Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange

by G. L. Gick

  “What about the rest of the security?” I demanded. “Where are they?”

  “Gone, as well, sir—as are the rest of the servants. They’re all too terrified to remain. I can’t blame them. But Sir Henry cannot possibly intend to keep this whole thing a secret.”

  “He probably does,” said the Sâr. “He’s the type who would, just to salvage his career. But we have little time. The normal authorities cannot possibly handle something like this, even if they would believe it. If the spirit of the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange is truly about, we have to deal with it ourselves.”

  I folded my arms skeptically. “And just how do we find out if this is the real Werewolf?” I scoffed.

  ‘Simple,” the Sâr said calmly. “We’re going to have to talk to the source of the legend himself.”

  “We’re going to what?” My voice must have cracked with my incredulity. “Please, please, please tell me that you’re joking.”

  “I never joke, young man,” the Sâr replied flatly. He carried a chair to the far side of the room and set it down. “Not about this, at any rate. Here, Kritchna, help me with this table.”

  “But—but another séance!”

  El Tebib glanced at me sardonically from beneath his turban. “Does the Prince of Rationality have a better idea?”

  All about the destroyed dining room the Sâr and Miss Gianetti were rummaging about, moving chairs, picking up bric-a-brac, and sweeping debris from the center of the room to form a clearing in the rough shape of a circle, large enough for the six of us to stand around it, or sit if we scrunched. In the center of this clear area, the Sâr had been careful to remove the slightest bit of dust or dirt. He then opened his carpetbag and pulled out a gangly, shapeless mass of metal and wires. This he set within the circle and started to rearrange it, clicking together two bars here, untangling strands of wire there, until the whole thing came together and I realized that it was some sort of collapsible pentacle of some sort, but one which did not quite match the geometry of a perfect pentagram. The points seemed too curvy for one thing, and it was placed in such a way that the angles were not exactly compass-straight. The Doctor straightened up, looked at it, didn’t seem satisfied, and shifted it slightly to the left. Then, apparently content, he unraveled of all things an ordinary extension cord and asked if anyone saw an outlet.

  “One of Thomas’s electric pentacles?” asked Gianetti.

  “A variation of my own devising,” the Sâr replied. “With Thomas’s, the entity remains outside, while you are within. With this, we stay outside and it stays inside.”

  “A pentagram!” cried Appleby in something of a strained voice. “But you said—”

  The Sâr held up a hand. “Be at peace, Appleby. Yes, it’s a pentagram. I know the associations with Black Magic it holds. But there are reasons for that—it works. This shape applies to both White and Black Magic, and none of us who do battle with the more sinister aspects of the Ab-natural can do without it.” Continuing to gaze upon the butler, he smiled gently and sympathetically placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know all too well what you’re feeling, Appleby,” he said, “I told you that I have never called upon the Infernal Powers for assistance, and I’m not about to start now. In my own way, I serve the same Powers as you. In fact, that’s why I asked specifically for your assistance. You bring something very valuable to our project.”

  “And what might that be?”

  The Sâr raised his eyebrow. “The power of faith,” he said simply. “Faith is a far more powerful force than most realize. Especially faith in something greater and better than ourselves. That grants much protection against the forces of evil. They cannot face the idea of Faith.”

  “Oh, that makes no sense whatsoever!” I snapped. “If that is the case, then you could ward a vampire off with enough faith that the sky is blue!”

  “You think so?” the Doctor asked. “I’ll remember that the next time I encounter a vampire. But, seriously, Appleby, your presence is more necessary than you might think.”

  “Please, Mr. Appleby.” Gianetti took his arm. “The Doctor is right. He would never ask you to do something so against your beliefs if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. At one time, I didn’t trust any of this, myself. Did you know I was actually going to become a nun? Oh, yes. I’m a very devout Catholic.” Tenderly she fingered a rosary hung about her neck. “But I have a gift that, for whatever reason, I firmly believe God gave me. When it first manifested, I thought I was going insane or was possessed. And I nearly was. An evil woman named Madame Sara was trying to use me to call up—well; I don’t want to talk about that. But if the Sâr hadn’t found me and taught me how to use my ability properly, taught me how to use my own faith to channel my powers, let’s just say something—bad—would have happened.”

