White Fire p-13

by Douglas Preston

  “I’m sorry, Stacy. I guess I was jumping to conclusions.”

  “You’re goddamn right!” Suddenly, Stacy was on her feet, her face a mixture of reproach and betrayal. “It’s the same old bullshit! Here, I befriend you, protect you, look after your best interests at the expense of my own — and what’s my reward? Fucking accusations of two-timing with your boyfriend!”

  Stacy’s sudden upwelling of anger was scaring Corrie. The few other diners in the room were turning their heads. “Look, Stacy,” Corrie said in a calming voice. “I’m really, really sorry. I guess I’m kind of insecure about my relationships with guys, and you being so attractive and all, I just—”

  But Stacy didn’t let her finish. With a final, blazing glance, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the restaurant — leaving her breakfast unfinished and unpaid for.

  46

  The familiar, silken voice invited her in. Corrie took a deep breath. He’d agreed to see her; that was a good first step. She’d been telling herself that he hadn’t contacted her since leaving Roaring Fork only because he was too busy; she’d fervently hoped that was the case. The last thing she wanted to do, she now realized, was allow her relationship with Pendergast to be damaged by her own impetuousness and shortsightedness.

  And now he was back just as abruptly as he had left.

  That afternoon, the basement was, if possible, even stuffier than the last time Corrie had visited Pendergast’s temporary office. He sat behind the old metal desk, which was now swept clear of the chemistry apparatus that had cluttered it before. A thin manila file was the only thing that lay on the scarred surface. It must have been eighty-five degrees in the room, and yet the special agent still had his suit jacket on.

  “Corrie. Please take a seat.”

  Obediently, Corrie sat. “How did you get back into town? I thought the road was closed.”

  “The chief kindly sent one of his men in a snowcat to pick me up in Basalt. He was, it seems, rather anxious to have me back. And in any case there is talk of the road being reopened — temporarily, at any rate.”

  “How was your trip?”

  “Fruitful.”

  Corrie shifted uncomfortably at the small talk and decided to get to the point right away. “Look. I wanted to apologize for the way I acted the other day. It was immature, and I’m embarrassed. The fact is, I’m incredibly grateful for all you’ve done for me. It’s just that…you sort of overshadow everything you get involved in. I don’t want my professors at John Jay saying, Oh, her friend Pendergast did it all for her.” She paused. “No doubt I’m overreacting, this being my first big research project and all.”

  Pendergast looked at her a moment. Then he simply nodded his understanding. “And how did things go while I was gone?”

  “Pretty well,” said Corrie, avoiding his direct gaze. “I’m just finishing up my research.”

  “Nothing untoward happened, I hope?”

  “There was another awful fire, right up on the hill behind town, and a road-rage killing out on Highway 82—but I suppose the chief must’ve told you all about that.”

  “I meant untoward, directed at you.”

  “Oh, no,” Corrie lied. “I couldn’t make any headway solving the crimes, so I’ve decided to drop that. I did stumble over a few interesting tidbits in my research, but nothing that shed light on the killings.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, let’s see…I learned that Mrs. Kermode is related to the Stafford family, which owned the old smelter back during the silver boom and is still the force behind the development of The Heights.”

  A brief pause. “Anything else?”

  “Oh, yes, something that might intrigue you — given your interest in Doyle and Wilde.”

  Pendergast inclined his head, encouraging her to continue.

  “While digging through some old files at the Griswell Archive, I came across a funny letter about a codger who buttonholed Wilde after his lecture and, it seems, told him a story that almost made him faint. I would bet you anything it was the man-eating grizzly tale.”

  Pendergast went very still for a moment. Then he asked: “Did the letter mention the old fellow’s name?”

  Corrie thought back. “Only a surname. Swinton.”

  Another silence, and then Pendergast said: “You must be low on funds.”

  “No, no, doing fine,” she lied again. Damn it, she was going to have to get a temporary job somewhere. And find another place to live. But no way was she going to take any more money from Pendergast after all he’d done for her already. “Really, there’s no reason for you to worry about me.”

