Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange

by G. L. Gick

  I instantly stood and bowed, more to her than to her companions, although she was clearly my elder by some five or six years. “No—no, not at all,” said I, cursing myself for stammering like a schoolboy. “Please, do come in.”

  They did, the man sitting next to me, the women across. From the look in their eyes, I could see they noticed my attraction and were amused. I flushed, but managed to introduce myself.

  The man accepted my hand, shaking it vigorously. “Name‘s Roxton, youngster,” he said, and instantly I realized why he seemed so familiar. There was hardly one in the British Isles who had not heard of the famous aristocrat, hunter and explorer! He was on the level of Burton and Quatermain. He had first made his name with his trip to a fabled South American plateau and his renown had only grown since. He was one of the few white men to have ever penetrated Mecca (in disguise) and had fought pirates in the Malay jungles. He had even (it was said) spent over a year in the desolate Sahara, searching for a legendary lost city supposed to be the last outpost of Atlantis. Seeing he had been recognized, he smiled and indicated his companions: “And may I present Miss Christina Rutherford of Wolfsbridge and Miss Gianetti Annunciata, late of Milan.”

  And whither are you bound, Mr. Dickson?” Miss Rutherford asked in a charming voice.

  My eyes wanted to keep drinking in Miss Annunciata, but it would be impolite to ignore the rest of my company. Besides, Christina Rutherford—hadn’t Alexander mentioned a girl by that name? So I answered, and she laughed musically: “Why, Wolfsbridge is where we’re heading, too! It’s my home. We can all get off together.”

  “I’m sure that would be delightful, Miss Rutherford,” replied I politely.

  “Oh, please, call me Christina,” Miss Rutherford interjected. “I hate ceremony. Uncle John does, too, but he’s old-fashioned when it comes to women.”

  I saw Lord John look sharply at her, but Miss Rutherford merely stuck out her tongue at him. “Very well, then—Miss Christina,” I said.

  But for obvious reasons most of my attention was on the lovely Miss Annunciata. So you may imagine my heart trilled more than slightly when she asked in perfect English with just a hint of Mediterranean charm: “And you may call me Gianetti, as well. Or Miss Gianetti, if you must.”

  “If you’ll pardon me, Dickson,” Lord John interrupted, obviously wishing to change the subject, “do I hear a slight American accent in your voice?”

  “Very likely, sir,” I replied. “I am American. But my father wished me to have a British education, so I was schooled here.”

  “Good decision-makin‘,” Roxton nodded. “Finest schools in the world here. Where‘d you go?”

  “Pertwee, sir. I originally intended to attend a place called Brookfield, but circumstances changed that.”

  “Dickson, Dickson,” Miss Gianetti was murmuring. “Would you by chance be related to a detective I’ve heard of called Allan Dickson? But he’s Australian, I believe—perhaps I am incorrect.”

  I smiled broadly. “Not at all. As a matter of fact, I am related to him. Quite closely. He’s myself.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. You see, Allan is my middle name. I went by it for a time a few years ago.”

  “But you‘re American,”

  “True, but that’s simple enough to explain. You see, my father was a traveling magician. While touring in Sydney, he met my mother. I picked the accent up from her. When I went to university, I decided to use it again to annoy my Latin professor. He never could tolerate his subject spoken with a Brisbane twang. Like this—Veni, vidi, vici.” My tongue slurred with my thickest Antipodean.

  Miss Gianetti and Miss Christina laughed, and even Lord John smiled. “So you are a detective, then, Mr. Harry?” Christina asked.

  “Well,” I squirmed a moment, “not quite. That is, I have yet to start my own practice. But I have been involved in a few cases on an amateur basis. And solved each successfully, I may add.” I was bragging, I knew. But then, I was trying to get the attention of two remarkably beautiful women. Still and all,, my conscience did get the better of me, for I added, a bit abashedly: “Truthfully, I’m surprised you have even heard of me at all, Miss Gianetti. ‘Allan’ Dickson didn’t last long.”

  “Oh,” she replied airily, “ I wouldn’t have, but my guru has a habit of collecting files on unusual crimes. It’s one of his hobbies.” She smiled pertly, and I felt a bit crushed. Clearly my fame hadn’t preceded me as much as I’d hoped.

