Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange

by G. L. Gick

  “Doctor!” cried another, and an equally-haggard Gianetti Annunciata climbed out of the passenger side, racing toward her mentor. “Doctor, what are you doing here?” She seized his hands. He smiled down at her, in evident relief, but if she would have liked more, he made no move toward it.

  “Gianetti, what has happened? Tell me everything!”

  “Doctor, it’s horrible! Mrs. Rutherford is dead! Killed by that creature!”

  “It’s worse than that, my dear. It was here too. It killed Michel.”

  “The Duc? He was killed too? Oh, sweet Mary.”

  “Doctor?” Roxton said. “Your employer’s here? My God! It’s you!”

  “Ah.” The Doctor smiled, briefly. “Hello, Roxton.”

  “You’re this ‘Sâr Dubnotal’ character? You? Back when I knew you in India, you called yourself—”

  “No names, please.” The Sâr held up a warning hand. “I left that identity behind a long time ago. For good reason. But the past isn’t the issue right now. This young lady here is.”

  “You’re right,” Roxton replied. “In the car. We’ll talk as we go. Christina, do you think you can walk? Let me help.” Gently he placed his arm around the girl and assisted her to the vehicle. Gianetti took her other side. Gently, they set Christina into the passenger side, and Gianetti slid in beside her. Roxton looked at us, particularly the Sâr.

  “Well, if you’re coming, get in. This sounds like something you’d be involved in. Damn that séance!”

  “Right,” said the Sâr. “In!” Almost without thinking, Kritchna and I obediently piled into the back. The Sâr followed and the automobile revved into life, turning around and heading back the way it came.

  “Uncle… Uncle John. Is Mama—”

  “Shush, my dear. She’s beyond any pain now.”

  Christina burst into fresh tears. Tenderly, Gianetti set her head upon her shoulder. “Don’t hold it in. Just let it out!”

  “Gianetti, I don’t remember anything! Just—just that awful sense of hate. And then I felt myself change…”

  “Enough!” The Doctor’s voice was firm. “Explanations. Now.”

  “All right,” Roxton said. “I take it you knew about the séance this evening? Damn it, I warned Althea not to have it! Not that I honestly thought anythin’ like this would happen—I was afraid she’d be defrauded! You know as well as I how many of these so-called Spiritualists are fake.”

  “And I daresay you thought Gianetti was, too.”

  “Well, I didn’t know she worked for you, old lad! Anyway, the other two—Grigori Yeltsin and Rosemary Underwood—arrived right on schedule. We had dinner and then Althea wanted to set the séance right up.”

  “Wait. Describe these other two mediums.”

  Now Gianetti spoke up. “I knew something was wrong as soon as I met them, Doctor. Yeltsin—a very fat, obnoxious man—claimed to be Russian, so I wondered why I had never heard of him, being as you take such precautions to know what psychics are from there. But I could see at a glance he was nothing but a fraud. His aura was nil. Russian, yes, psychic, no. But Miss Underwood… she was different. Her aura sang of power. Sang! I’ve never seen the like, except—well, except in this young man here.” She gestured toward Kritchna. The Indian blinked, shifting uncomfortably. “His is almost as strong as hers. Very odd, too, considering how drab she looks physically. Very plain, very colorless. But there was something else about her I simply couldn’t put my finger on. Still, she seemed eager enough to help Mrs. Rutherford, and I thought with my guidance, we might be able to brush Yeltsin aside and actually summon Christina’s father.”

  Finally, I found the words to speak. “But something happened?”

  Gianetti nodded, miserably. “The séance started according to plan. We had gathered around the table, linking hands, and started the summons of Mr. Rutherford. I was at the foot, Mrs. Rutherford was at the head, with Christina next to her. Then, there was Yeltsin, and then Lord John, and myself. We recruited two maids to help, and then Miss Underwood was seated. I was keeping my best eye on Yeltsin. I expected him to try something. But then I felt the power.”

  The beautiful woman shook her head. “It was overwhelming, Doctor! But it wasn’t like any other summoning I’ve ever done before! I—I can’t describe it.”

