The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood

by Rupert Harker

  “Then answer me this, Colonel,” says Urban-Smith, unperturbed by such thinly veiled threats, “if you wish to remain covert, why offer to assist at all? Why not remain detached from the situation?”

  “You will recall, Mr Urban-Smith, that on his departure from the FSB, Saxon Schwarzkröte left the corpses of several high-ranking officials in his wake. These murders and that of the Ambassador have not sat comfortably with my superiors. The diplomatic scandal that has accompanied the poisoning of Alexander Litvinenko has proved to be the final straw. Schwarzkröte will no longer be tolerated.”

  The two men sit and stare at one another. Each has committed little, both equally suspicious of the other.

  It is Colonel Smirnitsky who breaks the silence. “Tell me. Who was your companion at the museum who opened fire on my men?”

  Urban-Smith springs from his chair and paces to the panoramic window which spans the entire circumference of the compass bridge. One of the burly guards reaches for the door, his hand inside his jacket, but Colonel Smirnitsky halts him with a brief shake of the head, and the big man stands down.

  Urban-Smith gazes east towards the Thames estuary, watching the low winter sun dancing upon its surface, and thinking, thinking, thinking. His hands clench and unclench at his sides as he stares at the turbid vista of the grey Essex sky, pondering the wisdom of throwing in his lot with the Colonel, who sits puffing nonchalantly, confident that he holds all the aces.

  Urban-Smith knows that the FSB have been following him, and that controlling secrets is what they do best, unearthing them or burying them just as they will bury him if he fails to heed the Colonel’s warnings. He weighs up the evidence, following the scenarios through to their logical conclusions and deciding his strategy. He must tread carefully because he would no more wish The Apple of Eden to fall into the clutches of the FSB than leave it in the grasp of the Fervent Fist.

  “The enemy of my enemy is my ally,” Urban-Smith mutters to himself.

  “Mr Urban-Smith?” The Colonel is becoming impatient. “Who was he?”

  Urban-Smith turns to face the Colonel. “He would not divulge his name, but he had vital information pertaining to The Fourth Atman.”

  Colonel Smirnitsky betrays little with his expression, but it is enough.

  “I see that The Fourth Atman interests you, Colonel.”

  The Colonel smiles benignly. “Do you know where it is?”

  “It has been destroyed?”

  “Destroyed?”

  Urban-Smith’s poker face is impeccable. He repeats the lie. “Yes, destroyed. That is what he said before our meeting was interrupted.”

  The Colonel drops his cigar to the floor and grinds it out with his heel. “This is very disappointing. However, it is Saxon Schwarzkröte that is of most interest. Can you find him?”

  “It is my intention to use the promise of The Fourth Atman to draw him out. He need never know of its loss until he has walked into my trap.” Urban-Smith has reached a decision. “I shall accept the FSB’s assistance, Colonel. Have your man contact me to agree terms.”

  “Terms, Mr Urban-Smith?”

  “Oh yes, Colonel, for it is the FSB that requires my assistance in this matter, not vice versa. I shall expect suitable recompense.”

  Colonel Smirnitsky is satisfied. “I need not remind you of your obligation to respect my agency’s confidence. In return, you shall not find us ungenerous. Expect our agent to contact you in the next few days.” He rises from his chair and hails the guards to enter. “My men will take you wherever you wish to go. Do svidaniya, Mr Urban-Smith.”

  *

  “And with that, we shook hands and parted.”

  “Do you think he believed you?” I asked. “That the Atman has been destroyed?”

  “Probably not,” conceded Urban-Smith, “but it is as good as, provided that we reach it first.”

  I rose from my chair and opened a window; I was agitated and wanted to feel the fresh Scragnell air in my lungs. I stood at the window and deeply inhaled the smog-laden, pulpy Scragnell air, thick with exhaust fumes and the flatulent bouquet of the nearby glue factory.

  “I confess myself a little surprised, Fairfax. Do you not feel uncomfortable allowing yourself to be retained by the FSB?”