  “Yes, your mysterious teacher,” giggled Christina. “When are we going to meet him, Gianetti? Mother invited him, you know.”

  Gianetti nodded. “I know, but he rarely accepts such invitations anymore. He’s much too busy with his own research.”

  “Research? Researches in what?” I asked automatically. As I did I suddenly felt rather than saw Lord John tense beside me.

  “Why, the Spirit World, of course,” Miss Gianetti replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  What?

  I couldn’t believe it. I had to be hearing things. Surely, these two lovely, obviously intelligent women, and a famous aristocrat who had seen so much of the world, weren’t being serious! Spiritualists! No wonder Roxton had suddenly stiffened. Sadly, I was reminded again of just how pervasive such irrationality had become in the world. If such a man as Lord John Roxton could believe in such nonsense, what chance had I to stop it?

  My thoughts must have been plain on my face, for Miss Gianetti said, “Ah. You don’t believe in Spiritualism, I take it.”

  It was too late to turn back now. Truth had forced my hand. “I’m afraid to say I do not, Miss Gianetti. I am a decided Rationalist. I believe in the powers of Science and Reason, not superstition.”

  “But so do I, Mr. Dickson!” Miss Gianetti leaned forward intently “Very much so! And so does my guru, who taught me so much. It was he who first discovered my potential as a medium, and it was he who taught me how to approach it the way I do—as a Science! He knows very well all the fakery that’s out there and despises it. But he also knows that there are some things that cannot be explained by the use of the mind alone, Mr. Dickson. We can only discover so much, because we can only comprehend so much. The rest we have to leave up to faith.”

  I fear I may have smirked a bit. “Faith, Miss Gianetti?”

  “Yes, faith,” Miss Christina suddenly chose to put in. “Faith that there’s something out there greater than ourselves, and faith that somehow, we continue on after death. You see, my father just recently passed on,”—she fingered her hat wistfully—“and Mother was absolutely devastated. They were so much in love. She has to know that he’s all right; that he’s in Heaven and happy. So I’ve gotten a number of mediums, including Gianetti, to come and hold a séance to prove that he’s still there; that we don’t just turn to dust when we die. We’re going to make contact with my father again, Mr. Dickson. And then you’ll see the true power of faith.”

  I coughed uncomfortably. “Be that as it may, Miss Christina, but—”

  “Come along, young fellah,” Lord John interrupted suddenly, “let’s go out and have ourselves a smoke.”

  “I have cigarettes, Uncle John,” Christina protested, reaching for her handbag.

  Roxton rolled his eyes as he stood. “Women shouldn‘t be poisonin‘ their lungs with such things, Christina.”

  “Oh, pooh,” his niece replied, and to prove her point she lit right up.

  Roxton sighed; this was a battle he had obviously fought many times. “This way, Dickson,” he said, ushering me out into the train’s corridor. Carefully he guided me well down the corridor, out of the slightest possible earshot of the women. Then, gazing at me with iron seriousness, he turned and said to me:

  “Young man, I’ve been to a lot of places in this world and seen a lot of strange things. I’ve seen creatures in the Matto Grosso that could swallow you whole in one bite, and I’ve seen a man I examined myself and said was dead rise up again when a Congolese witch doctor got ‘hold
of him. I’m not sayin’ I’m believen’ any of this Spiritualist guff myself—not for a moment. But Geoffrey Rutherford was related to a zoologist I’ve been through a lot with, and ever since she was a child Christina’s called me ‘Uncle.’ But since he died his wife Althea—Christina‘s mother—has been on the weak side with mournin,’ and she‘s gone from a good church-goin‘ Christian to becoming obsessed with this Spiritualist ballyhoo. She’s got herself convinced she can’t get well until she knows Geoffrey’s still alive on ‘the other side,’ y’know? Well, it’s gotten to the point that if that’s what it take to get her up and around again, I’m goin’ to put it with it. You understand?”

