White Fire p-13

by Douglas Preston

  Although Miss Selkirk was the most tactful of her sex, I nevertheless sensed that, whilst Edwin’s father wished him to take up the family trade, Edwin himself was of two minds on the subject.

  As our journey lengthened, the rich grasses and hedgerows of the Home Counties began giving way to wilder vistas: moorlands, bogs, and skeletal trees, punctuated at intervals by rocky outcroppings and escarpments. At length we arrived at Hexham, an attractive country-town, consisting of a cluster of cottages fashioned of thatch and stone, huddled along a single High Street. A wagonette was waiting for us at the station, a dour-looking servant at the reins. Without a word, he loaded our valises and grips, then returned to his perch and directed his horses away from the station, along a rutted country lane in the direction of the Hall.

  The road made its way down a gentle declivity, into an increasingly damp and dreary landscape. The snow — which Holmes had remarked on the day before — could still be seen in patches here and there. The sun, which had at last made its appearance during our train journey, once again slipped behind clouds, bestowing the vista round us with a sense of oppressive gloom.

  After we had gone perhaps five miles, Holmes — who had not spoken since we alighted from the train — aroused himself. “What, pray, is that?” he enquired, pointing off in the distance with his walking-stick.

  Looking in the indicated direction, I saw what appeared to be a low fen, or marsh, bordered on its fringe by swamp grass. Beyond it, in the late-afternoon mist, I could just make out an unbroken line of black.

  “The bog I spoke of earlier,” Miss Selkirk replied.

  “And beyond it is the verge of Kielder Forest?”

  “Yes.”

  “And am I to infer, from what you mentioned, that the wolf attacks occurred between the one and the other?”

  “Yes, that is so.”

  Holmes nodded, as if satisfying himself on some point, but did not speak further.

  The country lane ambled on, making a long, lazy bend in order to avoid the bog, and at length we could make out Aspern Hall in the distance. It was an old manor-house of a most unusual design, with unmatched wings and dependencies set seemingly at cross-angles to each other, and I attributed this architectural eccentricity to the fact that the manse had risen from the ruins of an ancient abbey. As we drew closer, I could make out additional details. The façade was rusticated and much dappled by lichen, and wisps of smoke rose from a profusion of brick chimneys. Sedge and stunted oaks surrounded the main structure as well as the various cottages and outbuildings. Perhaps it was the chill in the spring air, or the proximity of the bog and the dark forest, yet I could not help but form the distinct notion that the house had absorbed into itself the bleakness and foreboding of the very landscape in which it was situated.

  The coachman pulled the wagonette up beneath the mansion’s porte-cochère. He removed Miss Selkirk’s travelling bag, then started for ours, when Holmes stopped him, asking him to wait instead. Following Miss Selkirk, we stepped inside and found ourselves in a long gallery, furnished in rather austere taste. A man, clearly the squire of Aspern Hall himself, was waiting for us in the entrance to what appeared to be a salon. He was gaunt and tall, some fifty-odd years of age, with fair thinning hair and a deep-lined face. He wore a black frock-coat, and held a newspaper in one hand and a dog-whip in the other. Evidently he had heard the wagonette draw up. Putting the newspaper and dog-whip aside, he approached.

  “Sir Percival Aspern, I presume?” Holmes said.

  “I am, sir; but I fear you have the advantage of me.”

  Holmes gave a short bow. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and associate, Doctor Watson.”

  “I see.” Sir Percival turned to our female companion. “So this is the reason you went into town, Miss Selkirk?”

  Miss Selkirk nodded. “Indeed it is, Sir Percival. If you’ll excuse me, I must see to my mother.” She departed the gallery rather abruptly, leaving us with the squire.

  “I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes,” Sir Percival said, “but I fear that you have made a long journey to no purpose. Your methods, brilliant as I understand them to be, will have little application against a beast such as the one that plagues us.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Holmes said shortly.

