by RABE, JEAN
“No, Best Lupyne.”
Desmond glowered. “What sort of question is that? This is the nature of the woman you question, Lupyne: She and I were out walking two days ago, and she insisted I wear her red riding cloak because I looked cold. I have yet to return it to her, but I had planned to do so this evening.”
“Nonsense, Desmond, you should wear it back to Oxford, to keep you warm.” She smiled prettily at him, and he returned the smile.
“You are most kind, Miss Blanchette.” Lupyne swung his head about and smiled toothily at Hill. “And you, sir, must be as well.”
“Best?” The man eyed Lupyne carefully. “I don’t follow.”
“You discover a Wolf, covered in blood, over the body of an old woman. Instead of slaying him with your axe, you stun him and capture him.”
Hill lifted his chin. “I, Best, do not suffer the prejudices of other Men. There could have been a reasonable explanation. I hope and trust you will find it.”
The earl raised a glass in Hill’s direction. “You are exactly the sort of Man this district needs. Welcome to you.”
“Thank you, your lordship.”
My companion continued to pack his pipe, but his eyes had grown distant. The Men looked expectantly at him, and I did nothing to break the silence. I had seen this before, as he turned inward. He prided himself on being a ratiocinator of the first order, and it was in times of silence such as this that he did his best thinking.
Finally he returned to his wits and waved away the offer of a match for his pipe. He rose and tucked his pipe away in his pocket. “Your lordship, Carrington is innocent, and I know who did it. Do any of you know where I can find the Oliver Rams?”
The earl frowned. “I don’t know for certain, but many of the Sheep herds congregate at the Black Sheep.”
“Then we are off. All of us.” Lupyne’s fangs gleamed. “It is time to put this affair at an end.”
It was my impression that the advent of a Wolf into a public house full of Sheep caused less of an uproar than that of the four Men accompanying him. My friend, who is never at a loss for theatrics when it serves his purpose, strode into the middle of the room. My brethren, though we fight it, shrank from him, save for three robust Rams nearest the fireplace. The largest of them had a pretty Ewe under each arm and was last to take notice of Lupyne.
“I have come here to solve not one murder, but two.” He pointed to the largest Ram. “Your name, Best, if you please.”
The Ram stood slowly, pulling his braided vest closed around his middle. “If it’s any business of yours, I am Roderick Oliver.”
“Why is it you wear boots when your brothers do not?”
I had taken notice of Roderick’s boots, but up to that point had attached no significance to them. Walkers often wear boots or shoes, especially in the cities or polite company. While a herder might have them for a time of snow or for a visit to city, with its cobblestone streets, his occupation hardly demanded he wear them.
Roderick shrugged convincingly. “I was thinking perhaps of walking to Rumford this evening, but these Ewes may have convinced me otherwise.
The Ewes tittered.
My companion sniffed. “Remove your boots.”
“Here now, what is it you’re accusing me of? The murder of the old woman? The Wolf did it, we know.”
Lupyne smiled. “If you believe that, then you have no reason not to remove your boots. Or to explain,” he continued in a growl, “. . . where that fancy braid on your vest came from.”
Roderick blinked for a moment, and then he made to run. Desmond, deep in the throes of affection for Blanchette, hurled himself upon the Ram and wrestled him to the ground. Roderick struggled, but fruitlessly. Apparently, the tales Desmond told of wrestling matches at Oxford had not been exaggerated.
My companion nodded to me. “Remove his boots, Doctor. Tell me what you find. Here, use my glass.”
I took the magnifier from him and did as bidden. The left leg was unremarkable. The right had been shorn short over the hoof and up the cannon, just shy of the hock—a fact the boot had hidden. I brought the glass up.
“Good gracious, Lupyne, there are singed hairs here.”
“Which were singed when you darted back through the chimney in Granny Smeed’s cave. You’d slain the woman in a rage and set about to butcher her. You heard Carrington approaching and hid, darting over the fire. You were singed. Then when he came in and had his back to you, you slipped your crook around his neck and pulled him hard against the chimney with enough force to knock him out.
I stood. “The shepherd’s crook, of course, that was the third arm you mentioned. That’s why Carrington felt strangled.”
Roderick struggled, but Desmond held him tight. “She had it coming. The Wolf, too. I would have killed him, but . . .”
“But you were too intent on your revenge. Framing him, yes, would allay suspicion from you. And you hated him for taking some of your lambs. But she had taken something far greater from you, hadn’t she?”
“Yes.”
Lupyne shook his head. “No, Roderick, no. Her denials were true.”
The earl frowned mightily. “What do you mean, Lupyne?”
“I said I came here to solve two murders. A brother, Roderick?”
The Ram shook his head with resignation. “A cousin, new to the district.”
“Of course. Innocent, easily duped.” Lupyne turned and pointed at Blanchette. “Easily led to the slaughter, Blanchette?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do.” Lupyne opened his arms. “Blood wool.”