  “It is the only way to set boundaries with these people, Rupert. I have to explain the limits of the services that I am willing to offer and stipulate what my clients should and should not expect for their money. If I allow myself to act on their behalf for nothing, there will be no clear delineation as to where my obligation finishes. I would find myself forever at their beck and call, a situation that I cannot tolerate.”

  “But why accept at all?” I insisted, pulling my head back in from the window. “Why not just refuse to co-operate?”

  “It pains me to admit it, Rupert, but the support of the FSB could prove extremely valuable, not to mention lucrative. I still have bills to pay, as do you; I presume that you will not refuse your share.”

  I took my seat at the table again. “You presume correctly. As my grandmother used to say, ‘do not hinder your heart to that which is thine to suffer.’”

  Urban-Smith stared at me for some considerable length of time. “I have no idea what that means, Rupert?”

  “Nor did she, but she used to say it with great conviction. I say, Fairfax, do you really think it is wise to go snooping around the woods again? I have a most uneasy presentiment about the whole venture.”

  “Nonsense!” he insisted. “Nothing could be simpler.” Urban-Smith rose from his seat. “Come, Rupert. We must away to the Linctus Hospital to visit the late Adam Upstart. I believe that he holds one vital piece of evidence upon which my entire supposition revolves.”

  ◆◆◆

  22. Climbing Trees in the Hesperides

  We caught a taxicab outside the entrance to Scragnell Police Station, and I called Dr Steinway en route. Our taximan was in high spirits, entertaining us during the journey with a rendition of several traditional Polish ballads, yet he was competent and efficient, and we made good time to the Linctus. He parked outside the mortuary and sprang from the cab to open the door for us.

  “Lubię duże tyłki i nie może kłamać [I like big butts and I cannot lie],” he assured me.

  I tipped the man a farthing, and he doffed his cap appreciatively before bidding us a fond, “do widzenia” and roaring away into the Cambridge traffic.

  “I say, Fairfax,” said I as we watched him slaloming away down the road, “is it my imagination, or are our drivers always Polish?”

  “I really hadn’t noticed. As a point of interest, my maternal grandmother was one-quarter Polish. Originally it was nearer a fifth, but the percentage rose when she took her teeth out.”

  That established, we proceeded through to the mortuary, where Dr Steinway was awaiting us.

  “Hello, Gibson.”

  “Rupert! Fairfax! Grand to see you both.” He shook our hands enthusiastically. “What’s this all about then?”

  “I would like to make an inspection of Mr Upstart’s feet and ankles if I may,” said Urban-Smith.

  “Of course, of course. What are you expecting to find?”

  “I am expecting to find patterned abrasions on the outer aspect of each ankle, but not the inner, with similar markings on the top of each foot, and a half-inch bruise on one or both soles, or possibly between two toes.”

  “That’s extremely specific. Let’s go and have a gander, shall we?”

  Fortunately for me, Adam Upstart was in one of the lowermost rows of refrigerators in the mortuary, and I was able to join the proceedings without the aid of a footstool. There was marked post-mortem lividity (ruddiness of the skin where the blood has settled after death) in Adam Upstart’s upper back and arms, less so where his back had been in contact with the floor. As he had died with his feet propped up against the wall, the lividity was absent below the hips.

  “Should we roll him onto his side, so you can examine the abrasions to his
back?” asked Steinway.

  “No thank you, Gibson. It is just the feet and ankles that I covet.” Urban-Smith pulled back the sheet to reveal Upstart’s tootsies. “Aha! You see. It is exactly as I have surmised. Linear abrasions on the outer aspect of each ankle, and similar upon the dorsum of each foot.”

  “Good Heavens!” I cried. “Amazing, Fairfax. But what does it mean?”

  “It means that Adam Upstart was not dragged across the floor by unseen hands, but by means of a concealed lasso or snare. It has captured him around both ankles and been used to pull him into position with his legs raised against the east wall of the cellar.” Urban-Smith turned upon Dr Steinway triumphantly. “Rupert and I returned to the scene this morning and discovered something most singular; two bricks that had been removed and then reinserted in such a way as to facilitate their speedy withdrawal from outside the house. One of these was located directly above Upstart’s body; this was the space through which the lasso was fed from within. The second removable brick was several feet way, offering a fine view of the cellar. I believe that one person used this vantage point to choose the exact moment that the trap should be sprung, signalling to an accomplice to pull the rope and thus ensnare the victim.”