  Pendergast didn’t respond, and it was hard to read his expression. Did he believe her? Had he heard anything from the chief about the shot through her windshield or the dead dog? Impossible to tell. Neither had been covered in the local paper — everything was still about the serial arsonist.

  “You haven’t told me anything about your trip,” she said, changing the subject.

  “I accomplished what I set out to do,” he said, his thin fingers tapping the manila folder. “I found a lost Sherlock Holmes story, the last ever written by Conan Doyle and unpublished to this day. It is most interesting. I recommend it to you.”

  “When I have time,” she said, “I’ll be glad to read it.”

  Another pause. Pendergast’s long fingers edged the file toward her. “I should read this now, if I were you.”

  “Thanks, but the fact is I’ve still got a lot on my plate, finishing things up and all.” Why did Pendergast keep pushing this Doyle business? First The Hound of the Baskervilles, and now this.

  The pale hand reached out, took the edge of the folder, and opened it. “There can be no delay, Corrie.”

  She looked up and saw his eyes, glittering in that peculiar way she knew so well. She hesitated. And then, with a sigh of acquiescence, she took out the sheaves of paper within and began to read.

  47

  The Adventure of Aspern Hall

  Of the many cases of Sherlock Holmes for which I’ve had the privilege to act as his Boswell, there is one I have always hesitated to put to paper. It is not because the adventure itself presented any singularly grim or outré elements — no more so than Holmes’s other investigations. Rather, I believe it due to the ominous, indeed baneful air that clung to every aspect of the case; an air that chilled and almost blighted my soul; and that even today has the power to vex my sleep. There are some experiences in life one might wish never to have had; for me, this was one. However, I will now commit the story to print, and leave it to others to judge whether or not my reluctance has merit.

  It took place in March of ’90, at the beginning of a drear and comfortless spring following hard on the heels of one of the coldest winters in living memory. At the time I was resident in Holmes’s Baker Street lodgings. It was a dark evening, made more oppressive by a fog that hung in the narrow streets and turned the gaslights to mere pinpricks of yellow. I was lounging in an armchair before the fire, and Holmes — who had been striding restlessly about the room — had now placed himself before the bow window. He was describing to me a chemical experiment he had undertaken that afternoon: how the application of manganese dioxide as a catalyst accelerated the decomposition of potassium chlorate into potassium chloride and, much more importantly, oxygen.

  As he spoke, I silently rejoiced at his enthusiasm. Bad weather had kept us very much shut in for weeks; no “little problems” had arisen to command his attention; and he had begun to exhibit the signs of ennui that all too frequently led him to indulge his habit of cocaine hydrochloride.

  Just at that moment, I heard a knock at the front door.

  “Are you expecting company, Holmes?” I asked.

  His only reply was a curt shake of the head. Moving first to the decanter on the sideboard, then to the gasogene beside it, he mixed himself a brandy and soda, then sprawled into an armchair.

  “Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is entertaining,” I said, reachin
g for the pipe-rack.

  But low voices on the stairs, followed by footfalls in the passage, put the lie to this assumption. A moment later there came a light rap on the door.

  “Come in,” cried Holmes.

  The door opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared. “There’s a young lady to see you, sir,” she said. “I told her it was late, and that she should make an appointment for tomorrow, but she said it was most urgent.”

  “By all means, show her in,” Holmes replied, rising once again to his feet.

  A moment later, a young woman was in our sitting room. She was wearing a long travelling coat of fashionable cut, along with a veiled hat.

  “Pray have a seat,” Holmes said, ushering her towards the most comfortable chair with his usual courtesy.

  The woman thanked him, undid her coat and removed her hat, and sat down. She was possessed of a pleasing figure and a refined carriage, and a decided air of self-possession. The only blemish of which I was aware was that her features seemed rather severe, but that may have been the result of the anxiety that was present in her face. As was my custom, I tried to apply Holmes’s methods of observation to this stranger, but was unable to notice anything of particular value, aside from the Wellington travelling boots she wore.

