The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood

by Rupert Harker

  “My God,” I muttered. “What was it like?”

  “Beautiful.” His eyes drifted from my face into the corner of the room as the memory of it flooded him. “Once you saw it, you never vanted to take your eyes from it; not even for a second.” He turned back to me. “The human soul is very small, Herr Doctor, about the size of a grain of sand. Ve used to examine it through a hand lens. Ve tried to photograph it, but its image could not be captured. It was shaped as a spiral, but one that had been stretched. Ein wendel.” He motioned in the air to illustrate.

  “A helix.”

  “Ja. Helix. But not one helix. Two helix, wrapped around one another. Ein doppelwendel.”

  “Like DNA.”

  “Exactly, Herr Doctor. Like DNA. At first, ve thought that ve had captured two, but when they vere separated, they faded und died. Over the next year, there vere three more. Herr Mengele tried to inject numbers two und three into the bodies of two young soldiers who had died in an accident, but he did not succeed, und der Führer prohibited the use of the last soul, demanding that it be preserved and stored in der apfel.”

  “The Fourth Atman.”

  “Ja, Herr Urban-Smith. Der Vierten Atman.”

  “It’s in the archive?”

  “Nein, not any more. I know not vere it is. Sebastian Schwarzkröte took that secret to his grave. Vithout it, access to der Apfel von Eden is impossible.”

  I was becoming more perplexed with each passing minute.

  “If Sebastian Schwarzkröte is dead,” I asked, “then why is the Fervent Fist searching for him?”

  But before he could answer, we were interrupted by the sound of tyres on gravel, and headlight beams swept past the window.

  “Iam,” gasped de Wolfmann. “If he finds you here, he vill snap off your schaltknüppel.” He flapped his arms in panic. “Quick, to the kitchen. I vill have Bricker meet you zere und take you to your cottage.”

  “But what of the Atman? What do the Fervant Fist want with Sebastian Schwarzkröte?”

  But he would not be drawn.

  “Gehen, gehen! Mach schnell!”

  And so Urban-Smith and I gehened and mach schnelled out to the kitchen to wait for Bricker.

  “What is going on?” I whispered to Urban-Smith as we lurked.

  “Anders de Wolfmann said that access to Hitler’s Archive is impossible without the Fourth Atman. It must act as a cipher or key. Clearly, the Fervent Fist believe that Sebastian Schwarzkröte still lives and that he has the Atman in his possession.”

  “And we know the location of neither the Atman nor the Archive.”

  “Correct,” said he.

  “And the one person who does is dead.”

  “Also correct.”

  “I fail to see,” I said, “the purpose of our abduction to this place.”

  “Be patient, Rupert. I believe that our host has more to tell us, but he wishes his son to remain ignorant, presumably for his protection.”

  “How noble,” I snorted. “What a fine, upstanding gentleman he is.”

  “Fear not, Rupert. I daresay that he will answer for what he has done in the next life.”

  There came from the kitchen entrance the sound of a throat being subtly cleared. “Are you there, gentlemen?”

  “Here, Bricker.”

  “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Sirs. It is regrettable that Mr de Wolfmann’s summons came as one was tipping one’s hat to the mermaids.” He proceeded to the side door and unlocked it, indicating for us to step through into the garden. “If you would be so kind as to make your way to the front gate, gentlemen, I shall meet you there with the car in five minutes.”

  *

  We were driven in silence back to Ulysses’ cottage. The man, Bricker, bade us goodnight, and we wended our way up the path and into the cottage, making straight for the kitchen. I made coffee, and Urban-Smith and I sat at the kitchen table to dissect this new information.

  “It is now clear,” said Urban-Smith, “why the de Wolfmann name was conspicuously absent from the records. What is less clear is the nature of the relationship between Saxon and Sebastian Schwarzkröte, and the reason for their estrangement.”

  “Estrangement?” I reiterated.

  “Clearly, Saxon Schwarzkröte is unaware of Sebastian’s death, or else the Fervent Fist would not be seeking him. I cannot believe that it is mere coincidence that they share a name.” He sipped his coffee pensively. “Like his Nazi comrades, Sebastian Schwarzkröte has lived and died under a pseudonym.”