  “Well, come in and have a brandy, won’t you?” And Sir Percival led us into the salon, where a butler poured out our refreshment.

  “It would appear,” Holmes said once we were seated round the fire, “that you do not share your future daughter-in-law’s concern for the safety of your son.”

  “I do not,” Sir Percival replied. “He’s lately returned from India, and knows what he’s about.”

  “And yet, by all reports, this beast has already killed two men,” I said.

  “I have hunted with my son in the past, and can vouch for his skill as both tracker and marksman. The fact is, Mr. — Watson, was it? — Edwin takes his responsibilities as heir to Aspern Hall very seriously. And I might say that his courage and initiative have not gone unnoticed in the district.”

  “May we speak with him?” Holmes asked.

  “Certainly — when he returns. He is out in the forest at present, hunting the beast.” He paused. “If I were a younger man, I would be at his side.”

  This excuse seemed to me to betray a streak of cowardice, and I shot a covert glance at Holmes. However, his attention remained fixed on Sir Percival.

  “Still, womanish fears or not, the fair sex must be humoured,” the man went on. “I am certainly willing to give you free run of the place, Mr. Holmes, and offer you all the assistance you might need, including lodgings, if you so wish.”

  The invitation, generous as it was, was offered with a certain ill-grace.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Holmes said. “We passed an inn back in Hexham — The Plough, I believe — which we will make our base of operations.”

  As he was speaking, Sir Percival spilt brandy on his shirtfront. He set the glass aside with a mild execration.

  “I understand, sir, that you are in the hat-making trade,” Holmes said.

  “In years past, yes. Others look after the business for me now.”

  “I’ve always been fascinated by the process of making felt. Purely a scientific curiosity, you understand: chemistry is a hobby of mine.”

  “I see.” Our host dabbed absently at his damp shirtfront.

  “The basic problem, as I understand it, is in softening the stiff animal hairs to render them sufficiently pliable for shaping felt.”

  I glanced again at Holmes, wondering where in the devil this particular tack could be leading.

  “I recall reading,” Holmes continued, “that the Turks of old solved this problem by the application of camel urine.”

  “We have come a long way from those primitive methods,” Sir Percival replied.

  Miss Selkirk entered the salon. She looked in our direction, smiled a trifle wanly, and took a seat. She was evidently much worried about her fiancé, and seemed to be at pains to maintain her self-command.

  “No doubt your own process is much more modern,” Holmes said. “I should be curious to hear its application.”

  “I wish I could satisfy you on that score, Mr. Holmes, but it remains a trade secret.”

  “I see.” Holmes shrugged. “Well, it is of no great consequence.”

  At this point there was a commotion in the hall. A moment later, a young man in full hunting dress appeared in the doorway. This was clearly Sir Percival’s son, and — with his determined features, his military bearing, and the heavy rifle slung over one shoulder — he cut a fine figure indeed. Immediately, Miss Selkirk rose and, with a cry of relief, flew to him.

  “Oh, Edwin,” she said. “Edwin, I beg of you — let this time be the last.”

  “Vicky,” the young man said, gently but firmly, “the beast must be found and destroyed. We cannot allow another outrage to occur.”

  Sir Percival rose as well and introduced Hol
mes and myself. My friend, however, interrupted these civilities with some impatience in order to question the new arrival.

  “I take it,” he said, “that this afternoon’s foray was unsuccessful.”

  “It was,” Edwin Aspern replied with a rueful smile.

  “And where, may I ask, did you undertake your stalk?”

  “In the western woods, beyond the bog.”

  “But was nothing discovered? Tracks? Scat? Perhaps a den?”

  Young Aspern shook his head. “I saw no sign.”

  “This is a very devious, clever wolf,” Sir Percival said. “Even dogs are hopeless to track it.”

  “A deep business,” Holmes murmured. “A deep business indeed.”