  Two-man job, eh?” Steinway’s brow furrowed. “But to what end, Fairfax? Simply snaring the fellow wouldn’t kill him.”

  “Look closer.” Urban-Smith indicated a small bruise in the sole of Upstart’s left foot. “While he has been pulled fast against the wall, the muscles of the foot have been injected with glucagon via a long-needled syringe. That would cause Upstart’s sugar to rise, and he would be unable to reach his insulin to correct it. Once he lost consciousness, it would have been a case of merely slitting the noose and withdrawing the rope, replacing and re-mortaring the bricks, and fleeing the scene to establish a plausible alibi.”

  “Glucagon. I would never have suspected.” I shook my head in disbelief. “But who has done this?”

  “Perhaps somebody with a ready supply of glucagon. Maybe somebody whose parents own a pharmacy.”

  “You suspect Darren Forshaw?”

  “I do,” confirmed Urban-Smith. “Forshaw and Cain Upstart together. Each had sound motives for wanting to prevent Adam Upstart from moving to Los Angeles. Rosetta Stone implied that to do so would mean the end of The Wolves’ current line-up. Forshaw would be out of the band that he had founded, and no doubt the Upstart house would have been sold, leaving Cain with nowhere from which to run his lucrative narcotics franchise.”

  “Why did you say nothing of this to DCI Arsolé?” I asked.

  “Until now, I had insufficient evidence. The discolouration of the mortar on the cellar’s east wall was strongly suggestive, but coupled with this singular pattern of foot injuries and the expected raised glucagon levels, we should be able to establish opportunity and means. Once we locate Cain Upstart’s base of operations for his illegal antics, we will have proved motive, and our case is complete.”

  I was not wholly convinced. “I am not wholly convinced,” I said. “How does this reconcile with that beast which I came upon in the woods?”

  “As to that, I cannot say, but I refuse to believe that these events are unconnected, and I am certain that the fog will clear when we return to Wottenham Wood tonight.” He clapped his hands with glee. “Ha! The web is tightening, and soon we shall have our spider.”

  *

  Our business complete at the mortuary, we returned to Ulysses’ cottage for a late luncheon. Against my better judgement, I agreed that I would accompany Urban-Smith that evening, and as we loitered about Ulysses’ cottage, I decided to honour my pledge to contact Nell by telephone. Urban-Smith was bustling about preparing supplies for the evening’s activities as I lowered myself onto the sofa and dialled the number.

  “Hello Rupert.”

  “Hello Nell. How are you?”

  “Worried. Worried about you. You were so out of control last night. The Natural History Museum thingy was all over the news today. They said several shots were fired. You must have been terrified.”

  I shrugged and rolled my eyes. “One becomes accustomed to it I suppose. I think that’s about the fifth or sixth time that I’ve been threatened at gunpoint.”

  “It isn’t funny, Rupert. I’m scared.”

  “Scared?”

  “Yes, scared. I don’t want to lose you, Rupert. I love you.”

  I paused awhile to process this statement.

  “Are you still there, Rupert?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean…. gosh, and all that. Are you sure that you love me? You seemed pretty unenthused about the whole project last week.”

  “I was angry. And confused. It’s…. difficult.”

  “What’s difficult?”

  There was a long pause.

  “Being in love with two people.”

  “Two people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh!” The lightbulb came on. “You mean Clara?”

  “Yes.”

  More silence.

  “Rupert?”

  “Yes, Nell?”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Erm, I think so.”

  “You think so?”

  “Well, that is to say that I’ve never really been in love before. There have been others of course, but….. yes, Nell. I do love you.”

  “You don’t sound too sure.”

  “As I say, Nell, it’s uncharted territory for me. How about you? Have you ever been in love before?”

  “Oh yes. Lots of times.”

  “Lots?”

  “Lots and lots.”

  “Then I suppose moving on to two at a time is just a natural progression for you.”

