Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange

by G. L. Gick

  He found Mr. Appleby.

  It was something I would never have imagined of him, but somewhere in the portly frame of the butler was a wellspring of courage previously unsuspected. He darted between the Beast and his masters, making the Sign of the Cross in the air and screaming, “In the name of God, begone!”

  At the words, the Beast flinched, as if having been struck, lightly. It paused for only a moment, then the massive jaws split into a skeletal grin and it thrust its teeth for the servant’s throat. Appleby fell over, tripped by his own feet, just in time. “Lord Jesus help me!”

  Once again the Beast dropped back a bit, as if in some pain. Struggling to rise, still smarting from my blow, I tried to clear my head enough to think. Why was the Beast pausing? At Appleby’s pleas? But those were merely words—weren’t they? And what had the Sâr been thinking of?

  Whatever it was, Appleby’s delay gave the Doctor enough time to roll for the odd star-shaped stone again. Sweeping it up, he shot to his feet in a fluid movement, thrust it out once again and cried: “Ch’nan vykos Nodens ka!” Whatever that meant. And, in almost the same breath, “Do it again, man! The prayers! Say the prayers!”

  For a dazed moment, I wondered whom he was yelling to, but then Appleby started again with the pleas to his God: “Our Father, Who Art in Heaven, Hallow’d Be Thy Name...”

  Simultaneously, the Sâr advanced quickly upon the Beast, shouting out in his unintelligible tongue.

  The Beast stopped, roared, and began to tremble violently. Caught between the two “chanters,” it trembled like a cord strung between batteries—or so the thought came to my mind. It staggered, swaying drunkenly upon its legs, and for a moment, it seemed as if the fur and muscle of the creature was actually shimmering. Then it twisted, dropping upon all fours, and darted away across the lawn for the wall separating the estate from the outside world.

  With one spring, it shot into the air, clearing the top with inches to spare, and vanished down the other side—and the wall was a good ten feet in height. Then there came one long, last howl—and it was gone.

  It seemed an eternity before anyone moved. Then like a wave it hit, voices everywhere at once going: “God, what was that thing?” “A monster!” “The Duc! The poor Duc!” “What if it comes back? We’ve got to get out of here!”

  In the midst of the crowd, Alexander was mopping his brow. “We had just come out to the garden when that thing leaped over the wall! Before either of us could move, it grabbed the Duc and tore his throat out right in front of me! Then it came for me! Me! I just thank God I’m alive!”

  Sir Henry patted his shoulder. “There, son, you’re safe now. I saved you.”

  Kritchna and I slowly picked ourselves up, heads aching. We looked at each other, daring the other to speak first. “Why?” I said at last, knowing full well he would understand my meaning.

  The young Indian looked me straight in the eye. “Because that bastard’s life belongs to me.”

  The Sâr had risen and carefully picked up his star-stone, looking out in the direction the creature had gone. “Is there anything in the direction the creature went?” he asked quietly.

  “Rutherford Grange,” replied Kritchna.

  The Sâr said nothing. He pocketed the stone and went to the prone body of the Duc. Gently he knelt, cradling the staring head a moment. “My dear, dear friend.” Then he gently closed the corpse’s eyes.

  “You!” The Doctor found Appleby standing over him. “What are you? A witch of some kind? A magician? Are you responsible for that—that thing?”

  “Neither, and no,” the Sâr snapped back. “What that Beast was and why it was here, I haven’t the slightest. Yet. As for myself, I am merely a student of the Ancient Mysteries.”

  “A student of the Devil, more like! I saw you use that talisman!”

  “I’ll admit the Star-Stones have no particular link to Christianity. They represent other Powers. But not the Powers of Darkness—they were created to ward off evil, not strengthen it. You have nothing to fear from me, Man of God. The Powers I serve may not be exactly yours, but they are on the same side.”

  “That’s impossible! There’s only one God! I don’t know who you are, but I know deviltry when I see it!”

