Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange

by G. L. Gick

  I was confused. “He’s an alienist, then?”

  “No, not exactly, although you could call him one. The Doctor explores the hidden recesses of the mind, yes, but also that of the soul, of the powers and secrets we all have within us. But to find those secrets, we sometimes have to reach beyond life, to those who have already passed on. I merely use my small abilities to assist in his research. But we both use our knowledge for the betterment of others. As for his interest in Russia—well, let us just say there are those who seek the same secrets, but for their own purposes. The Doctor doesn’t approve of that.”

  “I see,” I said, and felt disappointed. So this “Sâr Dubnotal” was simply some sort of would-be occultist. Another Spiritualist who thought they could find all the answers to life’s problems from the dead. Lord John sidled up to me and whispered in my ear. “I’ve heard of him. Some Frenchman who visited India and went a bit native, or so they say. Probably just as much a fraud as the rest, but that’s my concern.”

  “Would you care to attend the séance with us, Mr. Dickson?” Mrs. Rutherford asked. “It’s not until this Friday.”

  I coughed. “I doubt I’d be able to break away, Ma’am. The conference begins that night as well.”

  “Well, come to tea if you can,” Christina said. “We’d love to have you. Rutherford Grange is our home, just down the road from Westenra House. Do come, if you can.”

  “I’ll try, Miss Christina,” I said, but had my doubts. From what little I had seen of Sir Henry, it was unlikely he’d permit a mere peon like myself to leave during the conference for any reason, and besides, the more I thought of it, the more uncomfortable I felt. The Rutherfords were lovely and charming people, but far too gullible for my taste. As for Miss Gianetti—well, it pained me to see such an intelligent, beautiful woman waste her time indulging in confidence tricks. She could have been so much more.

  “And we need to get going,” Roxton put in. “You’re exhausted, Althea; we should get you back home.” He turned to me. “Goodbye, Mr. Dickson, it was a pleasure meeting you.” We shook, and he shot me a glance that read: I’ll take care of everything. Let me handle this.

  “Goodbye, Lord John, Mrs. Rutherford. Goodbye, Miss Christina, Miss Gianetti.” I watched as they all piled in the car and slowly drove away. I waved as the young women waved to me, and stood as the motor pulled out of the village and vanished into the countryside. I remained there musing for a moment, then looked around. Fortunately, the post office was right next to the station. I went inside and said, “I would like to send a telegram to Paris, please.”

  I knew a reporter there, a fellow about my own age. I sent this message:

  Joseph:

  I need a favor. See what you can find on a metaphysician calling himself Sâr Dubnotal. It’s important.

  Harry

  I told the man to have it delivered to Westenra House as soon as an answer came back, and left. No, it was none of my business, but I had to admit that Mr. Blake had been proved right after all—a little background research never hurt anyone. My “extracurricular” activities complete, I went looking for the ride Sir Henry had promised me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Westenra House was some three miles east of Wolfsbridge, so it would be a bit of a ride. Fortunately, the Sun was out, the air was fresh, and the scenery was most pleasant I have always loved the English countryside. It is, in part, one of the reasons I never returned to live in my home country. Yes, America has its places of beauty, great beauty; but I have always found something soothing about the ancient green fields of England, its hedges and wildflower-ringed walking paths. Traveling along them gives me a refreshing of the spirit very few other places can offer. I felt myself relaxing for the first time in two days and mused that perhaps serving as a mere security agent wouldn’t be such a bad thing after all. Not if the weather kept up like this.

  Of course, it would have helped if the driver of the small pony-driven trap I was seated upon enjoyed a decent conversation along with the scenery. Instead, I had a taciturn Scot whose main capacity for dialogue seemed to be the word “Urmmm.”

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Urmmm.”

  “Is it very far to Westenra House?”

  “Urmmm.”

  “Did you know I am secretly the Tsar of the Russians come to steal all your English women?”

  “Urmmm.”

  A most scintillating conversationalist, he.