  “I believe I do, sir. I can well understand the desire to feel a loved one is still somehow present, even after death. But, at the risk of sounding callous, I thought this was where this much-vaunted ‘faith’ spoke of came in. That a true believer in the survival of the soul would not need proof that life was somehow eternal.”

  Roxton smiled. “You might be righter than you know, young fellah. Nonetheless, Althea is convinced the only way to assure herself of Geoffrey’s continued existence is through this séance, and I‘m beginning to think Christina has, as well. But I must ask you to not involve yourself in this. I know what kind of hoaxin’ these ‘mediums’ are into. Let me handle it.”

  After a moment, I nodded. “As you say, your lordship,” I said. “But if I may, what about Miss Annunciata?”

  “She’s a very beautiful and charmin’ woman.”

  “A fraud, of course.”

  “Of course. But a most attractive fraud.”

  “ Miss Christina seems very fond of her.”

  “That she is. Christina has a knack of making friends instantly. But I have to admit, the odd thing about Miss Annunicata is that I get a strange feelin’ she’s bein’ honest about herself. Let me explain. It is almost as if—well—as if she honestly and genuinely believes she is a medium of some kind, instead of engaging in open chicanery. Oh, I’m not saying she’s mad. Far from it. But I think we both know that delusions can run deep. I have to wonder if this mysterious ‘teacher’ of hers isn’t some sort of second Svengali, tricking her for his own ends. Too bad he is not coming. I would rather like to find out—for her sake.”

  There was nothing to say to that. We smoked, then returned to our compartment to find the ladies waiting, apparently having finished their own cigarettes. Gianetti gaze upon me was calm. Clearly she had guessed what we had been talking about, but decided to say nothing. Instead, she merely asked: “And why are you going to Wolfsbridge, Mr. Dickson?”

  “Just to do some research for my employer,” I lied carefully. Seeing as the conference was supposed to be so sensitive, early on I had decided not to tell anyone my business.

  “Oh,” replied Christina, “you mean you’re going to Sir Henry’s silly meeting.”

  My thoughts must have clearly showed, for the girl burst out laughing. “Oh, Mr. Dickson, everyone in town knows about this big secret conference!” she chortled. “Sir Henry’s done nothing but brag about it for months! The man’s such a pompous ass! He just loves to show how much more important he is than we lowly serfs! And Alexander’s exactly the same way. It‘s Peter I feel sorry for—he’s so sweet, and they treat him so badly. Especially after Sir Henry tried to get us—”

  “Christina, don’t tell stories,” Roxton said sternly.

  “Oh, all right,” Christina sighed, “But it’s a shame about Peter. He’s such a dear man.”

  “Yes,” replied Lord John, “but that’s enough.”

  I decided it was time to change the subject. I had no wish to speak of the Westenras, the conference, or Spiritualism any longer. So I instead turned the discussion to some of Lord John’s previous adventures, of which he was more than willing to elaborate upon. Despite my doubts of her, Miss Gianetti proved both fascinated and fascinating, and so the rest of our journey passed in a most pleasurable fashion.

  I was pleasantly surprised to find the town of Wolfsbridge much livelier and bustling than I had anticipated. I was expecting a tiny, rather insular village; what I received was a fair-sized market town, with busy streets and shops, paved roads, a telephone and telegraph line, and even cars roaring through town. Who knew—there might even be a building with indoor plumbing! I had taken Miss Gianetti’s bag; Lord John had Christina’s, and we had just stepped off the train. Miss Christina’s expression was one of happiness in familiar surroundings and we set off to look for her mother, whom Christina had stated would be there to greet them.

  As we did, a particular feature caught my eye and held it. A small, pale-white stone bridge, arching over the small rivulet that passed through town. Unlike the rest of the architecture, which was typically Tudor, there was something distinctly Mediterranean about the bridge, with its ionic columns rising from the water and the faded images of nymphs and fauns carved in its sides. Someone had taken much time and care to build it many, many years ago. Miss Christina had followed my eyes and nodded. “Yes, it’s the oldest thing in the village. Dates back to Roman times, I’ve heard. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “It is,” I said. “And that’s obviously the ‘bridge’ part of ‘Wolfsbridge.’ But the ‘Wolf‘ half?”

