Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange

by G. L. Gick

  I had to admit I wondered why. From all reports, Peter was a smart man, certainly more intelligent than his sire. He would have known the dangers of not appearing absolutely normal in Society. If he found himself unable to curb his desires within the bonds of an ordinary, if unwanted marriage, there were ways around such vows. Men and women of “normal” appetites did so all the time. Surely he would have seen the benefits a marriage, even a fake one, would have given him career-wise and socially.

  But Kritchna was continuing.

  “Obviously, you might think that Sir Henry doesn’t get on too well with his younger son. But he also can’t just deny him because of the effects it’ll have on his position. So they keep him quiet and under wraps, like a sheep.” He smiled. “Ironically, everyone in town already knows. About Peter, I mean. But they keep it quiet…not for Sir Henry’s sake, but for his. I know it’s strange, but the fact is, everybody rather likes him. Far more than they do his father or brother. He’s... well, he’s good. Not at all like the rest of his family. They...”

  The young Indian’s voice trailed off. Then his jaw clamped smartly shut, as if he had definitely decided not to say something. “ Peter’ll be at the conference, but he’ll be expected to do little but sit and nod and agree with whatever his father or brother says. I have to say I feel a bit sorry for him.”

  Silently I agreed. I could imagine it—a pale, sickly child, probably quite sensitive, born into a domineering family like the Westenras. And then discovering just why he preferred the company of boys. It must have made for many painful experiences as he was growing up.

  Kritchna was looking away, seemingly lost in thought. Then he said: “Look, let’s just forget the whole thing. Would you care for more soup?”

  “Please,” I replied, and about that time Mrs. Mulligan returned, carting a small black-and-white tabby: “There’s my Colleen. There’s my pretty lass.” I swore the feline gave me the most miffed look. I made a mental note to keep away from her in future. Just in case.

  We had just finished eating when the door opened and a pudgy, middle-aged man strode in. He was small and balding, with grey hair on the sides, but comported himself with the regality and dignity of all butlers (which ofttimes was far more than that which their masters possessed). He was holding a thick, black book beneath his arm that I recognized as The Book of Common Prayer. “Ah, Darshan, there you are,” he said. “I need to speak with you. It just so happens that late yesterday afternoon, I—oh, hello, young man. And whom might you be?”

  I stood. “Harry Dickson, here for the conference.”

  “Ah, yes, one of the security men. A moment, young man, and I’ll escort you to the library. Sir Henry will give you your instructions from there. Now, then, Mr. Kritchna—early last night I called you and couldn’t find you for about an hour. Where were you?”

  “Oh,” Kritchna squirmed in his chair, “I was doing something for Sir Henry, Mr. Appleby.”

  Appleby drew himself up. “I doubt that, for I asked the Master if he had called for you, and he said no. Now, really—where were you? And don’t tell me you were out helping at the stables. I checked there, as well.”

  “All right, all right.” Kritchna threw up his hands. “I confess. I snuck into town for an hour and went to the cinema.”

  “Darshan!”

  “It was a Little Neddy picture!”

  Appleby groaned and put his hand to his forehead. “Darshan, Darshan, what am I going to do with you? Sneaking off from your duties! And you know how I feel about cinemas! If the Master found out, you would be dismissed at once.”

  “Well, if it’s any consolation, the picture wasn’t that good.”

  The butler sighed. “It most certainly is not. But I shall deal with you later. Come along, young man, and I’ll take you to the library. But you remain right where you are, Mr. Kritchna—we have a few matters to discuss.”

  With a sympathetic glance at Kritchna, I rose from the table. Appleby escorted me out from the servants’ quarters into the House proper.

  Now I knew why the kitchen had seemed so homey and comfortable in stark contrast to the cold and ostentatious outside of the House—obviously none of the Westenras ever choose to set foot there. It would be beneath them to enter any room where mere servants dwelt. But out here, where the masters of the house lived, things were different. Everything had been carefully and selectively chosen for the glory of Sir Henry Westenra.