As accustomed as I am to my friend’s ways, even I cringed. Among the superstitious and those unschooled in science, there is a belief that blood has power. That power is best exploited in magicks most foul, and blood wool plays a part in many of the legends. Just as the rope woven from a virgin’s hair shorn after death—and after her post-mortem deflowering—will never part, so wool shorn from a Sheep and soaked in his blood can do many things—especially those related to the opposite sex.
My mouth gaped. “Her cloak.”
“Precisely, Woolrich.” Lupyne’s lips peeled back in a feral grin. “Blanchette set her cap for Desmond, to marry him and inherit the Northcutt fortune and title. She plotted in concert with Mister Hill.”
Hill raised his hands. “I had nothing to do with this.”
“But your hands bear witness to your lies. Soft hands, sir, and hands that are so little acquainted with an axe that you cannot split a wolf’s head, but instead stun him when you overshoot your target. But he was not your target, was he? You knew of Desmond from college. Oxford. Cambridge? You ached to correct him at dinner, sir, do not deny it, not a word of it.”
“But I did not kill a Sheep. She did it!”
Blanchette slapped Hill, spinning him to the floor, and made to run, but the low growl coming from Lupyne’s throat froze her in place. The earl grabbed her, and she fainted.
Desmond released Roderick and started toward his grandfather, but Roderick’s two brothers tackled him.
“Burn the cloak, my lord, and Desmond’s wits will return to him. Likewise, get rid of that vest and the braid—the braid woven from the witch’s hair. You took it for the wrong reason, Roderick. You should have reported the murder and let justice take its course.”
Roderick remained on the floor, slowly gathering his boots to himself. “Justice? You joke. There is no justice.”
“You will find, Roderick Oliver, there is quite enough justice to suit you.” Lupyne shook his head. “You doomed yourself, and you will now pay a terribly price for it.”
Lupyne’s prediction proved true. Roderick Oliver was found guilty of Granny Smeed’s murder and sentenced to hang until dead. Blanchette Putnam was found guilty of Odo Oliver’s murder. She was transported to Van Dieman’s Land, there to labor in the penal colonies for no less than seven years. Burton Hill, for his involvement, took enlistment in the Royal Navy, n
ever to be heard from again.
We had come down to Aldershot for the trial. Lupyne’s testimony was accepted by the jury, but the earl had taken great pains in its choosing. After Blanchette’s conviction, the earl invited us to his home for a meal. He informed us that Desmond had returned to Oxford and was doing well at his studies.
The earl swirled brandy in a snifter. “I am quite pleased with how this all resolved itself.”
Lupyne lit his pipe. “But you needn’t blame yourself, my lord, nor suspect your secret will come out.”
The earl’s glass stopped halfway to his mouth, then came down again. “I should have known you would have puzzled it out.”
I looked from one to another. “Puzzle what?”
“It was a different time, Doctor, and I was a different man, very young, before I went to the Sudan.” The earl looked into the amber depths of his drink. “I loved a girl who did not love me, and a flux spread through the village. It killed only Sheep, and I helped clean up. We found one Sheep, Carrington and me, a young Ewe, barely alive, sure to die, suffering. I tell myself she was suffering, you see. Carrington said she would not live the night. So I killed her and sheared her wool, and Granny Smeed wove it into a scarf that I gave my beloved. She fell under its spell. She promised to marry me, and she did when I returned from the Sudan. By then I was changed, and everything I have done here to promote understanding, it was because of all that.”
I said nothing.
“My wife never knew. I buried her without that scarf, freeing her from its magick. I tossed it on the fire with that damned cloak.” The earl looked at each of us in turn. “You now know why I let Granny Smeed live here. A bargain struck and kept.”
“Yours being one of many secrets that died with her.”
The earl nodded. “I hope so. Am I a monster?”
Lupyne blew a perfect smoke wreath, which floated toward the ceiling. “A monster would have let Carrington die, your lordship. As my friend, a creature of science, will tell you, there is nothing to the idea of blood wool. Superstitious nonsense. You were lucky enough that your wife saw your true nature and fell in love. Would she love a monster?”
“Never my sweet Caroline.”
“Then take it that you are not a monster.” Lupyne gave him a courteous nod. “It has been my experience that those who ask the question never are monsters, and those who hide from the answer most assuredly are.”
ABOUT THE EDITOR
Jean Rabe is the author of two dozen books and more than four dozen short stories. She primarily writes fantasy, but she dabbles in the science fiction, military, and horror genres when given the opportunity. A former newspaper reporter and news bureau chief, she’s also edited anthologies, gaming magazines, and newsletters. When not writing, Jean works on her growing to-be-read stack of books, plays roleplaying and board games, visits museums, and fiercely tugs on old socks with her three dogs. Visit her web site at www.jeanrabe.com.