  “Oh. Well, that’s rather difficult to explain. But there’s Mother; do come and meet her!” And ere I could protest, the young lady had seized my elbow and was propelling me eagerly forward.

  At the edge of the station, a long white motorcar stood waiting by the kerb, engine running. The driver stood smartly beside the door, while resting in the back seat waited a woman. “Mama!” Christina called out, steering us toward her

  “Christina, my dear.” She raised herself up eagerly enough to meet her daughter’s kiss, but it was clear it was an effort for her. Mrs. Althea Rutherford was still a comparatively young woman, somewhere in her late forties, and still bore the hallmarks of a youthful great beauty. She possessed her daughter’s hair and coloring, and, as maturity had set in, her features had grown more and more dignified. She looked, to me, like the queen one might expect a princess to become in a fairy tale after Prince Charming whisked her away; balancing regality, compassion, and just a slight hint of mischief in her eyes.

  But since her husband’s death that appearance had grown drawn and sallow; and she lay in the back seat with a blanket over her as if she might catch a chill even in the summer air. “I do hope you didn’t pick up any of those awful cigarettes in London, my dear,” Mrs. Rutherford was saying. “You know how your father disapproved of women who smoked.”

  “Of course not, Mama,” Christina said cheerfully. “Everyone knows a real lady wouldn’t poison her lungs with such things.” She shot a mischievous glance over at Roxton, but the latter wisely ignored it. Instead, he bent to kiss Mrs. Rutherford’s hand and say, “Althea It’s truly wonderful to see you up and around again. We were all so concerned.”

  “Thank you, John. But nothing will be right until I can speak with dear Geoffrey again.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do, Mama,” Christina interrupted, reaching out to take Gianetti’s hand. “This is Miss Annunciata, the assistant of the Sâr Dubnotal. She’s going to help us, just like you asked.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Rutherford,” Gianetti spoke softly, taking the elder woman’s other hand. “And I hope I can help. I know well the pain left behind when a loved one crosses the veil.”

  “Oh my dear, I do hope so. I miss him so much.”

  “We’ll try. It’s much harder to contact, truly contact, the deceased than one might think. But keep faith—for faith is power, and love is the strongest faith of all. We’ll find him. Now—you said in your letter than you had contacted other mediums as well as the Doctor? Are they here yet?”

  “No; they’ll be arriving tomorrow. Rosemary Underwood, who is a local medium everyone tells me is excellent, and a very, very famous psychic from Russia, Count Gregori Yeltsin. Do you know him?”

  �
��Yeltsin?” Gianetti frowned thoughtfully. “No, I’m afraid not. Which is odd—El Tebib makes it a point to keep up with any mediums operating out of Russia. He’s never spoken of any named Yeltsin.”

  “Really? He’s reputed to be an associate of Blavatsky, and to have studied under the Hidden Masters in Tibet.”

  This was too much for me. “If I may, Miss Gianetti,” I put in, “just why does your employer go out of his way to keep track of Russian mediums?”

  Everyone’s attention was now turned to me. “Mama, this is Mr. Dickson,” Christina introduced me. “He was on the train with us. And guess what, he attends Papa’s old school! He’s a detective, and is going to be working security at that conference Sir Henry is holding this weekend.”

  “Really?” She smiled weakly but with genuine warmth. “My dear young man, words cannot express how sorry I am for you. I’m afraid you’re in for quite a time.”

  I chuckled a bit and bowed. “Thank you, Ma’am. But, if you please, Miss Gianetti, if I may, just who is this employer of yours? What does he do for a living? What did you call him again—Sir Dubnose?”

  Miss Gianetti burst out laughing. “Oh, how he’d scream if he heard you call him that! No, no—the Sâr Dubnotal, although he prefers to be called El Tebib or simply the Doctor. He’s... he’s... well, it’s hard to explain just what he is. I suppose the best way to describe him is as an explorer.”

  “Like His Lordship?”

  “Not quite. Lord John, bless you, sir, only explores physical realms. El Tebib studies more than that. His explorations are those of the higher planes; of the psychognosis. The realm of the powers of the mind and spirit; of the mysteries of life and what lies beyond.”