by G. L. Gick
“Well, I’d better get back to the guests,” Kritchna said. “But, gad, this is tedious. I’d almost rather be at that séance they’re holding at the Grange. At least, it would have to be more interesting than this.”
“Please,” I rolled my eyes.
“Not interested?”
“Kritchna, several years ago, my father was approached by a man. This man showed him a frog. He said this frog had the ability to put on a little top hat and sing ragtime. Truly. So my father watched and waited, and needless to say, all that frog did was sit there and croak. And that’s all the dead can do. Sit there and croak.”
Kritchna snickered. “All right, Dickson, all right. You sound just like my own father—eh?” His head swiveled toward the front door. Nor was his the only one. A sudden hush had fallen over the entire crowd and everyone was turning to stare at the new arrival who had just stepped majestically into the foyer, closing the door behind him. A tall, erect figure, radiating self-importance, who gazed out calmly at the crowd with the slightest glint of amusement in his eyes. A figure who had definitely not been invited.
I knew, for I had made a point of going over photographs of every one of the official guests. None even approached the appearance of this man. Tall, as I said, with a patrician, hawk-like face that held an air of dignity and intelligence I had seen in few others. His features were decidedly European in origin, but with his darkly tanned skin, as bronzed as Roxton’s, his neat, immaculately groomed beard and spotless white turban resting comfortably upon his dark hair, he would’ve passed easily for an Arab or Sikh. Nor was this his only concession to the East. While his suit was European in fashion, and of the finest cut, around his waist rested a long, multicolored kilt-like garment I would later learn was called a lungi, a decoration from India. The combination of attires was jarring enough in this sea of cummerbunds and tuxedos, but there was something else, an aura of knowledge and dominance about the man that was unnerving. At his feet rested a large, perfectly ordinary carpetbag.
“I truly apologize for disturbing your soirée,” he stated in a pleasant voice, “but no one answered the door so I was obliged to let myself in. Tell me, does anyone know if the Duc d’Origny is present? I just endured a most tedious train ride to get here and would like to see him.”
Kritchna leaned close to me, frowning. “So who thinks he’s Doctor Mystery, then?”
“I don’t know,” I grunted, “but he’s about to leave.” I began roughly pushing my way through the throng. Sir Henry would roll someone’s head over this, and damned if it was going to be mine. Murmurings were already shooting up and down the gathering: “Who is that? Some damned woggie lover, I suppose.” Still, none were making the first move to confront him.
It was Appleby who reached him first. For a moment it looked as if the butler was about to say something, but the stranger smilingly a card with a flourish and handed it to him. Appleby peered at it curiously a moment, then, in an uncertain voice, announced, “The, ah, Sâr Dubnotal. The Great Psychagogue, Napoleon of the Intangible and Conqueror of the Invisible!”
The Sâr Dubnotal?
Good Lord!
What on earth was that pretender doing here? Shouldn’t he be at Grange, if anywhere? I had to get him out of here, and quickly. “All right, sir,” I started as I reached him, “kindly explain yourself and why you have just intruded into a private conference…” I stopped in my tracks. For as I spoke, the patrician features had turned to me and I had to take a step back
His eyes. They were the deepest I have ever seen, glinting like sunlight on water, yet dark, boring, hypnotic, locking onto yours as drawing you in until you feared you would be lost in them forever.
“I never explain myself, young man,” he said to me calmly. “It’s entirely unnecessary. Suffice to say that I am the Sâr Dubnotal and that I am here.” His smile grew broader. He didn’t seem angry, just that his very presence should answer everything. It didn’t, of course, and I was about to tell him so when I was interrupted:
“Doctor! Doctor, is that you?”
Immediately, the Sâr had turned his back to us, throwing out his arms in welcome. “Michel! My dear dear friend!” And he was embracing none other than the Duc d’Origny as if he were a long-lost brother!
“Doctor!” the Duc exclaimed, hugging the new arrival with the greatest of enthusiasm. “How long has it been?”
“Six years, ever since our adventure at the Devil’s Gate, old friend! Far too long! How are you?”
“Fine! Whatever are you doing here? Were you invited?”