  “Indeed,” the Sâr exclaimed firmly. “The great difficulty here is that this place has already been used for evil, and that attracts more evil. It’s only because Miss Annunciata’s abilities are inborn to her, along with my own learning and devised defenses, that we have even a chance in succeeding in our mission. But succeed we must, if we are to stop even more deaths from occurring. Adding your own faith, as well as”—he nodded toward Kritchna—“this gentleman’s innate psychic gifts, whether he wants to acknowledge them or not, I believe that, with caution, we stand a great chance of summoning the spirit of Roger Rutherford.”

  Appleby still looked skeptical, but I could tell the pleading face and gentle persuasion of the beautiful Miss Annunciata was winning him over. I shot a glance at Roxton, practically begging him to interfere. But the great adventurer simply shrugged in defeat. This had come too far and the Sâr had reminded him of too much he had seen over the years to back out now.

  “Still,” the Doctor said, “I will not force anyone to participate in this if they truly do not wish to. So, if you want to back out, now is the time. Gianetti?”

  She shook her head. “You know I won’t.”

  “Roxton?”

  Lord John took a deep breath and sighed. “Lord if I understand all this,” he said at last, “but if it will bring out that monster and avenge Althea I’m with you. But must Christina—”

  “Hush, Uncle,” the young woman said, stepping forward, face tear-stained and bruised, but very determined. “This… thing forced me to kill my own mother. Of course I’m in.” She squeezed Gianetti’s hand for strength. The elder woman was more than willing to give it.

  The Doctor turned. “Mr. Appleby?” After a moment, the butler nodded. “I feel like Saul approaching the Witch of Endor,” he said quietly. “But there is something evil here that must be stopped. And while I will not call upon your powers over my Savior, I will pray that He somehow chooses to reveal the truth here.”

  “You don’t have to,” the Sâr proclaimed. “Just ask for the Hand of Riathamus to be upon us as we embark upon this journey. Kritchna?”

  The Indian simply nodded.

  “And you, Dickson?”

  Everyone’s head turned toward me. I paused, unable to believe what I was doing here. No, I thought, no. This went against the grain of everything I was ever taught, everything I had ever trusted. There were always rational explanations for everything that happened. Everything. The supernatural simply did not exist.

  But what if I were wrong?

  If I was wrong—and I wasn’t yet certain that I was—then, that Beast would still be out there, ready to kill at a moment’s notice. And this might be the only way to stop it. So, in spite of myself, in spite of my mentor, in spite of everything I ever knew about the world, I found my mouth opening and these words issuing out: “I’ll do it.”

  The Sâr nodded. For a moment I thought I saw in his eye a glint of admiration. “Good. Then everyone gather here at the edge of the circle. Join hands. Appleby, if you wish to pray, start now.”

  Quickly, he plugged in his contraption, which began to glow softly with a gentle blue electricity. Then he switched off the lights and squeezed between Kritchna an
d myself. “Gianetti will do the actual summoning. All the rest of us have to do is be still and think ‘Roger Rutherford.’ ”

  In the dark of the room, the pentacle’s glow grew brighter. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Roxton gently grasp his niece’s hand more tightly. Gianetti began to mutter words under her breath. Her eyes had drawn back into themselves and she seemed to take no notice of where she was or whom she was with. Next to Kritchna, I could hear Appleby gently chant: “Our Father, Who Art in Heaven, Hallow’d be Thy Name…”

  I swallowed silently. In the midst of the circle, the blue of the pentacle sparked and crackled in tiny pops. I tried to catch Kritchna’s eye but he was staring intently into the middle of the circle. I did as well, but could make out nothing. Then, suddenly, Gianetti threw back her head and cried out at the top of her voice: “Roger Rutherford! Roger Rutherford! We ask you to come beyond the Winds of the Shadow to us to stop a great evil! Roger Rutherford! Are you there?”