  There was not a room I passed that did not have at least one portrait of Sir Henry, or Alexander, looming in majestic bombastity over the rich carpet and mahogany walls. Sneering down upon the peons with stiff-upper-lip superiority. No expense had been spared to give that impression. The furnishings themselves were, naturally, of the most elegant and expensive sort—very beautiful, but bought to show off Sir Henry’s wealth and taste rather than to be actually used. The whole interior of Westenra House, outside the kitchen, reeked of the same dead, loveless elegance its exterior did. I

  I could not imagine the conference being a success in a place like this. Everyone would be too afraid they’d track mud upon the carpets.

  “The library,” Appleby’s said, and opened the door for me.

  It was much as I had expected. Filled wall-to-wall with rare and expensive books, not one of which had ever been cracked open. I hated to see such a thing. A library should smell pleasantly of wood pulp, with the pages of each volume yellowing and well-thumbed, used and loved. Not treated as some sort of untouchable museum piece.

  Did I say that the books were all uncracked? I stand corrected—for as I watched Appleby crossed the room to a small, obscure shelf where there was a gap between volumes. Carefully and reverently, he replaced his copy of The Book of Common Prayer.

  “Your employer allows you to use the library?” I asked, rather astounded.

  The butler harrumphed at the unexpected question, coughed, turned slightly red. “This small shelf is permitted for the servants’ use, young man. I keep my own books here. If I’m not overstepping my bounds, sir, may I ask—are you a believer?”

  “Hm?” I looked at him in puzzlement. Thinking back to my train ride, I inwardly groaned. God, not another Spiritualist, please! “A believer in what?”

  The butler held up his book—which I now saw was the Bible. “A believer in the Word, sir; in the Holy Bible and the death and resurrection of Our Lord, the Holy Son of God.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, that! Thank goodness—I thought you were going to say Spiritualism.”

  “Spiritualism? Oh, heavens, no, no, no. Total rubbish, and Satanic rubbish at that! I’ll have none of that!”

  I smiled. “Well, then, we have something we can agree on—at least in regards to Spiritualism being “rubbish. I don’t believe in the Devil, though. I’m not a Christian.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “Does that offend you?”

  “No, sir; that’s your concern. But I must admit it disappoints me to find so few Christians these days. The Spiritualist obsession in this country...” he shook his head. “The Bible explains the existence of life after death perfectly well! Where is people’s faith?”

  I shrugged “Faith is fine, until you actually reach a point where all you’ve heard about faces you. Then you want facts. You want to know your loved one is all right; you don’t want pats on the head and comforting murmurings of ‘have faith.’ Ergo, the popularity of Spiritualism Why do you need faith when you can simply ‘talk’ to your loved one and find out the truth?”

  “I suppose,” the butler said. “But I still think it’s evil. The Enemy will use all at his disposal to lure men from the Truth. Spiritualism is just another tool in his arsenal.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, not wanting to get into it. I thought of Sir John. “Then again, perhaps if it makes some people happy, then there’s a reason for it.”

  “You’re speaking of the Rutherford séance?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “It’s common knowle
dge, I’m afraid. I must admit, it truly upsets me to see Mrs. Rutherford so wounded. She and her daughter are fine Christian people. Even if Miss Rutherford, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, can be a bit too exuberant at times. But their faith should have been strong enough to see them through this. I’m sorry to see that it is not.” He paused before a door. “But enough of that. Gossiping is a sin, and one I must overcome. Please pardon me. If you’ll wait in here, I’ll fetch Sir Henry.”

  “Thank you,” I said and the butler left, leaving me alone with books never read. I glanced around, looking at the titles. As I suspected, no real attempt at ordering had been done; they were simply shoved inside according to size and color of cover. Here was a first edition of Pickwick Papers, there a history of South America, there a old, rare of volume of Arronax’s sea life encyclopedias, there Hamlet. I found myself reaching up and plucking the books off the shelf at random. If the Westenras would not use their own library, I thought, I would. Glancing up, I saw a large, black, folio-sized volume. There was no title upon the spine. Idly I reached for it, then paused. There was something within the volume I had honestly not expected to see.