  Holmes declined an invitation to supper, and after a brief survey of the grounds we rode the wagonette back into Hexham, where we took rooms at The Plough. After breakfast the following morning, we made application to the local police force, which, it turned out, comprised a single individual, one Constable Frazier. We found the constable at his desk, employed in jotting industriously into a small notebook. From my earlier adventures with Holmes, I had not formed a particularly high opinion of local constabulary. And at first sight, Constable Frazier — with his dark olive dustcoat and leather leggings — seemed to bear out my suspicions. He had heard of Holmes, however, and as he began to respond to the enquiries of my friend, I realized that we had before us — if not necessarily a personage of superior intellect — at the least a dedicated and competent officer with, it seemed, a laudable doggedness of approach.

  The wolf’s first victim, he explained, had been an odd, vaguely sinister individual, a shabbily-dressed and wild-haired man of advanced years. He had shown up abruptly in Hexham some weeks before his death, skulking about and frightening women and children with inarticulate ravings. He did not stay at the inn, seemingly being without ready funds, and after a day or two the constable was called in by concerned citizens to learn the nameless man’s business. After a search, the constable discovered the man staying in an abandoned wood-cutter’s hut within the borders of Kielder Forest. The man refused to answer the constable’s enquiries or to explain himself in any way.

  “Inarticulate ravings?” Holmes repeated. “If you could be more precise?”

  “He spoke to himself a great deal, gesturing frantically, quite a lot of nonsense, really. Something about all the wrongs that had been done him. Amongst other rot.”

  “Rot, you say. Such as?”

  “Mere fragments. How he had been betrayed. Persecuted. How cold he was. How he would go to law and get a judgement.”

  “Anything else?” Holmes pressed.

  “No,” replied the constable. “Oh yes — one other very odd thing. He often mentioned carrots.”

  “Carrots?”

  Constable Frazier nodded.

  “Was he hungry? Did he mention any other foods?”

  “No. Just carrots.”

  “And you say he mentioned carrots not once, but many times?”

  “The word seemed to come up again and again. But as I said, Mr. Holmes, it was all a jumble. None of it meant anything.”

  This line of questioning struck me as a useless diversion. To dwell on the ravings of a madman seemed folly, and I could see no connection to his tragic end at the jaws of a wolf. I sensed that Constable Frazier felt as I did, for he took to looking at Holmes with a certain speculative expression.

  “Tell me more about the man’s appearance,” Holmes said. “Everything that you can remember. Pray spare no details.”

  “He was singularly unkempt, his clothes mere rags, his hair uncombed. His eyes were bloodshot, and his teeth black.”

  “Black, you say?” Holmes interrupted with sudden eagerness. “You mean, black as in unsound? Decayed?”

  “No. It was more a dark, uniform grey that in dim light almost looked black. And he seemed to be in a state of continual intoxication, though where he got the money for liquor I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “How do you know he was intoxicated?”

  “The usual symptoms of dipsomania: slurred speech, shaking hands, unsteady gait.”

  “Did you come across any liquor bottles in the wood-cutter’s hut?”

  “No.”

  “When you spoke with him, did you smell spirits on his breath?”

  “No. But I’ve had to deal with enough drunkards in my time to know the signs, Mr. Holmes. The matter is absolutely beyond question.”

  “Very well. Pray continue.”

  The constable took up again the thread of his narrative with evident relief. “Well, opinion in town was strong against him, so strong that I was about to run him off, when that wolf did the job for me. The morning after I questioned him, he was found on the edge of the forest, his body dreadfully torn and mangled, with tooth marks on the arms and legs.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “And the second victim?”

  At this point, I confess I nearly objected to the line of enquiry. Holmes had questioned the constable closely on trivial matters, but was leaving the main points unbroached. Who, for example, had found the body? But I held my tongue, and Constable Frazier continued.

  “That took place two weeks later,” the constable said. “The victim was a visiting naturalist up from Oxford to study the red fox.”