  “As do I,” the Sâr gestured angrily. “And it just went over that wall. It’s killed one of my dearest friends, it almost killed one of your masters, and if I don’t get after it now, it will certainly kill again! If you cannot help me, Appleby, then kindly get out of my way! I must—here! Release me, sir!”

  These last words were not said to Appleby but to Sir Henry, who had come up from behind him and seized the Sâr by the arm.

  “You!” the master of Westenra House roared. “I don’t know how you did it, but you’ve ruined everything! This didn’t happen until you arrived! Alexander! Peter! Hold this man until I figure out what to do! Everyone else, stop! Come back! Get the—no!—no Police! My career—I mean, everything here is too sensitive! We can’t let this get out! Wait! And you—” With his other hand he grabbed my collar. “You were supposed to be running security here! What kind do you call this? Now a guest is dead from some damned animal and my son was nearly killed! How dare you? How dare you?” So furious was he that he began shaking me violently, and I was in no mood for it.

  “Let go of me, Sir Henry.”

  “Why? What you are going to do, boy, tell your employer? Your former employer when I get through with him?”

  Something poked the fat man in the neck. The tip of a fireplace poker. “He said to let go of him, Westenra,” Kritchna said in a low, angry voice as he brandished the instrument. “Now.”

  “Darshan, stop!” Appleby cried.

  “Not this time,” Kritchna said coolly. “I’ve been wanting to do something like this to you for a long time, Sir Henry. And I will if you don’t release Dickson. Immediately.” He pressed a bit upon the skin for emphasis.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know. You and Alexander—Appleby! Let go!” He tried to wrench the poker from the butler’s grasp but the elder man held firm. “Stop this, Darshan, before it’s too late!”

  “It is too late,” came a voice and Alexander grabbed the Indian about the waist, pulling him away from his father. Arrogantly, he tossed him to the ground. “What do you mean, you damnable woggie?”

  “My sister!” snarled Kritchna staring up at the man. Blazing hatred shone in his eyes. “Ashanti!”

  “Ashanti?” Alexander blinked. “Ashanti? Who—what, you mean that little whore from Bombay? She was your sister?”

  “She was,” spat the Indian, “And she was no whore. Ever. You seduced her. Like you did dozens of other girls. Then when you got her pregnant you threw her aside!”

  Alexander snorted. “Please. That little incident? It wasn’t my fault if the girl couldn’t control herself around white men. And I certainly wasn’t going to take responsibility for some little half-breed mulatto. I thought she lost the brat, anyway.”

  “Indeed she did.” The Hindu’s voice was cold.

  Alexander shook his head, glancing in bemsuement at his father, his brother and the crowd who stood listening. “What?” he asked the latter. “ I did nothing half of you haven’t done before. She was just some Hindu girl. And you’re going to stand there and let some pagan savage threaten me for it? For some woggie stillborn?”

  “For more than that,” growled Kritchna. “Much more. Oh, don’t look so innocent. You know what else you did. The very day your family leaves to go back here, my sister disappears from Bombay! You killed her! I know you did! I’ve been looking for proof ever since I got here! What did you do to the body, drop it in the river?”

  Now Alexander actually looked surprised. “What are you talking about? I never saw the bitch after I told her to get out. I suppose I should thank you for saving my life from that—that creature.

  “But I won’t. You; you idiots who call yourself Security—kindly throw these
men out!”

  Suddenly a dozen hands from everywhere had seized me and were dragging me away, through the House and out the front door, across the gardens toward the gate. I was vaguely aware of someone‘s voice—Peter‘s?—crying out in protest. But it was no good. The gate was flung open and I was shoved forward, to land entangled with Kritchna in an undignified heap beside the road. The gate slammed shut behind us.

  For a few minutes, we just lay there, panting as the voices faded. Then, slowly, we rose

  “Well,” Kritchna said ironically, dusting himself off. “That could’ve gone better.”

  I hit him.

  “What did you do that for?”

  “Just what did you think you were up to, you imbecile? Were you just going to up and murder Alexander in his sleep? Is that it? For what, because you think he murdered your sister? Where’s your proof?”

  “I was looking for it!”