  And now, I paid more attention than ever. I knew all the tricks of the Spiritualist trade; every one of them. Trumpets used to throw voices. Special wires to lift tables. Everything. If the Sâr or Gianetti or anyone was up to trickery here, I would know of it. Swiftly, I glanced across the circle; everyone was still gripping each other’s hands. Everyone’s eyes were open and they were all looking into the clearing. Neither the Sâr nor Gianetti made any move.

  Then, very slowly, there was another sputter of the pentacle and it seemed to throw off a blue spark. The spark flew upward, just over the top of the clearing, and paused, seeming to hang in the air itself. Then it expanded—expanded up and out, still hovering over the floor, but fleshing out to become a small, floating illumination that flickered and licked upwards like a tiny fire. I felt no heat from it, nor cold. It was simply there. I probed for any sign of a wick, a torch, an electric light, anything that might tell me where it was coming from. But I could see nothing. And then the voice came.

  “I… am… here.”

  “Roger Rutherford?”

  “Yes. I have… been allowed… to come.”

  (“Allowed?” I heard Appleby whisper. “Allowed by whom?”)

  Quickly, I checked the Sâr. There was no movement of his lips, no pulsing of the throat that might indicate ventriloquism. But I had met professionals before. I kept my eye on him as Gianetti continued to speak:

  “Do you know why we have summoned you?”

  “Yes. The Beast.”

  “Are you the Beast? Is it your ghost or the ghost of one of those hung with you?”

  “Difficult…to speak beyond the veil. Very… dangerous. But no… it is not. It is… something different. Something not… of this side.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I cannot explain. It is not… of this side. That is… all I know.”

  “Were you ever the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange?”

  “No. I was… only a man. I did not… practice the occult. That is why I was allowed to come… to tell you.”

  “Then what was it?”

  “A gypsy beast… that escaped. Spotted and laughing. Fierce. It… hurt me. and I was taken for it. But only… a beast.”

  That matches what I read in the diary, I thought. Spotted and laughing—that sounded much like a hyena. Could the gypsies have brought a hyena with them and it escaped? That would certainly fit the description—a creature bigger than any dog anyone in the area had seen, very ferocious, and which would’ve “laughed” when they saw it! Almost certainly no one in Wolfsbridge would have ever seen one before—they were not stupid people, but with their lack of education, it certainly would’ve seemed like something supernatural! But then the thing I saw looked no more like a hyena than it did a real wolf.

  Very quietly, the Sâr spoke. “Do you know who is responsible for this?”

  “You… already know.”

  “I believe I do.” The Sâr nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I… must go. Already the… dark dwellers approach. And the voice… calls me home. I… must go. But Christina… Christina Rutherford…”

  “Y—Yes?” the girl asked uncertainly as tears streaked down her face.

  “Your family told me... They love you. They love you… Christina.”

  She swallowed. “Tell them… Tell them I love them, too.”

  ‘‘They know. The dwellers come. Good-bye. Good-bye...”

  “Wait!” Kritchna cried out, almost breaking his hold on the Sâr’s hand and reaching out to the light. “I must know! My sister! My sister, Ashanti! Is she there? Is she there with you?”

  There was a pause. Then:

  “She is not… On this side of the veil. That is all I know. The dwellers… Must go… Must go now…”

  The voice faded and the blue glow began to shrink. But in its place something else began to form. It began as a pinprick, just a sliver of blackness at the bottom of the blue, somehow seeming darker than the room itself. But it was growing swiftly, growing wider and stronger, seeming to absorb all light, even the light of the pentacle, and at the very core of my eardrums I heard a strange sound… a sound that seemed like the inane chattering of evil apes…

  “Pull out!” cried the Sâr, tearing his hands from ours. “Gianetti, pull out now!”