  A bookmark.

  A simple paper bookmark, tucked low down among the pages so you would not have noticed it unless you were right before the volume. Curious, I carefully opened the cover to the title page to read:

  JOURNAL OF CHRISTOPHER WESTENRA

  (1663-1664)

  A journal! I never would have thought a Westenra would have kept one. Then again, I would never have thought a Westenra having the intelligence to be able to write. But I was being cruel. Gently fingering the bookmark, I flicked it open to the pages it marked, somewhere in the middle of the book. It read:

  “I have buried the body under the bridge where no one will think to look for it. As soon as we have a good flood, the grave will be smoothed out. I dare not let anyone know what I have discovered. If it should be learned, I would be the one hanging off the edge of the bridge, not the Rutherf—”

  Voices behind me caused me to slam the book shut and quickly replace it back on the shelf. The door opened and Appleby came in, followed by a very red-faced, very indignant Sir Henry.

  “Sir Henry, this is Mr. Dick—” the butler began but Westenra cut him off.

  “So, you finally decided to come, eh?” he snorted, glaring at me. “I’m surprised you even had sense to get on the right train. Very well, now that you’re here, you may as well be useful. The rest of the security staff won’t be arriving until tomorrow, so there’s nothing for you to do—so go out to the stables and see if you can lend a hand out there. They always need someone to clean up after the horses. Not what you signed up for, I’m sure, but I never waste men or time. I won’t have any layabouts here. Later, you can get the feel of the place. But whatever you don’t, don’t mess up! This conference is too damned important. I spent months trying to get the wretched French over here, and I won’t have anything spoil it now! Damn them anyway, miserable Frogs and their concerns about what we’re doing to the natives in India. They’re our wogs, not theirs. We’ll do what we like with them. Frogs and Wogs, what a combination, eh?” He glowered at me, as if expecting me to answer. I could swear his mustache actually flapped.

  I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of answering. Appleby just looked embarrassed. Instead, I said: “Whatever you like, Sir Henry. And may I ask about my sleeping quarters?”

  “Oh,” Westenra shrugged dismissively. “Yes. Well, space is at a premium here with the conference, so most of the arrivals’ aides will be rooming with the servants. I planned to have the security staff sleep out in the stables with the men out there. Since you’re here, I guess we can put you up with our house Indian, what’s his name, Appleby?”

  “Kritchna sir, Darshan Kri—”

  “Yes, Kratchna. You can sleep with him tonight. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t think of putting any white man with a wog, but you have to make do when you have to. What do you think of that, Mr. Dickson?” He looked at me smugly.

  “That would be excellent.” I replied coolly. “I’ve already had the opportunity to meet Mr. Kritchna and would be glad to have him as a roommate.”

  Sir Henry looked at me bemusedly. Clearly he had been expecting another answer. Then he shrugged: “Suit yourself. Appleby, show Mr. Dickson to the stables for now. I’m sure they can find something useful for him to do.” He turned to leave.

  “Oh, Sir Henry,” I called, “one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “I look forward to meeting your son Peter. Is he here?”

  “Peter?” Sir Henry wheeled about. “Why would anyone want to meet him? Yes, yes, he’ll be here, if he’s not too drunk to walk. But I wouldn’t get too friendly with him.” He gave a wicked smirk. “He might take it the wrong way.” He turned on his heel and stalked out.

  I glanced over at Appleby. Once he had been certain his master was no longer in sight, he had leaned against the wall and gave a groan. “Sir, I apologize... it’s just Sir Henry’s way...”

  “Never mind, Mr. Appleby,” I said. “Just take me to the stables After the air in here, horse dung would smell far sweeter.”