  “Like the presence of an Outer Monstrosity?” the Sâr asked.

  “No. Nothing so… alien. But hateful. Yes, something filled with hate. It swirled over us, like a great wind, and then…”

  Lord John interrupted. “I would never have believed it. Even with all the two of us encountered back in India. But I was feeling it, too—something was actually coming. But it wasn’t Althea’s husband. I knew that, from the core of my being. It seemed to hover above us, like... I’m not certain, like it was trying to decide who to take. And then it fell. Fell right upon Christina. And then she changed.”

  “Changed. Changed into the lycanthrope?”

  “Changed into something. Christina trembled and tried to cry out—and then suddenly it was like a shimmering halo had surrounded her, and she turned into that… that thing. Althea screamed. Christina was up, knocking over the table, and then she threw back her head and howled at us. Then, before any of us could move, she was reaching for her mother. Althea collapsed. The shock killed her instantly.”

  “That makes sense,” the Sâr murmured softly. “The first impulse of the werewolf is to kill that which it loves best.”

  Gianetti cleared her throat. “Mrs. Rutherford wasn’t the only victim,” she said quietly. “We all panicked. Yeltsin especially. Of course, the last thing he would ever expect would be something like this. He actually tried to run past the Beast. But the Beast… was quicker. Then it burst through the window to the outside, and from there… well, you already know what happened.”

  “And Miss Underwood?”

  “Fainted, but unharmed. As are the two maids. They’re terrified, but we persuaded them to stay and look after Miss Underwood until we got back. They’re keeping themselves securely locked in the cellar.”

  “Doctor,” Roxton said. “I know the story of the Werewolf. Everyone in these parts does. But I never believed it until now. Did we do it? Did we call up the spirit of Roger Rutherford by accident?”

  “I don’t know yet, John. A moment.” He produced his Star-Stone mineral. “Miss Christina, please. I need you to hold this a moment. Yes, that’s it. Now: do you feel anything strange? No shocks? Not even a tingle? Thank you. John, as soon as we get to the Grange, I need to do a complete examination of the scene. There’s something very peculiar about this entire affair, and I want to find out what it is.”

  I feel so lost, I thought to myself, turning my head away to try and collect myself. In the past 20 minutes, my world had been stood on end. All my knowledge, all my training—right now, every bit of it seemed in vain. Psychics? Werewolves? Ghost werewolves? Murderers and kidnappers I could handle, but this!

  “We’re here,” Lord John spoke, pulling the car to a halt. Peering over his shoulder, I got my first look at the infamous Rutherford Grange.

  It was everything Westenra House wasn’t.

  Rutherford Grange hung back a little off the road, non-walled, non-gated, far more welcoming to strangers than Sir Henry’s domicile. Much smaller, of course, with only two stories instead of three, and far less imposing, but nonetheless I could tell that it had been a grand farm in its day. The Rutherfords no longer planted, the fields being overrun by long grass and wildflowers, but the outbuildings were still there, worn but well-maintained, and I could hear a sheep bleat in the distance. The Rutherfords maintained a small flock and a couple of horses, but these were pets, not working beasts. Surrounding the house on all sides was a sea of colors: peonies and violets and a hundred and one other types of flowers everywhere, along the wall, in great clutches in the yard, around the great elms surrounding the house like welcoming parents; none planted to add to the aesthetic and proprietary value of the house but simply because
they were lovely. Something stiff and proper martinet like Sir Henry would never think of.

  The house itself was brick and Georgian—apparently the original building had burnt down years ago—and, like the surroundings, looked a bit shabby compared to its grander neighbor—some of the bricks were cracked and worn; the great green wisteria growing up to the roof was droopy, but all the same there was a sense of comfort here, a sense of belovedness. This was a home, not just a place someone lived in; a place where children played and laughter would not be hushed up lest the neighbors hear, a place where nobody cared too much if the cat scratched the furniture; a place where an old couple married for years still would sneak a kiss under the full Moon. The Rutherfords had influence and money, but refused to let it rule them. They preferred instead the better things; home, family, caring. The place practically rang of love.