  With one heave, he yanked the cord from the wall. The illumination of the Pentacle instantly went out. Simultaneously, the cloudy “darkness” within the contraption suddenly seemed to withdraw into itself; vacuuming backwards into its own mass if, as it were, it were some kind of light-reversed candle snuffing itself out. Gianetti fell backwards; Lord John just barely managing to catch her. As for myself, I felt sweat beading down my face. This was…unlike anything I had ever experienced before. Throughout the entire sequence, I had been watching and peering, searching for any of the signs my father had taught me about dealing with the usual Spiritualist chicanery. Yet nothing had I found that smelled of a hoax. And that strange, evil chattering at the end…I found myself trembling and cursed myself for my foolishness. This could be explained, I thought. This could be explained!

  I glanced toward Appleby. He was on his knees, audibly thanking God for saving us. The Sâr clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “You sensed them, didn’t you?” he asked. “If it were not for you, the Dwellers in the Dark would certainly have interfered that much sooner. We were fortunate.”

  The butler shook his head. “Don’t thank me, Sir. It is the Lord who should be thanked.”

  The corner of the Doctor’s lips twitched. “”Indeed,” he said simply and went to attend to his assistant. Gianetti was gently being helped up by Lord John.

  Kritchna came over to me. His face was ashen and his voice low. “What do you think?” he asked in a whisper—a whisper I detected a distinct shudder within.

  I remained silent a long moment. I hated what I was about to say. “I…don’t know. I’m just… I’m just very, very confused.”

  “So am I. But somehow—somehow, I think that was real. Don’t ask me how I know, I just feel it. In my bones. That’s why I asked about my sister. At least now I know… she isn’t dead.”

  Part of me wanted to cry out that she had to be; there was no way that was a true spirit called up; this was all some part of a terrible, terrible dream. But I heard my voice saying instead: “But if Alexander didn’t kill her, where could she be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  With a swallow I finally dared look toward Christina. Tears were flowing freely down the girl’s cheeks. “They’re all right,” she whispered softly to herself. “They truly are all right….”

  “Well, Doctor?” Roxton stood before the Sâr. “Did that little contretemps really solve anything?”

  “Indeed it did, Lord John,” the Sâr replied seriously. “I know precisely what we’re dealing with now.”

  “And that would be?”

  A grim smile played across the Sâr Dubnotal’s lips. “Let me make one more telephone call. And then, you may wish to load your rifle.�
�

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  During the next half-hour, we made our plans. The sun had risen by now, spreading its light into the gloom of the Grange. Under normal circumstances, the dawn was the most welcome of visitors to this house, but now it appeared a intrusive stranger. The Sâr had sent the servants away, with strict instructions not to speak to anyone, and assured them that Miss Christina was now free from any possession and that the Beast would be conquered. Not even my mentor could sound so convincing.

  At one point, Kritchna noted the Doctor had apparently plugged the “Electric Pentacle” back up. The turbaned metaphysician told him to keep things as they were.

  Breakfast was quick and muted; then the Sâr took Appleby into the kitchen to make the call. When they returned, the butler appeared quite uncomfortable. The Doctor, for his part, simply looked determined. He spoke in low tones with Roxton and Gianetti; then we all settled down to wait. Roxton had his rifle by his side.

  Ten minutes later, a car pulled up outside. There was a furious knocking upon the door.

  “Open it, Appleby,” the Sâr Dubnotal said.

  Nervously, the butler complied. Sir Henry and Alexander Westenra pounded in, red-faced and looking extremely tired. Sir Henry was already barking: “Damn it all, Appleby, you’d better have a good explanation of what you’re doing here instead of at the House!” Then his eyes widened as he took in me, Kritchna, and above all, the Sâr. “What are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?”

  “Sit down, if you please, Sir Henry.” The Sâr gestured to a pair of empty chairs situated near the Pentacle.

  “I most certainly do not please!” Sir Henry snorted. “I shall—”

  “On the contrary,” Lord John stated, shutting the door behind him and fingering his lifted rifle pointedly. “I think you will do quite what the Sar asked, Sir Henry.”