  “So that’s why you lied about going to the cinema. Let me guess, questioning the villagers to see if any of them knew anything? I thought so. Damn it, why didn’t you just tell me your suspicions? I’m a detective! I could’ve helped!”

  “Vengeance belongs to my family,” Kritchna said without remorse.

  “Well, you know what’s going to happen now, don’t you? Eventually Sir Henry is going to think you sent that—that whatever-it-was to kill his son!”

  Kritchna’s dark face fell. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Did you?”

  “Send that thing? No. I don’t even know what it was! Appleby was shouting something about a werewolf; did you hear? You don’t possibly think—”

  I finally paused, out of breath and my imagination and emotions exhausted. “I don’t know,” I said at last. “But I do know I’ve got to get you out of here. I honestly believe you were as surprised as I was about the appearance of that Beast, but it won’t be long before they’re coming after you for it. Now the only way to prove your innocence is to catch it.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that.”

  From out of the bushes along the road, the Sâr emerged, carting his carpetbag as always. “I have a friend to avenge, and could certainly use your help.”

  I glared at him suspiciously. “How’d you get out here?”

  “If your attention hadn‘t been occupied getting yourself dismissed from your position, Dickson, you might have noticed my climbing over the wall during the melee.”

  “And how do we know you didn’t have anything to do with this?”

  The Doctor’s eyes turned cold. “You don’t. But if you don’t want your friend there to end up in jail or worse, you have no choice but to trust me. Now, quickly, into the bushes! I hear cars coming!” Without preamble, he was shoving us into the rushes, and for some reason we let him. Just as we did so, the gates to Westenra House swung open and a parade of cars sailed out, as fast as their wheels would carry them. We were close enough to see some of the drivers’ faces; they were the aides of many of the diplomats attending.

  “Looks like the conference is over,” whispered Kritchna. “Do you think they’re getting the Police?”

  I shook my head. “I doubt it. Try explaining what just happened to a country constable! No, if I know Westenra, he’s going to do his damnedest to keep this whole thing quiet. Not that it will work. The guests are bound to tell their superiors. Then, God knows what will happen.”

  “But it gives us an edge, nonetheless,” replied the Doctor. “A few hours, at any rate. Dickson—you mentioned the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange. Tell me about it, quickly.” Without knowing why, I did so. At the end, the Sâr frowned. “I have never heard this legend. And while I am no expert on therianthropology, I know enough. We must get to this Grange at once. Kritchna, do you know the way?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then let us go. My assistant is there already—and I have a very ugly feeling about this.”

  Hastily but cautiously, we slipped along the rest of the wall through the shrubbery, pricking ourselves several times but not daring to speak. Once on the far side, the foliage ended into long, grassy fields along the road—and no cover. We would have to be extremely careful, and not just to avoid being found by the Westenras. This was the direction the Beast had gone.

  “Do you think it’s still out there?”

  The Sâr smiled grimly. “I’m sure we’ll find out.”

  We moved quickly down the road, keeping our senses peeled for any signs of pursuit. There was nothing. Apparently the Westenras were too busy simply trying to save their conference to waste time chasing us. The Moon was out, giving us an excellent view of our surroundings. So it was that, about a half-mile down, we first saw the burly figure draped limply across the middle of the path.

  The Beast lay still, its sides slowly rising and falling, but otherwise it did not move. It appeared to be dying. Cautiously, the Doctor removed another Star-Stone from his voluminous bag. He held it out toward the creature, murmuring words I could not clearly hear, but the Beast made no attempt to rise. It stared at us with its red eyes, panting, the face bruised where Kritchna had struck it.

  “How could this be?” I found myself whispering. “It’s impossible.”

  “Many things in this world are ‘impossible,’ Dickson,” the Sâr said quietly, “But they happen anyway.”

  “Should we kill it? Or run?” asked Kritchna nervously.