  Resigning myself to a silent ride, I leaned back in the seat and resolved to simply enjoy the scenery. Here and there were fresh, grassy pastures dotted with sheep or cows, there, a farmer out in his fields plowing behind an old horse. Pleasant sights. As the cart rounded around a long corner in the road, to my right I glimpsed a small gravel driveway with an ancient gate leading into the fields; a faded wood sign entitling it. Rutherford Grange scrawled the dim letters.

  “Ah,” I said aloud without realizing it, “So that’s where Miss Christina lives.”

  My statement seemed to shake my companion out of his dour silence for the first time. The old Scot turned his head, looked at me, and asked: “Aye? So ye’ve met the Rutherfords, then?”

  “I had the pleasure, yes. At the station.”

  He blinked. “Aye? Did she howl, then?”

  “Howl?” This was the second time I had heard that word used in conjunction with the Rutherfords. “No! Whatever do you mean by that?”

  “Nothin’, lad,” the Scot replied, turning eyes back to the road. “Nothin’ at all. Be comin’ up on the House in a minute.”

  And indeed very shortly the cart reached the border of a long, high brick wall, stretching out alongside the road. We traveled beside this for several hundred yards until we reached an open, wrought-iron gate, and the driver guided the pony through it. We entered into a thick clump of trees, which quickly thinned out into a spacious, well-kept garden, and I received my first look at Westenra House.

  It was, without doubt, the most pompously dull edifice I have ever seen.

  Even after all these years I find it difficult to find the words to describe just how the appearance of Westenra House put me off. The problem did not lie anywhere in its actual physical structure: it was a large, three-story mansion of the most modern design with two extensive wings jutting off from the main hall. If anyone else had been living there it would have been quite attractive. But with the Westenras owning it... well.

  Perhaps this will help me explain. I have been in many manor houses over the years, from the richly opulent to the genteelly decrepit. Yet from palatial to worn out, magnificent to falling to shambles, in each there was always an air of individuality, of actually being lived in; a sense of familiar comfort. Even with the most conceited, socially-climbing matron you can name, in a house filled with the most expensive furniture and priceless bric-a-brac you can think of, there was always a sense of a place where memories were made and kept precious, where hearts were found and broken and mended again. A sense of home.

  Westenra House had none of that.

  As said before, it was physically attractive enough, but it had no comfort. It was too cold, too austere. If the young Westenras had been raised there, there would have been no laughter in the halls, no toys on the floor. It was a building meant only to show how rich and important the owners were, how far above they were over all others, a museum to the Westenras' greatness and nothing more. A mausoleum trying to be the Coliseum.

  I could tell my silent driver felt it, too, for a veiled look of disgust passed over his face as he gazed at the place. But he said nothing and guided the trap around to the back, then pointed me roughly to a small door. Obviously one of the servants’ entrances. I certainly stood highly in Sir Henry’s esteem.

  “Knock loud,” the driver advised me in a mutter. “Someone’ll hear ye eventually. Prob’bly Colleen.” He gave me a sidelong look. “Ye’ll find she’s a pretty lass,“ he added, a brief half-smile twisting his face. Then he was nicking the reins, and I bar
ely had time to grab my bag and leap out before the trap started moving back toward the stables.

  “Thank you!” I called, but the driver only replied back with an extra-loud “Urmm.” I took that as an “You’re welcome.” Then I turned towards the door. No sense turning back now. I walked up and rapped the knocker loudly. There was no answer. I knocked again.

  Hmmm, I thought, a maid named Colleen. Suggestive of an Irish lass, young, red-haired and pretty. I had already had the great fortune to meet two extraordinarily beautiful women today and it had put my youthful imagination in a mood for feminine company. Almost unconsciously I was already slicking my hair back, envisioning golden-red hair and eyes as emerald as the fabled Isle. I knocked once more, waiting for the gorgeous creature that would undoubtedly answer.

  The door flew open, a cat dashed out and entangled itself between my legs. So surprised was I that I involuntarily stepped back, right on the creature’s tail; it yowled and swiped my calf with an extended claw. Now I yowled, made an odd sort of jiggy dance with my feet, slipped on the cat again and fell right down. With an indignant “Mrrrowrr!” the cat dashed off and left me sitting upon my dignity.