“No, no—I was in London visiting a friend on Cheyne Walk. We were interviewing an archaeologist about some very interesting occurrences on the Siberian Express a few years ago. But when Gianetti called and told me you’d be here, I just had to drop everything and come and see you!”
“Well, I for one am delighted that you did! It has indeed been far too long! Oh, yes; might I present M. Dickson? He has the honor of heading security for the conference.” He gestured kindly toward me.
“Yes,” the Sâr beamed, giving a slight bow. “My assistant told me I might have the pleasure of meeting you. The Rational Skeptic.” He made an amused little clucking sound in his throat. Clearly he had met “Rational Skeptics” before.
This irked me more than a little, so despite the presence of the Duc, I flushed and responded hotly, “I am, sir. And proud of it. It was the Rational Skeptics that made the advances that pulled the world out of the Dark Ages, not those who claimed to follow the guidance of so-called ‘spirits’ and ended up dragging themselves and everyone who would listen into the black pit of superstition and occultic nonsense.”
“Such as myself, of course.” The Sâr’s smile didn’t fade.
“Yes.” Every eye in the Hall was upon me, but I ignored them, turning instead to the Duc. “I sincerely apologize, Your Grace, if this man is indeed an old friend of yours. But I will not have myself or the teachings of my mentor spoken down to by anyone who fancies himself the ‘Conqueror of the Invisible.’” I wheeled back toward the Sâr, daring him to reply.
Instead, he burst out laughing. “Excellent, Dickson, excellent!” he clapped his hands. “Well-spoken, indeed! Shake hands, sir; I’m glad to know you!” Before I could protest, he was pumping my right hand vigorously. “I see Gianetti did not lie when she spoke so highly of your spirit! And I’m certain Michel takes no offense, do you, Michel? Indeed, I find it an absolute pleasure to meet such a determined unbeliever in the Ab-Normal. As, I can plainly see, you are as well, sir.” He glanced toward Appleby.
“I?” The butler frowned. “With respect, Sir, I am a follower of the Lord Jesus Christ. I refuse to have any truck with such satanic claptrap as the raising of spirits.”
“A wise decision. The raising of spirits is a far more dangerous prospect that most who follow its tenets believe.” His eyes flicked pointedly toward me “Nevertheless, you are correct for the most part, Dickson. At least ninety-nine percent of so-called ‘occult phenomena’ is merely the product of deluded minds or intentional chicanery.“
“Naturally,” I heard myself agreeing.
The Sar smiled. “Excellent. Then you would also agree that is that remaining one percent that makes all the difference.”
“Mr. Dickson,” the Duc suddenly put in, “I can guess how odd my friend’s methods must seem to you. But believe me when I say they work. With this man I have seen… wonders. And terrors. He does not boast when he says there is more out there than Man can fathom.”
I sighed. This was getting out of hand. “Be that as it may, Your Grace. But the fact remains I have a duty and this man is a trespasser at a sensitive Government Conference. As you vouch for him, something may be done, but otherwise I am afraid I must ask him to leave before—”
“Dick-Sonnn!!!!”
That happens, I thought miserably.
The roaring, rotund form of Sir Henry Westenra loomed over us like a just-awakened bear while everyone else in the area quick
ly turned their heads and started making their way to the far sides of the hall. His face, to put it mildly, was apoplectic. Alexander, ubiquitous as ever, hovered at his father’s side as he roared, “What kind of security do you call this, Dickson? Who is this man? How did he get in, and why hasn’t he been removed?”
He made as if to physically grab at the Sâr. But the tall, regal man turned his eyes right upon him. In an incredible moment that seemed impossible to believe, the Sar’s would-be accoster suddenly froze beneath the deep, sheer intensity of that gaze.
“I realize that I arrived here without an invitation, Sir Henry,” the Sâr began in a cool, quiet voice. “But I was certain my dear friend the Duc would speak up for me. My actions were admittedly rude and I apologize for them; but I have not met my friend here in so long I simply could not pass up the opportunity to reacquaint myself with him.”