  “Oh, Rupert. I don’t know.” She sighed deeply. “I want to see you. When are you coming back?”

  “Soon, Nell. Fairfax thinks he has a handle on things, and besides, I’m due back at work on Monday.”

  “What are you working on up there?”

  “Did you hear about the animal attacks near Cambridge?”

  “No I didn’t. What sort of animal?”

  And for a moment, my mind’s eye was filled with a vision of glowing green eyes, jagged teeth and matted fur.

  “Fairfax thinks that it may be a werekangaroo.”

  “A werekangaroo? Oh my God! Please be careful, Rupert.”

  “Fear not, Nell. Fairfax seems pretty confident.”

  There came to my ear the sound of Nell’s doorbell in the background.

  “Oh, Rupert. I have to go. Will you ring me tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Take care, Nell.”

  “Bye, Rupert.”

  She rang off, and I stared at the mantel.

  “Are you alright, Rupert?” Fairfax had ambled into the front room during his meanderings. “Have you been at the embalming fluid again?”

  “She loves me, Fairfax. And I, her.”

  “Jolly good,” he said, depositing a handful of items onto the sofa beside me. “Now, look what I have assembled for tonight.”

  “Have you ever been in love, Fairfax?”

  “Of course not,” he muttered irritably. “Snap out of it, Rupert. We have work to do. I have assembled Wellington’s, backpacks, torches, opera glasses and the jemmy. You will need to switch your telephone to silent; we do not wish to give ourselves away.”

  “What do you hope to achieve tonight, Fairfax?”

  “As I discovered on Monday, Cain Upstart is Wottenham’s premier purveyor of inhalable entertainment, but he will not be reckless enough to store his consumables at the house. I believe that he has a nearby storage facility, and I wish to make an inspection of it.”

  I inhaled sharply. “He will not take at all kindly to that, Fairfax.”

  “I agree, which is why you must empty your mind of these foolish notions of passion and ardour, and concentrate on the matter at hand; our lives may depend upon it.”

  “Love is not foolish, Fairfax. After all, is not love a Hercules, still climbing tree
s in the Hesperides?”

  “Shakespeare, Rupert? Is there any need?” He tutted and rolled his eyes. “Besides, wasn’t it Marx who said that no man controls his own fate; the women in his life do that for him?’”

  “Karl Marx said that?”

  “Not Karl; Groucho.”

  “This is important to me, Fairfax,” I bemoaned. “As my friend, should it not be important to you also?”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, Rupert, I would do my best to feign interest, but we are soon to enter the scene of four violent deaths. We must remain focused, lest the tally should become a half dozen. Surely you understand that?”

  “I suppose so,” I conceded. “When do we head off?”

  “Eight o’clock. Until then, I suggest that we rest our faculties and await Ulysses’ return from St Crumble’s.”

  And so we did.

  It was after seven when the elder Urban-Smith sibling arrived, bearing a shopping bag filled with odds and ends which he handed to Fairfax with bemusement.

  “Never have I been called upon to purchase such a bizarre assortment of items,” Ulysses complained. “What use could you possibly have for a football rattle, a climber’s rope and carabiner, one extra-large glass bottle of strong Stilton extract and two whole roasted chickens?”

  “We must leave nothing to chance,” was the ambiguous reply.

  In addition to Fairfax’s bizarre smorgasbord, Ulysses had acquired copious goodies from a nearby fast-food establishment, and the three of us devoured them with gusto while we discussed the day’s events.

  At eight o’clock, we girded our loins, climbed into Ulysses’ Volvo and journeyed in silence until we were a quarter mile shy of the Upstart residence.

  “Just here if you please, Ulysses.”

  Ulysses pulled the car over to the side of the road, and Urban-Smith and I disembarked. We were both clad in dark clothing and Wellington’s, and each clutching a backpack laden with supplies. It was a clear, dry night, and black as your hat; ideal stalking weather.

  Ulysses wound down his window. “Do you wish me to wait for you, Fairfax?”

  “No thank you, Ulysses. I think it best that you maintain a level of plausible deniability. Besides which, we may be some considerable time. I shall telephone you when it is time for our return.”