  “Found in the same location as the first?”

  “Not far away. Somewhat nearer the bog.”

  “And how do you know both killings were done by the same animal?”

  “It was the look of the wounds, sir. If anything, the second attack was even more vicious. This time, the man was…partially eaten.”

  “How did the town react to this second killing?”

  “There was a lot of talk. Talk — and fear. Sir Percival took an interest in the case. And his son, who was recently returned from the Indian campaign, began roaming the woods at night, armed with a rifle, intent on shooting the beast. I opened an investigation of my own.”

  “After the second killing, you mean.”

  “Beg pardon, Mr. Holmes, but there didn’t seem to be any purpose to one before. You understand: good riddance to that ancient ruffian. But this time, the victim was a respectable citizen — and we clearly had a man-eater on our hands. If the wolf had killed twice, he would kill again…if he could.”

  “Did you interview the eyewitnesses?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did their stories agree?”

  The constable nodded. “After the second killing, they saw the beast skulking back into the forest, a fearsome creature.”

  “Seen from how far away?”

  “At a distance, at night, but with a moon. Close enough to note the fur on its head having gone snow white.”

  Holmes thought for a moment. “What did the doctor who presided over the inquests have to say?”

  “As I said, amongst other things he noted the fact that, whilst both victims were severely mauled, the second had been partially eaten.”

  “Yet the first merely had a few tentative bite marks.” Holmes turned to me. “Do you know, Watson, that that is the usual pattern by which beasts become man-eaters? So it was with the Tsavo lions, as we spoke of previously.”

  I nodded. “Perhaps this wolf’s hunting range is deep within the forest, and it has been driven closer to civilization because of the long, cold winter.”

  Holmes turned back to the constable. “And have you made any further observations?”

  “Lack of observations is more like it, I’m afraid, Mr. Holmes.”

  “Pray explain.”

  “Well, it’s strange.” Constable Frazier’s face assumed a look of perplexity. “My family farm is at the edge of the forest, and I’ve had opportunity to go out looking for traces of the animal half a dozen times, at least. You’d think a beast that large would be easy to track. But I only found a few tracks, just after the second killing. I’m no tracker, but I could swear there was something unusual in that beast’s movements.”


  “Unusual?” Holmes asked. “In what way?”

  “In the paucity of sign. It’s as if the beast were a ghost, coming and going invisibly. That’s why I’ve been out of an evening, searching for fresh track.”

  At this, Holmes leaned forwards in his chair. “Permit me to advise you right now, Constable, I want you to put a stop to that immediately. There are to be no more nocturnal ramblings in the forest.”

  The constable frowned. “But I have certain obligations, Mr. Holmes. Besides, the person in true danger is young Master Aspern. He is out half the night, every night, looking for the creature.”

  “Listen to me,” Holmes said severely. “That is utter nonsense. Aspern is in no danger. But you, Constable, I warn you — look to yourself.”

  This brusque dismissal, and the notion that Miss Selkirk’s fears for her fiancé were unfounded, amazed me. But Holmes said nothing more, and had no further questions — save to again warn the constable to stay out of the woods — and, for the time being at any rate, our interview had ended.

  It being Sunday, we were forced to confine our investigations to interviews with various inhabitants of Hexham. Holmes first tracked down the two eyewitnesses, but they had little to add to what Mr. Frazier had already told us: they had both seen a large wolf, remarkably large in fact, loping off in the direction of the bog, the fur on the top of its head a brilliant white in the moonlight. Neither had investigated further, but instead had the good sense to return to their homes with all speed.

  We then repaired to The Plough, where Holmes contented himself with asking the customers their opinion of the wolf and the killings. Everyone we spoke to was on edge about the situation. Some, as they lifted their pints, made brave statements about taking on the hunt themselves one day or another. The majority were content to let young Master Aspern track down the beast on his own and expressed much admiration for his courage.