  I became aware that Holmes was regarding me with some amusement. “Other than the fact that our guest comes from Northumberland,” he told me, “that she is a devoted horsewoman, that she arrived here by hansom cab rather than the Underground — and that she is engaged to be married — I can deduce little myself.”

  “I have heard of your famed methods, Mr. Holmes,” said the young woman before I could answer. “And I expected something like this. Allow me, please, to deduce your deductions.”

  Holmes gave a slight nod, an expression of surprise registering on his face.

  The woman held up her hand. “First, you noted my engagement ring but saw no wedding band.”

  An affirmative incline of the head.

  She kept her hand raised. “And you perhaps remarked on the half-moon callus along the outer edge of my right wrist, precisely where the reins cross when held by someone of good seat, with riding crop in hand.”

  “A most handsome callus,” said Holmes.

  “As for the hansom cab, that should be obvious enough. You saw it pull to the kerb. For my part, I saw you standing in the window.”

  At this, I had to laugh. “It looks as if you’ve met your match, Holmes.”

  “As for Northumberland, I would guess you noted a trace of accent in my speech?”

  “Your accent is not precisely of Northumberland,” Holmes told her, “but rather contains a suggestion of Tyne and Wear, perhaps of the Sunderland area, with an overlay of Staffordshire.”

  At this the lady evinced surprise. “My mother’s people were from Sunderland, and my father’s from Staffordshire. I wasn’t aware I had retained a hint of either accent.”

  “Our modes of speech are bred in the bone, madam. We cannot escape them any more than we can the colour of our eyes.”

  “In that case, how did you know I came from Northumberland?”

  Holmes pointed at the woman’s footwear. “Because of your Wellingtons. I would surmise you began your journey in snow. We have not had rain in the last four days; Northumberland is the coldest county in England; and it is the only one presently with snow still on the ground.”

  “And how would you know there is snow in Northumberland?” I asked Holmes.

  Holmes gestured at a nearby copy of The Times, a pained expression on his face. “Now, madam, do me the kindness of telling us your name and how we may be of assistance.”

  “My name is Victoria Selkirk,” the woman said. “And my impending marriage is, in large part, why I am here.”

  “Do go on,” Holmes said, relapsing into his seat.

  “Please forgive my calling on you without prior notice,” Miss Selkirk said. “But the fact is I don’t know who else to turn to.”

  Holmes took a sip of his brandy and waited for the young lady to continue.

  “My fiancé’s estate, Aspern Hall, is situated a few miles outside Hexham. My mother and I have taken a cottage on the grounds in preparation for the wedding. Over the last few months, the region has been plagued by a ferocious wolf.”

  “A wolf?” I remarked in surprise.

  Miss Selkirk nodded. “To date it has killed two men.”

  “But wolves are extinct in Britain,” I said.

  “Not necessarily, Watson,” Holmes told me. “Some believe they still exist in the most remote and inaccessible locales.” He turned back to Miss Selkirk. “Tell me about these killings.”

  “They were savage, as would be expected of a wild beast.” She hesitated. “And — increasingly — the creature seems to be developing a taste for its victims.”

  “A man-eating wolf?” I said. “Extraordinary.”

  “Perhaps,” Holmes replied. “Yet it is not beyond the bounds of possibility. Consider the example of the man-eating lions of Tsavo. When other game is scarce — and you will recall the severity of last winter — carnivores will adapt in order to survive.” He glanced at Miss Selkirk. “Have there been eyewitnesses?”

  “Yes. Two.”

  “And what did they report having seen?”

  “A huge wolf, retreating into the forest.”

  “What was the distance from which these observations were made?”

  “Both were made across a blanket bog…I would say several hundred yards.”

  Holmes inclined his head. “By day or by night?”

  “By night. With a moon.”

  “And were there any particular distinguishing characteristics of this wolf, besides its great size?”

  “Yes. Its head was covered in white fur.”