  And of tragedy.

  A servant girl, haggard and frightened, opened the door. “Miss Christina!”

  We gently moved our way inside and, despite the tragedy we knew was within, I found myself more and more impressed. The interior was by no means as fine as the House, or as fresh, being old and worn-down. But that was the wonderful part—this home looked used rather than simply existing; like people actually lived and loved and laughed here. Books weren’t just set solemnly on the shelf, they were piled everywhere. Two or three cats moved among the furniture, mewing when they saw us. A large portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford hung over the mantel—but unlike the solitary Sir Henry, who stood alone, Mr. Rutherford had his arm about his wife as his other hand gently rested in both of hers. I liked this place. So it saddened me far more than perhaps it might when I found the two figures lying on divans, sheets drawn over both.

  “Mother!” Christina made to draw the linens back from the smallest figure, but Roxton caught her hand. “Don’t, my dear. It isn’t pleasant.” Christina sank to her knees and cried. Gianetti joined her there, placing her arms fully around the younger girl.

  “Dickson,” the Sâr said quietly, beckoning. I joined him as he carefully lifted the corner of the other sheet. I winced as I saw what had happened to Mr. Yeltsin.

  “I don’t recognize him,” El Tebib muttered. “Not a Russian spy, then. Probably an Englishman using the name to make himself sound more exotic.” He dropped the sheet. “Lord John, can you take me to where the séance was held?”

  The Dining Room was shattered. What had been comfortable if worn chairs had been dashed against the walls, jarred to pieces. China dishes, which had been previously lining the walls, were cracked or broken entirely, tinkling down to the floor with dull clinks Something had lifted the main table and hurled it aside, bringing it down upon its flat. And what looked as if it had used to be a tablecloth was tossed ripped and crumpled in a corner. The edges were wet and crimson.

  Two maids were there, trying to clean the place up as best they could, but there was someone else as well. This one was being watched over by what I assumed to be the butler, who gathered the maids and left when Lord John motioned for them to go. She sat on a chair silently, hands folded, looking very small and plain in an ordinary grey dress, brown hair dull and lifeless as her eyes. Her nose seemed rather long for an Englishwoman’s. She gazed up listlessly as we came in.

  “Miss Underwood?”

  The medium called Rosemary Underwood nodded. “Yes, that is I,” she said in a dull, rather monotonous tone.

  “I apologize for holding you here,” Roxton said, “but it was necessary for all to stay until we found Christina.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “For now. The… Beast is gone from her.”

  “Only for a while,” Miss Underwood spoke softly. “It will be back. She has been possessed by an evil spirit, and we are all doomed while she walks.”

  “Oh, I hardly think so,” the Sâr said, and the girl looked up in surprise. “Do you know me, Madam? I should think my name would be famous in your circle. I am the Sâr Dubnotal, Conqueror of the Invisible!”

  “I… believe I may have heard of you,” the girl said at last, after a long pause. “What do you want with me?”

  “Tell me. Tell me everything that happened here.”

  “Well, it began when Mrs. Rutherford contacted me about attempting to summon the spirit of her late husband…” Miss Underwood told her story. Apparently, the drab young woman made her living from using her gifts as a medium, after having discovered them a few years back. She had established herself in a town not far from Wolfsbridge and spent most of her time doing much the same as she had this night. It seemed odd to me—most of the Spiritualists I had met over the years were far more colorful and confident than this shy, unassuming woman. They had to be—confidence tricksters, every last one.

  “...But this time, something was different. I felt it. I thought it was because that Mr. Yeltsin was so obviously a nonbeliever. He was just in it for the money. But I felt Hate coming… vicious, enraged Hate. And then Miss Rutherford turned into that thing. The rest, you know.” She shrugged. “Take my advice, Doctor. Leave here. Let us all leave here. There is no help for her now. She has become the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange, and her soul is lost.”