  A howl of merriment met me. I looked up, reproachfully, to see, not an Irish beauty, but a dark-skinned, square-jawed and unquestionably masculine figure leaning against the doorpost, laughing uproariously.

  My greeter was a young East Indian youth about my own age, with quick, intelligent eyes shining with mirth at my predicament. I had to admit he was quite handsome. The unfortunate stereotype of the Indian is that of a wasted, stick-thin figure with ribs showing, dressed in a dirty loincloth and turban. But this man was tall and strapping, broad in shoulder and thick in arm. His rough hands and hard build showed many years of hard labor, but his dark, smooth skin was unblemished by weather, acne or disease. His head was bare, but a neat pointed beard bristled on the tip of his chin. Even his teeth were excellent, better than many Europeans I knew. An air of pride and confidence hung about him, and, if it were not for the uniform that marked him as some sort of servant, one might almost have taken him for the master of the house.

  He laughed immoderately at me for quite a while. I could only sit and look at him. It, the laughter that is, seemed to be something he hadn’t done in a long time “A—are you all right?” he finally managed to get out at last, between guffaws. “Did you hurt anything?”

  “Only my pride,” I grumbled, feeling my backside. Grinning, the young Indian reached down and helped me up.

  “I’d advise you to stay out of Colleen’s way from now on if I were you,” he told me. “She has a long memory and doesn’t take kindly to people who stumble over her.”

  “Colleen’s the cat?”

  “Of course. This is her favorite door. Open it once and, swoosh, she’s gone. What were you expecting?” He read the look on my face and laughed again. “Ah, I see. Old Jack’s been having one of his little jokes again. No, Colleen’s just the kitchen cat—not some Irish lovely.”

  “Wonderful,” I muttered, dusting myself off”

  “Seriously, may I help you?”

  “Harry Dickson. Here to help with security for the conference.”

  “Oh. So you’re one of the detectives, eh?” The young Indian rolled his eyes. “Gods, that conference. For the past two months, Sir Henry’s been on nothing but ‘conference, conference, conference’ and he blows up at the slightest delay. Everyone in the House will get on their knees and give thanks when that thing’s over. I was under the impression it supposed to be some sort of secret, but by now everyone in the whole bloody county knows about it. Anyway, come in. Mr. Appleby’s in the kitchen—he’ll probably be the one to talk to.”

  I entered a long, narrow servant’s corridor, whitewashed and bare. It ran the entire width of the house, terminating at one end and turning a corner towards the rear That, I surmised, lead toward the kitchen. “This way,” the youth said, and guided me in that direction.

  As we strolled, I commented, “Would it be too much to ask whose hospitality it is I‘m currently enjoying?”

  “My apologies. My name is Kritchna. Darshan Kritchna.”

  “Harry Dickson,” I said again, and we shook hands. “If I may ask, what do you do here?”

  Kritchna paused for a moment, then said: “Whatever Sir Henry thinks is beneath the white servants.”

  “Ah. Well.” There seemed to be nothing to add to that, so I changed the subject. “So, how long have you been with Sir Henry? Did you come with him from India?”

  “No!” Kritchna burst out so suddenly and sharply it was nearly a shout. For a split-second his dark eyes flashed fire. But just as quickly it was gone. “I mean, no,” he said, in a much quieter, calmer voice. “I... came over on a ship about a year and a half ago. Working my way over. I’ve only been at the House about six months now.”

  “I see.” I frowned. The answer had been a simple enough one, but—perhaps it was merely my overactive detective instincts. Yet for some peculiar reason, I had the unaccountable feeling my companion was holding something back. Why should Kritchna have such a strong reaction to such a simple question? It wasn’t anything unusual for officials to bring home particularly favored native servants from India.

  I mused, but put the questions to the back of my mind. No use looking for mysteries when there were none. “You speak English very well,” I said.

  Kritchna nodded absently. “Self-taught, mostly. A little missionary schooling,” he muttered, but distantly, as if thinking about something else. But by now we had entered the kitchen, and put any more conversation aside.

