The Door of the Unreal

by Gerald Biss

  Again I paused.

  XVI

  Blenkinsopp was staring hard at me, so hard that he scarcely seemed to see me in his absorbed intentness. The weirdness of it was gripping him, I could see; and once or twice I had felt as much as seen Manders nod encouragingly. But so far I had evoked no encouragement from the Chief.

  “And to apply your theory?” he said, raising his eyebrows a trifle, and drumming away more vigorously than ever with his infernal blue pencil on his pad.

  “I was as much at a loss as anybody to start with, to be candid,” I continued; “no clue, nothing seemingly to get hold of. Yet the key to the whole thing I felt instinctively lay in Lord Bullingdon’s oft reiterated delirium—obviously the last impression upon his conscious mind, and that a sharp and sudden one—‘Big dog… jumped over moon… green eyes.’ I repeated it over and over again to myself. It ran through my brain day and night. I could neither get rid of it nor hit upon its significance. Its very absurdity, suggestive of a nursery rhyme, seemed to me to accentuate its importance, and to take it out of the sphere of the events of everyday grown-up life—a paradox perhaps, but none the less a fact in such matters of deduction. And so it thrummed and hammered away insistently in my head, till the next light was supplied by the visit of this Professor Lycurgus Wolff himself, who interested me intellectually as much as he repulsed me physically, setting something working subconsciously at the back of my brain.

  Then, that evening, when I was sitting smoking and puzzling, it came to me in a flash. The Professor was an absolutely typical example of a werewolf in its human shape that one should well imagine, with his remarkably bright piercing black eyes under the characteristic long slanting brows, meeting in a point over his nose—his pointed ears set low and far back on his head—his brilliantly white, strong teeth, almost like fangs—his full mouth, with its bright red lips—his long pointed hands with their curiously projecting third fingers and their red, almond-shaped curving nails—his general hairiness of aspect—his stoop—and, above all, his peculiar long swinging stride, which is, perhaps, the most characteristic of the lot, to which must be added his habit of wearing and his predilection for fur. Had it not been that, in such an environment of all places, I was as little ready or likely to suspect any possibility of lycanthropy as either you or Major Blenkinsopp or my friend Manders here, it would have come to me more easily: but we are not on the look-out for such things in Sussex. When it did come, however, it seemed to strike me full between the eyes, almost dazing me.”

  I saw that Sir Thomas was showing a little more interest, and that his pencil was quiet for a moment.

  “So,” I continued, “as I have put down in detail in my statement, I reviewed the whole situation from his unexpected appearance in the wood, when Miss Clymping was luckily guarding Lord Bullingdon, and his destroyal of certain clues which annoyed Major Blenkinsopp so much at the time, the laceration of Lord Bullingdon’s shoulder, and so forth. I knew that at that point it would he futile to advance my theory officially: so, by a lucky inspiration, I determined to enlist the assistance of Mr. Manders to go abroad and investigate the private history of this famous German scientist, while I, at home, looked into his habits and mode of life. Mr. Manders only returned this morning; and his statement more than bears out all my anticipations. He has put it into writing; and I will read it to you.”

  I did so, ending with the climax of Wolff’s hurried and secret flight from Transylvania to escape what we call lynching—a story practically bringing home to him any allegations or accusations I might make, a ghastly tale of children and young girls, in the main, disappearing with increasing frequency until it became a case of almost nightly—totally without clue, as in the Brighton Road business. At last suspicion began to fix itself upon Professor Wolff and Anna Brunnolf, and the word “werewolf” began to take shape in the minds and on the lips of the peasantry, until they commenced to grow threatening—and then suddenly, without warning or trace, the Professor and his old maidservant disappeared. These events had happened some two years ago: and there were slight references in the papers at the time—not, of course, to the Professor, but to the mysterious series of disappearances in Transylvania.

  Sir Thomas nodded a quick assent, showing that he had some recollection of the matter; and I felt that I had scored a strong point at last.

  Then I took up my own end of the story in Sussex.

  “In and round that now tainted old Dower House, gentlemen,” I said solemnly, “I saw and smelt enough to convince the most cynical of sceptics. Never did a place in so short a time reek more of lycanthropy and all its filthy surroundings—the typical smell of decay and strange pungent odour, indescribable yet animal.”

  And I recapitulated all the seemingly trivial facts that I have set down at some length in this document, not only with regard to the Professor and his ways, his habit of devouring quantities of raw meat, his obsession of fur, and other characteristic matters, but laying special stress upon the strange pools of water, which are typically lycanthropous, and the hideous yellow flowers with their black protuberances, together with the white and red ones, all reeking of lycanthropy and, worse still, capable of communicating it and contaminating those coming into contact with these two recognized sources of impregnation—in many ways the most diabolical part of the whole affair, to my mind, with its obvious intention of founding a cult of lycanthropy in the very heart of England itself, which, if not realized and frustrated, might take years to eradicate, or possibly never be eradicated at all.