Sir Henry’s eyes flashed from the Sâr to the Duc, from the Duc to me, and back again
“I concur, Sir Henry,” the Duc put in. “My friend the Sar here has never been known for his tact, but I would stake my life on him. I give you my word he intends no harm toward this conference. Therefore, you may do one of two things. You can welcome him as my personal guest, at my responsibility, or you may continue to look like a complete and total jackanapes in front of your guests.” He gazed at Westenra steadily.
The Duc’s words seemed not only to break the spell over Sir Henry, but deflate him as well. “I…see, Your Grace,” he stated at last. “Please, forgive me. Certainly, if you recommend him I would be… glad to have this gentleman here for the evening. In fact, why don’t you go out into the gardens and talk there? It’s lovely and quite private. Alexander can show you where it is.” He nodded toward his son, and, as if by a prearranged signal, the younger put his arm around the Duc, guiding him away. “Right this way, Your Grace.”
“But I would rather—”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Your Grace.” And they were out of earshot.
Very, very slowly, Sir Henry turned back toward us. “We. Shall. Speak Of This. Later.” And he stalked away, pulling Appleby with him.
“Well, young Dickson” said the Sâr, “it seems my presence has gotten you in a bit of a jam.”
“Oh, you think so?”
“Please try to retain your temper, young man. As it happens, I’ve had occasion to meet your Baker Street mentor a time or two. We don’t really get on, for obvious reasons, but I’m sure that he‘d be willing to listen to me. But who is this?” He glanced behind me.
Kritchna was waiting there, regarding the proceedings with a wry eye. “So you haven’t thrown Prince Zaleski out yet?”
The stranger snorted. “Zaleski? That decadent lay-about? I am the Sâr Dubnotal, young man;
‘El Tebib’ if you know Arabic, or simply ’Doctor’ if you prefer. I take it you’re one of the servants, and a most impertinent one.” Suddenly he smiled, a flash of perfect white teeth. “I like that.” Then, as he peered intently at the young Indian, the smile turned upside down. “Tell me, young man—are you at all psychic?”
“Me?” Kritchna’s eyes rose at the unexpected question. “Psychic? Are you mad?”
“Certainly not," The Doctor’s eyes probed the servant up and down intensely. “But your aura is one of the strongest I’ve ever seen. It’s…well, it is intense. I have only seen the like a few times—with my assistant, with the most ascetic of Tibetan monks; and with my fellow countryman, Solange Fontaine. Oh, and the Figalillys, but they’re so fey.”
Kritchna frowned. Yet I felt his expression stemmed more from the sense of discomfort than annoyance. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” The Sar seemed to lose interest. “Well, never mind. As I said, I’m merely here to see my friend; nothing more.”
“Nothing?” I asked. “So you are not here to attend the séance at Rutherford Grange?”
He gazed at me sardonically. “Not in the least. That whole affair does smell of pure fakery, and my assistant is more than capable of exposing that. No, I am simply here to—”
But what he might have said next, we would never learn. For, suddenly, the air was rent with the most horrified scream of shock and pain I have ever heard. It screeched through the room like a sharp, keening knife, sending cold, spiky shudders down the spine of everyone who heard. Then it was gone—cut off as quickly as it had come.
The crowed stood frozen in stunned silence. The scream had come from the gardens. And now came another sound—a long, loud, mournful howl, as if from the throats of a dozen dogs. It hung like a dirge over us and ended in a crescendo of snarls.
“Michel!” the Sâr cried.
That was all I needed to hear. I tore through the crowd toward the garden doors, shoving my way past servants and diplomats alike. A mere half-pace behind me dashed the Sâr, gripping his carpetbag. For him, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. But no sooner had he passed than they immediately fell in behind him, trooping for the garden.
I pulled the glass-enclosed doors open with a mighty yank, my shoes clattering over the cobblestones of the walk. The Doctor was but a step behind. He very nearly collided with me as I stopped short, unable to believe what I was seeing.
“My God!” I heard a voice exclaim in a quaver—and was astonished to realize it was my own. For was what waiting before me was a scene of sheer impossibility
Alexander Westenra lay flat on his back, head bloody from a gash in his forehead, desperately trying to crawl backwards from the horror looming over him. Half a yard away upon the grass the body of the Duc d’Origny lay, sightless eyes bulging; a mass of red flesh and bone jutting out from where his throat had been. And, bent over Alexander in a bent parody of human posture, claws and teeth dripping with crimson, stood a garish figure I could scarce believe.