  After a rather filthy rest of the afternoon, I ate dinner with the rest of the staff in the kitchen. I sat next to Kritchna, and Appleby led the table with great dignity and good manners. To his credit, he forced neither of us to join him and the rest in prayer before and after the meal. Afterwards, most of the staff left for bed or their other duties, while Appleby sat reading his Bible, waiting for any call. Tomorrow, I would learn my exact duties and master the grounds of the House, and so wished to retire early. Kritchna had no other duties, so we both said goodnight and trooped upstairs.

  Kritchna’s room was at the very top of the House, just off the attic. At the door, he paused. “Welcome to the Wolfsbridge Savoy,” he said, “Please, make yourself comfortable.” And he opened to the smallest, most wretched garret I had ever been inside.

  It was barely bigger than a closet. There were no furnishings for there was no room for them, just a small, rickety bed with a pillow shoved inside. There was barely enough room for one man to walk beside it. One lone window, a porthole really, let in what light there was. And there was precious little of that even in the daytime, for the roof above slanted down, neatly blocking the majority of the view. There weren’t even actual walls, for the builders had simply left the bare wooden skeleton of the timbers showing. Kritchna slipped in, bent under the bed and pulled out a candle. With a match from his pocket, he lit it and then grandly gestured me inside. “The Royal Suite.”

  “Good Lord, this is ridiculous,” I exclaimed. “In a house this large, the other servants should get regular rooms, even the tweenies. Why do you get this?”

  In reply Kritchna simply ran his hand down the brown pallor of his skin. I bit off an obscenity.

  “I’m used to it by now,” Kritchna said, starting to pull off his clothes. “Just something else my people have to put up with.”

  “Oh, for—but, look, Kritchna... Darshan. I don’t know you very well, but you’re obviously an intelligent, gifted man. Why are you in Service? Surely there’s something else better you can be doing rather than this. Working for the Foreign Office as a translator, perhaps, or...”

  “As I said, I have my reasons for being here,” Kritchna answered, just a little too sharply for me not to take note. “Now, move over, I’ve got to put this blanket out in the hall.”

  “Whyever for?”

  “Where do you think I’m going to sleep? You get the bed.”

  “You mean Sir Henry expects you to give up your own bed for me?”

  “For a white man, yes.”

  “Nonsense.” I was appalled. “I’m not about to kick you out of your bed just so I can have one. I’ll sleep in the hall.”

  “No, you shan‘t. If Sir Henry catches you, he’ll have both our heads. He may not like you, but you’re still white. He expects you to behave as one.”

 
“I’d be ashamed to call myself a white man if I kicked another man out of bed just so I could have it. Look. There’s just enough room for the two of us. Why don’t we share?”

  Kritchna looked skeptical. “Share the bed?”

  “Why not? At least that way we both get a bit of mattress.”

  “If you can call this piece of petrified timber a mattress. I’ve slept on iron bunks that were softer. But—all right. But you get the side by the wall. If someone comes up here, I have to hit the floor fast.”

  “Fine,” I replied, and quickly changed to my own nightshirt. I crawled in next to Kritchna (the mattress groaning as I did) and he blew out the candle.

  “Just like Ishmael and Queequeeg, eh?” Kritchna chuckled.

  “You’ve read that?”

  “Oh, yes. My grandfather was well-versed in literature, both Eastern and Western. I’ve read lots of things. Just remember to keep your great white whale to yourself, sahib.”

  “Ha. No problem there.” We turned our backs to each other and closed our eyes.

  I couldn’t sleep. Which was unusual: for most my life I’ve been able to sleep anywhere, unfamiliar surroundings or no. Irritably I drew the lone blanket up closer. I felt cold. But no matter how tight I pulled, not matter how I curled up my body to conserve heat, I could not get warm. And this on a summer night that would ordinarily make me perspire. Further, I was starting at every sound: the gentle whisper of bat wings over the roof, the creaking of settling floorboards, the hoot of an owl. Finally, I jerked up as the sound of tiny, regular pattering sounded on the tiles above us. Pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat. It traveled quickly down the slope of the roof, then up, then back down again. A rat? I wondered. Then I heard a piping little mew.