  Then—a small point perhaps, but a very convincing one to those who trust animal instinct as I do, especially in the case of a dog—there was Whiskers’ deadly fear and horror, not only of the pools themselves, but of the old house under its changed conditions, and the way in which he would not enter it even with his master, and his equal fear and avoidance of the Professor, from whom he always slunk away with his hair raised and his tail between his legs.

  Finally, there was the climax of the sheep on the downs, which I pointed out was a very typical instance of werewolf mischief, when he kills out of malign freakishness, or for sheer lust of killing, and not for food, lacerating and disembowelling and leaving his victims to die: and I also drew particular attention to the influence of the moon upon such manifestations.

  “And this, sir,” I went on, drawing to a conclusion, “brings me to a point that is both vital and immediate. The moon always has a most marked and malign occult influence upon all elementals, a point too well recognized for it to be necessary for me to dilate upon or to labour it; and in this case it has been most marked. The Bolsover tragedy occurred about midnight at full moon on February 2, you will remember. The Bullingdon St. Chair affair at full moon on Sunday, April 1, also about midnight, the hour which has special influences upon elementals and evil spirits.

  “Next Tuesday,” I went on solemnly and impressively, “is not only full moon, but it is Walpurgis Nacht, a most sinister coincidence; and in the present case, especially when preceded by these two minor affairs of the sheep on the downs, showing elemental restlessness and a blood-craving, it is practically bound, in my judgment, to lead up to a horrible climax, an orgy of some diabolical character which will put the other tragedies into the shade. Walpurgis Nacht is the night of the year which makes the initiated shudder. It is the night when all evil spirits and elementals are released to hold Hell’s own high festival and practise every orgy of vice; when human sacrifice, above all, is ever at its height. On that night the peasants of the Near East, in isolated parts, retire to their homes before sunset, and nothing will induce them to venture forth for fear of what may happen to them, such is their firm belief in these super-physicals and elementals of all sorts. It is the great night of All Evil, and they lie huddled close in their beds and cross themselves and I ask you, therefore, whether a full moon at midnight, synchronizing with Walpurgis Nacht, cannot but be an irresistible combination in malign influence, especially with the signs of activity we have a
lready seen with the new moon and in its first quarter? Frankly I feel convinced in my own mind and fear the worst, if we do not act and take effective precautions to rid, not merely Sussex and the Brighton Road, but Great Britain itself of this horrible importation of incarnate evil.”

  Blenkinsopp was breathing deeply and had not moved, like a man fascinated: and Sir Thomas had stopped tapping his pad and was leaning forward slightly, his eyes fixed intently on my face. Manders was nodding from time to time in his characteristic fashion.

  “The Professor, wolf by name as by nature, and Anna Brunnolf are werewolves,” I reiterated with strong emphasis—“undoubtedly and beyond all question werewolves, hybrid beasts of prey, such as in these days we have no organized or recognized way of dealing with. They will, I am fully convinced, metamorphose on Tuesday night and wreak havoc, exacting human toll. Of the daughter, Dorothy—or Dorothea, as the old man prefers to call her—I am hopeful, but uncertain.

  It does not seem to me that she has shown any signs of inherited lycanthropy up to the present, and I am morally certain that she has never suffered metamorphosis; or why should her father be so obviously trying to impregnate her by the recognized means—especially those thrice-damnable flowers? There are symptoms, however, that she is tending that way—the increasing redness of her lips and her finger-nails to that peculiar vivid tint. Her eyes, too, show signs. Then there are two other noticeable points—one negative and the other positive—her growing lack of enjoyment of sweet things and her increasing liking for raw meat diet. My fear and my anticipation is that this may all be heading up to that irresistible combination on Walpurgis Nacht, and that next Tuesday night may be the fatal hour of her first metamorphosis against her will and even her own consciousness. To my mind it adds a very grave aspect to this whole terrible business.”

  I stopped and sat back, keeping my eyes on the Chief.

  XVII

  “And what steps do you propose to take?” he asked, speaking non-committally still and calmly enough, but with a touch of suppressed excitement in his voice. “I presume that you have a plan in your mind?”

  “Yes, I have, sir,” I replied promptly and emphatically. “I propose, with the help of certain good friends, and possibly with your official assistance, to picket the Dower House on Tuesday night and to shoot down any werewolf or werewolves that may show themselves.”

  The Chief raised his eyebrows.

  “I shall have at least half a dozen crack shots posted, three at time front and three at the back, armed with Winchester repeaters. The night should be almost as light as day, and the visibility good; and there should be no mistake. If no werewolves appear, there will be no shooting; but a very careful watch would then have to be preserved over the house till things prove themselves one way or the other.”

  Again the Chief was drumming upon his pad with his blue pencil, beating a regular tattoo.