  “How do we proceed?” I asked.

  “I cannot say. I shall require a little time to process this new information pertaining to the Apple of Eden and The Fourth Atman. For now, I propose that we turn in for some well-deserved slumber. Tomorrow, we can concentrate our efforts on the identification and apprehension of our ferocious forest fugitive. Let us pray that destiny delivers us no more complications in the interim.”

  ◆◆◆

  10. Death of a Wolf

  Sunday, 7th January 2007

  I rose after nine, shaved and showered, and made my way to the kitchen, where Ulysses and Fairfax were discussing the previous day’s events over tea and biscuits. Ulysses’ cat, Ajax, was nowhere to be seen, presumably out seeking vermin and the like.

  “Good morning, Rupert,” chirped Ulysses cheerfully. “The pot’s still warm.”

  I muttered my thanks and poured myself a stiff cuppa.

  “Any plans for the day?” Fairfax enquired.

  “Unfortunately, I must return to London this afternoon. Beefy is expecting me back at work tomorrow.”

  “What a pity,” said Fairfax. “Just as the case was becoming interesting. I shall have to battle on without your succour.”

  *

  I spent the morning stretched upon Ulysses’ sofa, perusing my quarterlies until one o'clock, when I joined the Urban-Smiths for a light lunch. We were about to commence the comestibles when Fairfax’s phone began bleating.

  “Hello? Yes, this is Fairfax Urban-Smith.” He listened intently for a few seconds and then terminated the call. “That was Inspector Mallow,” he announced. “There has been another death, but this one is not like the others. He wants us to accompany him to the scene.”

  “Did he elucidate further?”

  “I’m afraid not. Only that there had been a suspicious death, and that he would be coming by personally to collect us. He should be along presently.”

  And so, within the half hour, I found myself in the back of Inspector Mallow’s black Mondeo with Urban-Smith in the passenger seat, travelling at a brisk but not terrifying pace down a narrow country road towards the south east side of the Wottenham Woods.

  “The victim,” said the inspector, “is a Mr Adam Upstart, something of a local success story. He’s the frontman of a local musical ensemble, The Werewolves of Wottenham Wood, who have quite a following in the county and beyond. There’s been talk of the group relocating to the United States.”

  “What can you tell us of this Upstart, Inspector?”

  “He lives with his brother, Cain, at the old vicarage. Adam inherited the vicarage, which has been passed from father to eldest son for several generations. The house backs directly onto Wottenham Wood, and Adam owns several acres of it. The council agreed to sell it to him to protect his privacy after there were complaints of overeager fans trespassing into the vicarage gardens.

  “Cain, the younger brother, is something of a dark horse. He’s been pulled in a few times for minor offences; possession with intent to supply, public disorder and the like. Rumour has it that Cain is the main supplier of illicit substances to the local villages, but seems to be keeping himself beneath our radar for the present.”

  “Could he be involved in his brother’s death?” I asked.

  “It’s too soon to say. All I know is that the fire brigade were called to gain access to the cellar, and they found Adam Upstart down there. Doctor Steinway’s the duty pathologist today. He’s going to meet us at the vicar
age.”

  The car slowed and swung onto a narrow dirt road which led us through some overgrown pastureland and on towards the vicarage. After about a quarter of a mile, we reached an extensive gravel driveway, currently hosting several police cars, although I also noticed a grubby dirt bike and equally grubby Alfa Romeo Spider.

  A young female officer, who introduced herself as PC Worthy, led us into the vestibule and past the living room, where we spied a uniformed officer deep in conversation with a burly young gentleman whom I presumed to be the victim’s brother, Cain. We headed onwards through the main corridor and towards the cellar, access to which was via a heavy wooden door and down a flight of concrete steps. We donned gloves and overshoes to examine the inside of the door. It had been secured from within, by a pair of thick steel bolts, each fastened with a heavy padlock. Evidently, considerable force had been required to gain access, and the stairway was littered with oaken fragments, deposited when the door had been breached by the fire brigade.