  “Neither, I think. If it could’ve attacked us, it would’ve by now. It’s hurt. The problem is; I do not know why. This is most peculiar. The Star-Stone and the Incantations of Nodens should be drawing the curse out of this poor man, not physically harming him. He should’ve become human again by now.” He paused. “In fact, it should have worked the first time back at the House. Why didn’t it? They were clearly affecting it, but not as they should have. The only time this poor creature actually seemed truly struck was when both Appleby and I worked together.”

  “That reminds me,” I said, “just how was all this supposed to work? Appleby was praying. Does that mean there’s really a—”

  “Not necessarily, Dickson,” the Sâr said. “But what Appleby has is faith. That is great power in and of itself. Faith really does move mountains, you know. Sometimes it doesn’t even really matter if the thing you believe in exists or not.”

  “He certainly didn’t take to you afterwards,” Kritchna pointed out.

  “He was frightened and disturbed by what he could not understand. I don’t blame him for that. But this is getting off the subject. We need to find out why this creature exists, and who it really is. Look! Something’s happening.”

  The Beast raised its head and whimpered. All about it, from the tip of its toes to the tips of its ears, the entire mass of fur and skin somehow seemed to be shifting. Flowing downward off the body like water.

  Fangs dripped away into nothingness, skeletal structure and musculature ran off into pools of liquid upon the ground. It was incredible. This was not blood or any other bodily fluid, this was the body itself, turning into a thick, gooey substance that poured off itself, the form growing smaller and smaller as it did. With a shock, I realized I knew what the stuff was. It was the very goo I had found on the bushes beneath the garret two nights before.

  “Ectoplasm,” I heard the Sâr mutter. “This is unheard of.”

  For both of us, I thought. The head and snout had almost entirely melted away by now, slowly coming to reveal a wet mass of blond hair beneath the fur. Claws fell away, showing the long pink fingers of a woman. Chest and back fur slipped away into the remains of a crumbled blue dress. At last the full features of the person under the Beast became clear and I gasped in astonishment.

  “Christina! Christina Rutherford!” I cried disbelievingly. “Christina Rutherford is a werewolf?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The prone figure of Miss Christina Rutherford lay across the road before our stunned eyes; beautiful features marred by streaks of goo and thick bruises. Hair, skin and dress were sopping w
et from the pouring away of the glop that had surrounded her—ectoplasm the Doctor called it—and her eyes, while open, stared blankly at us. Then it seemed as if recognition and memory all flowed back at once. Her mouth opened and she let out a howl, not of wolf-like malice and hatred, but one of terror, a long, drawn-out wail of horror and misery. She tried to rise but fell back, screaming: “Mama! Mama!”

  To his credit, it was Kritchna who first knelt and gathered her up, pulling her close. “It’s all right, Miss, it’s all right. You’re safe now”

  “My God! Mother! Mama!”

  “Miss Rutherford!” The Sâr gently took her from Kritchna. “My assistant, Gianetti. Where is she? Is she safe? What do you remember?”

  “Gianetti?” She paused, not recognizing this man and unable to find the words to answer him. “I—I remember sitting at the table. Mama was there, and Uncle John, and Gianetti—and we were calling on Papa—and then—and then…”

  “Go on,” the Sâr said softly.

  “And then…. and then, I felt hate. The most vicious hate. Coming over me.”

  “Hate? From within? Like something was invading your soul?”

  “No...” Christina shook her head. “Like… like something from outside was covering me up, cocooning me. And I saw Uncle John jump and Mama screamed… and then I reached out for her but my hands weren’t my hands anymore—and I—and I—” She burst into tears. “Mama!”

  “Enough,” Kritchna demanded. “Leave her alone.”

  “Someone’s coming,” I interjected.

  The beams of headlights were flashing through the night toward us, but not from the direction of Westenra House—from the opposite, the direction of the Grange. In an instant, a car which I recognized as the Rutherfords’ own swerved toward us, screeching to a halt by the side of the road, nearly banking into the ditch.

  Lord John Roxton was out of the driver’s seat before it was even fully braked. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. “Christina! Thank God you’ve found her!” Without preambles, he shoved the Sâr away to take his niece in his arms. He looked haggard. “Christina, Christina, it is Uncle John. It’s all right.”