  “And how do you promise to dispose of your werewolves and account for the disappearance of their human counterparts?” he asked dryly.

  I leant forward again over the table, focusing my eyes hard on him: and in a few words I detailed my further plan for covering all tracks, adding certain reasons connected with the exigencies of lycanthropy.

  “By God, Mr. Osgood,” he said quietly, in a tone I took to be quite complimentary, “I must say that you are a cool hand. In fact, you would make a fine criminal. It is a pity you have missed your vocation, as you would have given us some stirring times in the sleepy old C.I.D. And pray what do you propose to do if I do not see eye to eye with you—and Mr. Manders, I presume?” Manders nodded quick cordial assent—“and refuse my consent to such unorthodox action?”

  I looked him straight in the face.

  “Then, God helping me, sir, I shall take matters into my own hands and act without it, and stand or fall by what happens.”

  “And I, too,” broke in Manders incisively. The Chief laughed.

  “I am much obliged to you, gentlemen, for all your trouble in this most extraordinary affair,” he said, rising and holding out his hand to each of us in turn. “Leave your documents with Major Blenkinsopp and myself; and be good enough, if you will, to call upon me to-morrow morning at ten-thirty.”

  Blenkinsopp shook hands most warmly; and I could see that he, at least, had been convinced.

  XVIII

  That night I spent at Manders’ house, and we sat late into the night thrashing out the details of the plan of action until we had them all cut and dried.

  The next morning, needless to say, we were at Scotland Yard in good time, and went straight to Blenkinsopp’s room.

  He greeted us cordially.

  “You have won through with the Chief,” he said.

  “At first he was incredulous to a degree, and regarded the whole business as preposterous, as a wild and utterly impossible theory: but he was coming round before you left. He and I were up nearly all night reading and discussing your documents; and I don’t mind telling you that we consulted certain authorities upon lycanthropy. Now come along,” he concluded, looking at the clock, “as the Chief hates to be kept waiting.”

  Sir Thomas Brayton greeted us both less officially and with more cordiality; and then, after we were seated, he put us through a very vigorous and searching cross-examination, covering the whole ground—past, present, and future.

  At the end of two hours he gave his decision.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said, “it is a strange proceeding and entirely unorthodox: but unorthodox cases demand unorthodox methods at times. You may shoot any wolf or any number of wolves you may see anywhere in Sussex—there is neither legal nor moral harm in that. But, mind you,” he added impressively, “if there be any taking of human life, you will do it at your own risk, and will be held responsible.”

  He paused and looked at us almost sternly.

  “I will take all responsibility,” I said, “and stand or fall by what happens.”

  “And I, too,” again said Manders, with sharp decision.

  “Then I will send down a high confidential official with special instructions and full powers to act,” said the Chief, “as a safeguard both to yourselves and ourselves.”

  Then Blenkinsopp spoke.

  “With your permission, sir, I will go myself.”

  The Chief nodded: and so it was arranged to my intense relief and satisfaction, as time was growing perilously short.

  Part III

  THE DOWER HOUSE IN THE HOLLOW

  I

  Thus, to my intense relief, it was arranged that Major Blenkinsopp should accompany us back to Clymping Manor in a semi-official capacity; and it was a proof that Scotland Yard did not regard me as a hopeless lunatic or a weaver of wild fantasies. Had it turned out otherwise, I had had the fullest intention of acting upon my own responsibility and taking the risk, so convinced was I that I was right, and that this grave danger not only to sleepy Sussex, but to Great Britain in general, must be extirpated at all costs. Under such circumstances, however, there would at the least have been the fullest inquiries and much unpleasant publicity throughout the length and breadth of the world, if no worse consequences, whereas now I was hopeful that, skilfully managed, it might be hushed up by official consent in the public interest—a thing by no means unknown in certain cases.

  We went with Blenkinsopp back to his room, where he had ordered lunch—cold chicken and ham, followed by bread and cheese, with beer in tankards.

  “Rough and ready,” he said, “but it saves time. I have to be back with the Chief at two, which doesn’t leave too much time. I knew that I could neither take you fellows out to lunch nor go out with you; so I thought we had better lunch here. You can have whisky and soda, if you prefer it: it’s in the cupboard.”

  “Beer for me,” said Manders in his usual cheerful way, which was worth its weight in radium at times of crises. “A meal for the gods; and I’m jolly hungry after being in the witness-box so long. Change of air induces appetite. I wonder if my little ef
forts always make my victims equally voracious, if not veracious? And he laughed a trifle ironically as we sat down. “I can’t guarantee getting away before four o’clock, if so early,” said Blenkinsopp, “as, when I have done with the Chief, I have one or two important things to fix up here and hand over to somebody else for the best part of a week or so, as I’m determined to make Clymping Manor my headquarters, with its owner’s kind permission, till we’ve seen this grisly business through.”