  The kitchen was, to all appearances, the antithesis of the cold, too-showy exterior of the House. It was smaller than most from similar-sized homes, but was comfortable and warm, like a well-loved family dining area. Utensils and other kitchen paraphernalia hung in a cozily haphazard fashion everywhere—those with a beloved, absent-minded aunt or uncle will know what I mean—and the air was thick with the friendly, clean scents of soap, onions, linen and fresh-baked bread. A flour-haired old woman was bending over a huge pot of spicy-smelling soup. “Where’s Mr. Appleby, Mrs. Mulligan?” Kritchna asked her.

  The old woman looked up from her stirring and smiled kindly. “Out,” she said with a thick Irish accent. “Th’ Master called for him. He should be back any moment. Who’s this?”

  “Fellow named Dickson. Here to help with the conference.”

  “Oh.” She nodded pleasantly at me. “Nice t’meet you, Mr. Dickson. Darshan, Colleen didn’t get out when you opened the door, did she?”

  Kritchna shrugged, smiling. “Have you ever known her not to?”

  “Oh, Darshan!” She tossed the spoon aside with a clatter. “Now I’ll have t’go find her. You know how the Master hates to see her wanderin’ around the yard. Here, you get over here and stir this soup. I’ll be right back.” Removing her apron, she toddled out of the kitchen. Unruffledly, Kritchna picked up the spoon and took her place. “Want some soup?” he asked casually.

  I was about to decline but a growl from my stomach overruled me. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

  Kritchna poured a thick, steaming goulash of vegetables and meat into a bowl and shoved it over toward me. “Tea’s in the kettle over there,” he offered, and I was quick to help myself. The soup was excellent, and my stomach thanked me again and again.

  But I also wished to know more about my curious companion. So I attempted to steer him into conversation again: “Are you the only Indian on the staff?” He nodded briefly, his attention on the soup. “Do you like working for Sir Henry?”

  He looked up at me wryly. “Would you?” he demanded.

  I had to admit he had me there. “No,” I admitted.. “To be perfectly frank, I’m only here because my employer wishes it. But if he’s that bad, why do you stay?”

  “I have my reasons,” Kritchna said gruffly. “And, ‘to be perfectly frank,’ they’re not any of your business.”

  I was properly abashed. “You’
re right. I apologize. It was rude of me to inquire.”

  Kritchna sighed deeply and gave me a sheepish smile. “No. Forgive me. Sir Henry doesn’t have a monopoly on boorish behavior. Seriously, working around here is fine—as long as you stick with the rest of the servants. They’re all right. Mind you, Mr. Appleby can come on a bit strong at times—but you’ll see that for yourself. Otherwise, he‘s quite a decent bloke—a bit too dignified, but fair.” He sighed again. “But, as for the Westenras... they’re... they’re...” He paused, taking a deep breath as if searching for the words. Or trying to erase a bad memory. “I get along well enough with Peter,” he said at last. “He’s not a bad sort. Weak as anything, and, well, you know, being that he’s—”

  “What?”

  Kritchna seemed to realize he has said too much. “Nothing.”

  “No, what? If I’m to work here I’d better know something about who I’m working for.”

  “Well...” Kritchna mused a moment. “All right,” he said, “But if you ever tell anyone I told you this, I‘ll deny it. Understand?” I nodded. “All right. Peter Westenra is... well, he’s—” The young servant sighed. “Well, perhaps you’ve heard he doesn’t pay much attention to the women in the village?”

  “Not exactly,” I admitted, thinking of Christina Rutherford. “But I’ve heard of something along those lines.”

  “Ah. Well, let’s just say…there are certain reasons for his lack of interest. Do you think you understand?”

  “Oh,” I replied, realizing.

  Here was something not in the files, and little wonder. If Peter Westenra was what I was grasping, that revelation would mean scandal and social ruin to a man like Sir Henry. An ordinary family would not be able to live with such a reputation, let along an arrogant, grasping ass such as Sir Henry. The only counter would be to arrange some sort of a legitimate marriage as a cover—which explained that whole affair Christina Rutherford had mentioned earlier. To hide the embarrassment of his son, Sir Henry had obviously tried to force the boy to ‘court’ Christina. For whatever reason, it had fallen flat.