  The cellar walls were of unlined brick with no windows, skylights or other means of entry, and the lighting was sparse, just a pair of buzzing strip-lights on the plastered ceiling. Carved into the bare concrete floor were two large circles, one at each end of the cellar. Inscribed within the nearest circle were four Stars of David, one at each point of the compass, and within the farthest circle, a single equilateral triangle with each corner resting against the circle’s edge. Both circles were adorned with sigils and Latin text, scrawled upon the floor with red paint.

  “Summoning circles,” clarified Urban-Smith.

  Candle stubs were positioned around the perimeter of each circle, though several had been knocked over and scattered across the floor. A table stood to our left, across which were spread several used mugs and plates, a sharps’ bin and various detritus of the insulin controlled diabetic. There was also an ashtray with the remains of several hand-rolled cigarettes, and the pungent aroma of herbal smoke hung heavily about us. Beside the table was an amplifier against which there leaned an electric guitar in the shape of a shark, its tail extended to form the guitar’s neck.

  Inspector Mallow sniffed at the ashtray. “You don’t need to be a detective to work out what he’s been smoking.”

  The right side of the room had been fitted with a kitchen counter, upon which there was a microwave, a kettle and a miniature dishwasher. Above this, at head height, there were cupboard units, and beneath the counter, a refrigerator. Beyond this, part of the cellar had been partitioned off, and contained a toilet and sink. Over the sink was a mirror and, above this, an extractor fan set into the wall.

  Adam Upstart lay crumpled in the far left-hand corner of the room, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a white cotton robe which had been pulled up about his head. His legs were in the air, resting against the wall, and his arms lay folded across his chest.

  “PC Worthy. Why is his face covered?” asked Inspector Mallow.

  PC Worthy drew in a sharp breath and shuddered. Her voice was but a whisper.

  “He looks awful, Sir.”

  “Of course he looks awful. The man’s dead.”

  “No, no. Not just that.” PC Worthy shook her head vigorously. “I mean something’s wrong. His whole face is .... I can’t describe it, Sir, but I’ve never seen anything like it. It almost reduced PC Duncan to tears.” Her eyes were wide and her bosom heaved. “Please, Inspector. Please don’t make me look at him again.”

  At these words, I felt the bile rise in my throat. What horror could have affected this woman so?

  “Very well, Constable,” said Inspector Mallow. “We shall leave him covered while we inspect the cellar.”

  Urban-Smith positioned himself in the centre of the floor and slowly rotated himself clockwise, his gaze roaming from floor to ceiling and back again. Over the course of the next few minutes, he rotated fully several times, and would not have looked at all out of place in a kebab shop window. Next he wandered into the corner of the cellar and made his way around the walls, probing and scratching, then dropped to his hands and knees to crawl about the floor, inspecting the dust and ash. Occasionally he paused to sniff, his head tilted to one side and his body rigid.

  “Is he going to cock his leg?” PC Worthy whispered into my ear.

  “Don’t worry,” I replied soothingly. “He’s house-trained.”

  While Urban-Smith continued with his floorshow, Inspector Mallow busied himself amongst the debris of Adam Upstart’s desk, and I took the liberty of examining the contents of the refrigerator. I found several microwavable ready meals, bottles of mineral water and cider, two insulin pens and several boxes of insulin.

  In juvenile-onset diabetes, there is a deficiency of the hormone insulin, which controls blood sugar levels, and the diabetic individual must regularly inject themselves with insulin to survive. Without these injections, sugar will fill the bloodstream and spill into the urine, drawing minerals and water from the body and causing severe dehydration. Additionally, the associated breakdown of muscle and fat releases toxic chemicals (ketones), turning the blood to acid, and leading to coma and death.

  However, too much insulin is as dangerous as too little. If an excessive amount of insulin is administered, the blood sugar can drop so dramatically that the person is rendered incapable, then unconscious, and ultimately needing to update their Twitbook status to, ‘deceased.’ For this reason, the diabetic must monitor their blood sugar levels and adjust their insulin dosage accordingly. Had the deceased erred in his calculations and given himself too much?

  “What’s in the orange box, Doctor?” PC Worthy indicated a hard, brightly coloured, plastic box in amongst the insulin boxes.

  “That is a glucagon emergency kit,” I explained. “It is used for the treatment of a dangerously low blood sugar.”

