and Urban-Smith produced his credentials.

  The librarian on duty was almost delirious with excitement that an academic luminary of Urban-Smith’s standing should have graced her humble library with his presence, and within a few minutes, we were loose amongst the shelves, selecting reading material for our research.

  I rummaged through the books and journals, trying to identify the vile creature that I had seen in Wottenham Wood, and Urban-Smith busied himself searching the library’s computerised database, seeking an association between the de Wolfmanns and the Schwarzkrötes. After twenty minutes or so, I had accumulated four relevant volumes; ‘Frederick’s Encyclopaedia of Nocturnal Offalvores and Necrophages’; ‘Brundle’s Illustrated Compendium of Cryptofaunology’; ‘An Introduction to Australasian Megafaunology,’ and; ‘The Student’s Guide to Australian Aboriginal Myths and Legends.’

  I liaised with Urban-Smith at a quiet table at the farthest corner of the library, where he was flicking through a voluminous text entitled, ‘Zusammenfassung von Bayer Ortssippenbücher, 1930-1939.’

  “What have you there?” I asked.

  “The Ortssippenbuch is a book of village or parish records, organised by family name. It lists significant events such as births, deaths and marriages. I am cross-referencing the Schwarzkröte and de Wolfmann families in case their paths may have crossed during Hitler’s reign.”

  “Rather an odd book for the Cambridge University to keep,” I observed.

  “Not really,” he replied. “The History department of the university is very active in Holocaust research. The library has similar volumes for every region in Germany.” He nodded at my handful of books. “May I see your selection?”

  I slid the books over to him, and he pawed through them briefly, murmuring his approval. “Excellent choice, although Frederick’s only covers ghouls, jikininki and kasha.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’m not ruling anything out, even hijinks and kosher ghouls.”

  “Ha-ha,” he roared, causing several heads to turn in our direction. “Jikininki and kasha.”

  “Yes, yes,” I muttered irritably. “Those too.”

  I must say, although unfamiliar to me, cryptofaunology proved an absolutely fascinating discipline. Six o’clock arrived far too soon; time to vacate the library and find a local eatery.

  Between us, Urban-Smith and I had covered several sides of A4 with notes. We gathered our sheaves, returned our volumes to the shelves and, after thanking the librarian for her assistance and hospitality, made ourselves scarce.

  The night was brisk, and it was but a short walk into the town centre. We made our way to Big Jessie’s, Cambridgeshire’s premier Glaswegian cordon bleu restaurant, which Ulysses had highly recommended as the place to dine out on a Saturday evening.

  We were greeted by the maître d, who escorted us to our table and handed each of us a menu and a wine list. “The wine waiter will be over shortly, Sirs,” he said. “Would you care for a jug of council juice?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Tap water, Sir.”

  “No, thank you.”

  He withdrew, and we perused the wine menu until the wine waiter sidled up to take our order.

  “May I have a glass of house red, please?” I asked.

  “For me also,” said Urban-Smith.

  “Of course, Sirs,” the waiter fawned. “Two pints of house red coming right up.”

  “Actually,” Urban-Smith interjected, “best make that two halves. We have matters to discuss.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  Once we were alone, I turned the conversation to more pressing matters. “What did you discover, Fairfax?”

  “Of the de Wolfmanns, very little. There are several mentions in various texts of a Bram de Wolfmann who was very prominent in the German steel industry, but the de Wolfmann name seems to vanish from the records around the time of the First World War, not resurfacing until Professor de Wolfmann rose to prominence in the 1970s. Of Anders de Wolfmann, there is no trace.

  The Schwarzkrötes, however, are most prolific. Franz and Thomas Schwarzkröte were highly decorated Luftwaffe pilots. There are several other Schwarzkrötes in the archives, but no Sebastian.”

  “Dead end then?”

  “It would appear so, Rupert.”

  We turned our attention to the menu, ruminating silently until the waiter arrived to take our orders. Urban-Smith selected the braised fallow-deer cutlets on a bed of chips and mushy peas, and I chose deep-fried partridge in batter with fois gras and aubergine.

  We sat and supped our wine.

  “I have fared a little better,” said I. “It may interest you to know that the fossil records show the existence of a carnivorous kangaroo that roamed Australia a few million years ago.” I reached into my pocket and withdrew my notes. “Ekaltadeta it’s called. Only the skull has been found, but it was in possession of some very dangerous-looking teeth. Unlike its modern descendents, this kangaroo didn’t hop, but charged about on all fours. Of course, it was nothing like two-hundred kilograms, but there was a larger version, propleopus, which could weigh as much as a man.”

  “And these are extinct are they, Rupert?”

  “Supposedly.”

  “Did you find anything else that might fit the bill? Anything that still wanders this realm?”

  “Well, there are bears, of course. The only others would be the big cats, and they neither howl, drag their tails, nor wear stockings.”

  “A cougar might.”

  “Ha ha. Very good, Fairfax.” I rifled through my notes.
“This may interest you. I tried to find any mention in aboriginal folklore of lycanthropy or ferocious kangaroos, but drew a blank. However, there are legends of a savage beast that is said to lurk near lakes and waterways. They call it a bunyip. Have you heard the expression?”

  “I have not,” replied Urban-Smith, much to my surprise. “Pray, continue.”

  “Well, as I say, this beastie was said to hang out near rivers and streams and the like. Descriptions vary; some describe it as feathered, some as furred. Its size ranges from that of a large dog up to the size of an elephant. Some describe an animal with the head of a crocodile, others report the head of an emu or a dog. One thing that is very interesting; the bunyip ambushes its prey silently in the night, before dragging them away into the water.”

  “It seems to me,” said Urban-Smith, “that our best bet is to try to track this creature to its daytime resting place. The problem is this; if the culprit is indeed a lycanthrope, then it will revert to human form during the day.”

  The waiter returned with our main courses, which Urban-Smith and I devoured lustily. Once sated, we speculated a little further, but soon the conversation meandered, and I found myself quizzing my friend about his love-life (or lack thereof).

  “I have no interest in carnal or romantic relations,” he sighed, as if bored with the very notion. “I crave only mental and spiritual stimulation, or physical activity that can enhance them, for example Yandra or Feng Chi.”

  “What is Feng Chi?” I asked, rather predictably.

  “You are familiar with Tai Chi, are you not? Also with Feng Shui?” Indeed I was. “Well,” he continued, "Feng Chi applies the principles of both. One rearranges the objects in one’s dwelling to maximise the positive flow of energy, but the rearrangement must be done gracefully and without haste.”