  “I respectfully disagree, Miss Underwood” the Sâr replied. “I’m no expert, but I know a bit about lycanthropy and other manifestations of it. The werewolf sightings in New York State in 1799, the infamous wolf and man-cat of Paris, the Serbian feline shape shifters… even the notorious Ring of the Borgias. I’m certain that, with a bit of investigation, I can find the solution to this. In fact, I’d appreciate it if such a talented psychic as yourself would care to assist me.”

  For the first time, a bit of color appeared in the girl’s cheeks. “I’m afraid I can’t,” she started. “I must go at once. I have no wish to deal with demons. It would be safer—”

  “It would be safer if you stay here where we can protect you,” Roxton declared firmly. “Trust me, Miss Underwood. I know this man. He knows what he is doing.”

  “Lord John.” Darshan Kritchna stuck his face through the door. “Miss Christina is asking for you.”

  Automatically, we had turned to follow the sound of his voice. And that’s when Miss Underwood chose to make her move. Darting up faster than any of us would have expected, she shot past me and made for the back door, which I could see through the kitchen

  “Stop!” Roxton cried, and dashed after her. The last I saw was of a brown cloud of skirts being held up as the girl ran across the fields as fast as her legs could carry her.

  Within a few moments Roxton came panting back in. “She’s gone. I wouldn’t think a woman could move so quickly, but—”

  “Damn,” I said. “I’ll get the car; I should be able to catch up—”

  The Sar shook his head. “No, Roxton. Let her go. She can be no further help to us. We can find her if we need her again.” Roxton looked dubious but the Sâr turned to Christina. “My dear, I realize this night you have experienced horrors unimaginable to the average person. But you must be strong for a little while yet. I need your help. For your own sake. But also for the sake of your mother, for the sake of my friend Michel—and for the sake of everyone else the Creature who took control of you threatens.”

  The girl gazed up at him with tearful eyes. He smiled down at her. Then, she swallowed, nodded her head, and said:

  “I—I’ll help in any way I can.”

  The Doctor’s smile widened. Gently he placed a hand upon her shoulder.

  “Your courage is great,” he told her softly. “For that, you have my greatest admiration.”

  “What…what must I do?”

  “In truth? I need you to make a telephone call for me.”

  Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. Christina, still sniffling, opened it.

  “Miss Rutherford!” Appleby cried in concern. “Whatever is the matter? Why did you ask me to come?”

  “We—we need your help, Mr. Appleby.”

  “With all due respect, I cannot possibly
see what I can do for you what your own servants could not. Sir Henry will be furious—”

  The Sâr gripped him by the arm and yanked him inside. Before the butler could protest, he had clamped one hand over his mouth and was peering intently into his eyes.

  “Appleby, listen to me. I know your beliefs. I’m not asking you to change them. I know how frightened you are of all this. And you should be—working with the Spirits is always the most dangerous of propositions, no matter how experienced you are. But you know as well as I—there’s a monster out there, Appleby. One that I believe is a threat to your masters. And if we’re going to save them, I’m going to need your help. You may not like me. You may not like my methods. But believe me when I say our objectives are the same—to prevent a great evil from occurring here. When I take my hand from your mouth, if you still do not wish to help, I will not stop you. But I need you, Appleby. I need what you can give to us. So I ask—will you assist us? The answer is totally up to you.”

  The two stared into each others’ eyes for a long time. Then, slowly, Appleby motioned for the Sâr to remove his hand. “Sir,” he said quietly, “you are right that I believe your… views are not the correct ones. But I know what I saw tonight, and it was total Evil. Evil that must be fought. I will not use your methods for myself. But… if somehow I can call upon God to help you, I shall.”

  “That’s all I wished to know, Appleby. Thank you. Now, quickly—what is happening at the House?”

  “Sir Henry is in a frightful state. Mr. Alexander and Mr. Peter are too. All the guests have fled. No one even stayed to help with the body—I had to do that. We’re keeping him in a side room, properly covered until Sir Henry can decide what to do.”

  “You mean he hasn’t summoned the authorities?”

  “No, sir—he is adamant about that. He wants no one from outside to know what happened. I’m not certain he has even informed the Government yet—I asked if he wished me to call the Office and he refused. But they must find out, and soon. The other diplomats are certain to inform their superiors.”