  “Do you think that’s what killed him; a low blood sugar?”

  “We’ll find out at the autopsy.”

  PC Worthy and I moved on to the overhead cupboard units. They contained tea, coffee and sugar, along with crisps, biscuits and a large bag of fun-sized Mars bars, unopened.

  “I imagine that these are also here in case of a low sugar level,” I observed.

  Inspector Mallow appeared beside us. “PC Worthy. Was there anybody else in the cellar when the fire brigade broke the door down?”

  “No, Sir. Only Mr Upstart, Sir.”

  Urban-Smith hopped nimbly to his feet and scampered over. “May we inspect the body, Inspector?”

  “Not until Dr Steinway arrives. He should be here any time now.”

  “Any initial thoughts, Fairfax?” I asked.

  He swept his arm about him. “You see all that I see, Rupert. Let us have your interpretation.”

  “Well,” I said, “clearly there is only one way in or out, and the door seems to have been heavily bolted from within. There is a broad break in the dust on the floor, leading from this first circle to the body, showing that the victim crawled or dragged himself across the floor. The inverted nature of his final position is suggestive of having been in an upside down position against the wall, which would account for the robe being hoisted about his shoulders. Perhaps he has been practising handstands, ha ha ha.”

  “Ha ha ha” chorused the assembled.

  “Excellent, Rupert,” said Urban-Smith, “but I can tell you that our young Mr Upstart neither crawled nor dragged himself.” Urban-Smith grasped me by the elbow and guided me further down the room, indicating with a broad sweep of his hand. “You see the way in which the drag mark widens and narrows; this indicates that his arms have fallen out to his sides, and he has been flapping them up and down as he has been dragged along the floor. There are new scuff marks upon the brickwork suggesting that he has been dragged several feet up the wall before being dropped or thrown onto the floor.”

  “But he was alone,” I protested. “The door was bolted from within and there is no other means of entry.”

  “Not for a person, perhaps.” Urban-Smith indicated the flo
or. “This circle farthest from the stairs contains a thaumaturgic triangle into which a magical practitioner may summon a coveted spirit or demon. These runes and markings are designed to contain the entity within the confines of the circle until the practitioner has dismissed it. Evidently Mr Upstart was in the process of a summoning when misfortune befell him.”

  “Look here,” said Inspector Mallow brandishing a handwritten scroll. “I discovered this in his desk draw. I believe it is an incantation.”

  “May I?” said Urban-Smith, claiming said scroll and holding it to the light before passing it along to me. “How’s your Latin, Rupert?”

  “Sed mire bonum, in facto [surprisingly good, in fact].”

  I cleared my throat and began to translate.

  “Salve Satan. That means, ‘hello Satan.’ Ego sum paenitet ad vos conturbant. I am sorry to trouble you. Ego sum vultus pro Tripod Jack. I am looking for Tripod Jack. Invitare intendimus eum in meam domum. I wish to invite him into my home. Possum ego tea et tortulas. I can offer tea and biscuits. Dixerit hoc esse okay? Would that be okay? Sani estote. Servus tuus, Adam Upstart. Be well. Your servant, Adam Upstart.”

  At this juncture we were joined by Dr Steinway, who was beaming like an enthusiastic schoolboy and rubbing his hands with glee. “Good day, gentlemen and lady. What have we here?”

  “Ah, Dr Steinway,” said Inspector Mallow. “Please may I introduce PC Worthy? I believe that you are already acquainted with Dr Harker and Mr Urban-Smith.”

  “Ah, yes.” Dr Steinway pumped our hands vigorously. “Grand, grand.” He peered intently at the summoning circles carved into the floor. “What’s all this then? Was our Mr Upstart something of a satanist?”

  “So it would appear.”

  “Right then.” Dr Steinway rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s have a gander.”

  PC Worthy cleared her throat. “Inspector Mallow. May I…..?” She indicated the cellar stairs with an incline of her head.

  Mallow tutted. “If you must, Constable.”

  Dr Steinway watched her leave. “Delicate constitution, eh? Probably for the best. Don’t want her swooning all over the evidence.” He hunkered down and lifted Adam Upstart’s robe.