It was a wolf.
CHAPTER SIX
Yes; a wolf: a wolf fully seven feet high at the shoulder, black-furred, eyes glowing redly, shimmering with power and muscle. A wolf looming upright—upright!—on its hind legs, legs that ended in long, splayed feet like that of a distorted kangaroo’s, reaching out its forelimbs toward the elder Westenra scion greedily. Paws too large, too thick; they looked more like the three-fingered hand of a some fur-covered giant.
And it was laughing.
Yes; laughing, a deep, rumbling, from the center of the torso chortle of malicious glee: “Hree ree ree ree...” It stepped forward, clumsily, as if uncertain of its balance. With each step there was a peculiar sucking sound, like water sloshing in a paper bag.
Instantly, I knew what had killed Colleen two nights before.
“Lord save us!” screamed a voice I recognized as Appleby’s. “It’s the Werewolf! The Werewolf of Rutherford Grange!”
Impossible, I thought automatically. What was standing before us, salivating blood and foam from its jaws, could not possibly be the legendary Werewolf of Rutherford Grange. Because werewolves simply did not exist. Werewolves did not exist!
If so, someone should have told the terror bending over Alexander Westenra. It threw back its head and howled, a bellow filled with hate and malice. With a little hop, it advanced before the cringing man. Then with a ravenous snarl, it sprang—
—And something rushed past me with the velocity of an exploding volcano, literally launching itself into the air to pound itself right in the center of the creature’s chest, knocking it off its already precarious balance and causing both of them to fly backwards, skidding across the hard cobble.
For a moment, the Beast actually looked surprised. But it had no time to digest what had happened for now its attacker was furiously beating it across the face and snout with a fireplace poker it had seized, slamming the black bar against it again and again
“No!” Darshan Kritchna roared.
“Darshan!” I cried, the shock of what I was seeing freeing me from my temporary immobility. I dashed forward, not thinking of the danger, just knowing I had to do something,
when the Beast—for I can call it nothing else—screeched and with a mighty heave of a powerful arm, swatted the man away like a gnat. Kritchna flew back, colliding with a set of patio chairs. He rolled over, groaning, and lay still.
The Beast was already back upon its feet, snarling, and shot a hand-paw out toward me. I felt myself hoisted off my feet and then everything turned on its head as I found myself hurtling through the air to land right upon a panicked Alexander Westenra. I was only able to extricate myself when a hand grabbed me by the collar and pulled; Peter Westenra had seized his brother and myself and was desperately trying to haul us to safety.
Everywhere else, pandemonium was ensuing, as diplomats, servants, aides, musicians and everyone else screamed and headed for the doors, shoving, cursing, trying to push their ways inside before the monster could charge them.
“Alexander!” screamed Sir Henry and shoved his other son away to grab at his eldest boy. A thick foot landed on my chest as he pulled Alexander to safety. Unseen, Peter quickly joined them. But the Sâr was moving forward; at the first sight of the creature, he had dropped to his knee, grabbing his carpetbag, and tore it open to pull out what looked like—Good Heavens! Some sort of semi-large, vaguely star-shaped stone. What did he plan to do with that, bung the creature with it?
He thrust out the stone, arm straight, and for a moment I actually had the ludicrous thought of a priest, shoving out a crucifix to ward off some evil spirit. Carved or painted into the star-like rock, I could see some sort of drab, rune-like sketchings the Sar faced directly at the Beast. From his mouth flowed a torrent of strange words, in a tongue I could not identify.
The Beast stopped dead in its tracks. In the Sâr’s hand, the Stone almost seemed to glow—but it had to have been a trick of my blurry vision and the moonlight. “Isha Thar Ch’taad!” the man seemed to be saying, and the Beast pulled back. But then it struck out, arm moving like lightning, sending the stone from the Sâr’s hand skittering over the cobbles and the Sâr himself into the lawn. Shaking as if in pain, it whipped around to find any other threats.