  “White fur,” Holmes repeated. He put his fingertips together and fell silent for a moment. Then he roused himself and addressed the young woman again. “And how, exactly, can we be of help?”

  “My fiancé, Edwin, is the heir to the Aspern estate. The Aspern family is the most prominent in that vicinity. Given the fear that has gripped the countryside, he feels it necessary to take onto himself the task of destroying this beast before it kills yet again. He has been going out into the forest at night, often alone. Even though he is armed, I’m terrified for his safety and fear that some misfortune may befall him.”

  “I see. Miss Selkirk—” Holmes continued, now a little severely— “I fear that I am unable to assist you. What you need are the services of a game hunter, not a consulting detective.”

  The anxiety on Miss Selkirk’s features deepened. “But I had heard of your successful close with that dreadful business at Baskerville Hall. That is why I came to you.”

  “That business, my dear woman, was the work of a man, not a beast.”

  “But…” Miss Selkirk hesitated. Her air of self-possession grew more tenuous. “My fiancé is most determined. He feels it an obligation because of his station in life. And his father, Sir Percival, hasn’t seen fit to prevent him. Please, Mr. Holmes. There is no one else who can help me.”

  Holmes took a sip of his brandy; he sighed, rose, took a turn round the room, then sat down again. “You mentioned the wolf was seen retreating into a forest,” he said. “May I assume you are speaking of Kielder Forest?”

  Miss Selkirk nodded. “Aspern Hall abuts it.”

  “Did you know, Watson,” Holmes said, turning to me, “that Northumberland’s Kielder Forest is the largest remaining wooded area in England?”

  “I did not,” I replied.

  “And that it is famed, in part, for housing the country’s last large remaining population of the Eurasian red squirrel?”

  Glancing over at Holmes, I saw that his look of cold disinterestedness had been replaced with one both sharp and keen. I of course knew of his great interest in Sciurus vulgaris. He was perhaps the world’s foremost expert on the creature’s behaviour and taxonomy, and had published several monographs on the subjec
t. I also sensed in him an unusual admiration for this woman.

  “In a population bed that large, there may well be opportunities to observe variances heretofore undiscovered,” Holmes said, more to himself than to us. Then he glanced at our guest. “Do you have rooms in town?” he asked.

  “I arranged to stay with relatives in Islington.”

  “Miss Selkirk,” he replied, “I am inclined to take up this investigation — almost in spite of the case rather than because of it.” He looked at me, and then — significantly — at the hat stand, upon which hung both my bowler and his cloth cap with its long ear-flaps.

  “I’m your man,” I replied instantly.

  “In that case,” Holmes told Miss Selkirk, “we will meet you tomorrow morning at Paddington Station, where — unless I am much mistaken — there is an 8:20 express departing for Northumberland.”

  And he saw the young woman to the door.

  The following morning, as planned, we met Victoria Selkirk at Paddington Station and prepared to set off for Hexham. Holmes, normally a late riser, appeared to have regained his dubiousness concerning the case. He was restless and uncommunicative, and as the train puffed out it was left to me to make conversation with the young Miss Selkirk. To pass the time, I asked her about Aspern Hall and its tenants, both older and younger.

  The Hall, she explained, had been rebuilt from the remains of an ancient priory, originally constructed around 1450 and partially razed during Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries. Its current owner, Sir Percival Aspern, had been a hatter by trade. In his youth he had patented a revolutionary method for making green felt.

  Holmes paused in his perusal of the passing scenery. “Green felt, you say?”

  Miss Selkirk nodded. “Beyond its use for gaming tables, the colour was most fashionable in millinery shops during the ’50s. Sir Percival made his fortune with it.”

  Holmes waved a hand, as if swatting away an insect, and returned his attention to the compartment window.

  Sir Percival’s specialty hats, Miss Selkirk informed me, now held a royal warrant from Queen Victoria and formed the basis for his knighthood. His son Edwin — her fiancé—had gone into the army quite early, having held a commission in the light dragoons. He was now in temporary residence at the Hall, considering whether or not to make the military a lifelong career.