by Paul Stewart
‘The hairs I found on Old Benjamin’s chair?’ I asked.
The professor nodded as he pulled a piece of thick, creamy vellum, covered with spidery black symbols, numbers and words, from his pocket, and waved it in front of my nose.
‘I examined them carefully and carried out various tests on the individual hairs,’ he said. ‘Tests which proved most interesting.’ He paused for a moment, as if lost in thought.
He really had my attention now.
‘Go on, PB,’ I said. ‘Interesting in what way?’
‘Interesting,’ said the professor, ‘because all the evidence points to the fact that the hairs came from a lupine beast.’
‘Lupine?’ I said.
‘A wolf, my dear boy,’ Professor Pinkerton-Barnes explained. ‘And an extremely large specimen at that. Rather unusual in the middle of a city, don’t you think?’
‘A wolf in the city.’ My mind raced. ‘Thank you, PB,’ I said. ‘You’ve been very helpful—’
‘And does this mean that you’ll help me out with my water-vole theory?’ he asked.
I smiled. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘First thing Monday morning. In the meantime, there’s something I need to check out for myself …’
We stopped outside a red-painted door with a brass knocker. ‘Ah! My club,’ smiled the professor. ‘So good of you to stroll with me, dear chap.’
Calling ‘goodnight’ to the professor over my shoulder, I swiftly climbed the nearest drainpipe I could find – disturbing an indignant flock of roosting starlings as I did so. It was now quite dark, and as I arrived at the top, the full moon wobbled up above the horizon, huge and round and the colour of burnished gold.
‘Beautiful,’ I breathed. But then I remembered the last time I’d been on the rooftops when there was a full moon …
I began to make my way over the brick firewalls and tiled roofs back towards Hartley Square and Dr Cadwallader’s consulting rooms. I hadn’t got far – the domed roof of the old Playhouse on the corner of Broad Street, to be precise – when I became aware of the sound of panic-filled screaming and shouting beneath me.
Dropping down onto the balcony below, I swung out on a jutting flagpole before taking a flying leap across to a tall pillar above the gas-lit theatre hoarding, which I slid down. Then, kneeling on the marble portico above the entrance to the Alhambra music hall, I peered down at the chaos gripping the streets.
There were men and women dashing this way and that, their eyes wide with fear. Children were wailing and sobbing, while all around, the sound of howling dogs echoed in the air.
‘Hey, you!’ I bellowed down to a theatre doorman standing below, a long pole held in his hands with which to defend himself.
He turned and looked up, his eyes wide with fright.
‘What’s going on?’ I demanded.
‘The constabulary’s on its way!’ he shouted back. ‘Stay back! Clear the area! It’s attacking anything in its path. Biting … ripping out throats …’
‘What is?’ I called.
His words chilled me to the bone.
‘A wolf,’ he gasped. ‘A great black wolf!’
The words had scarcely left the doorman’s mouth when a great black beast sprang into the street from an alley just across from the theatre. Its blazing yellow eyes fixed on the luckless man, who brandished the wooden staff at it anxiously. All around, people scattered, screaming at the tops of their lungs. The huge black wolf’s lustrous gleaming pelt rippled as its powerful muscles tensed and, in a flash of blurred movement, it leaped on its quarry.
There was a sickening crunch as the beast’s mighty jaws closed on the man’s neck and snapped it with a jerk of its head. The doorman’s body crumpled to the ground directly beneath my vantage point up on the theatre hoarding, blood spurting from a gaping tear in his throat.
The black wolf threw back its head, its muzzle stained crimson with blood, and howled at the full moon. The hideous cry chilled me to the core of my being and left my heart hammering in my chest. It was unspeakably evil.
As the howl faded away, I found myself staring down into familiar glowing yellow eyes. Hadn’t I witnessed the destruction of this hellhound in the vats of Greville’s glue factory? Yet here it was before me, huge, black and bathed in blood. How was that possible? It was like a nightmare that, once dreamed, returns again and again to haunt the sleeper.
One thing was for certain, I realized as I crouched there: this creature did not come from the natural world …
All these thoughts and more raced through my mind as I gazed for those few terrifying seconds into the yellow eyes of the beast. Seeing it hesitate for a moment, I drew my swordstick and swung it at the nearest of the gaslights jutting out from the theatre hoarding.
The great black wolf threw back its head, its muzzle stained crimson with blood, and howled at the full moon.
The globe shattered and I stamped down hard on the exposed gas-fitting with my left foot, twisting it downwards. As I did so, a great spurt of flame flared from the broken gaslight onto the upturned muzzle of the wolf. It howled in alarm and, turning tail, fled off up a back street opposite. A moment later its huge black form disappeared into the stables at the back of the old Ambassador Theatre.
News of the wolf must have spread like a workhouse cough because, from the surrounding streets and out of every tavern and music hall of the theatre district, there came an unruly mob of toughs, swells and sightseers, armed with all manner of offensive weaponry – everything from curved billhooks to meat-cleavers and Saturday-night coshes. Soon the small alley was full to bursting with an angry, baying mob, brandishing burning torches and shouting boastful taunts as they clustered round the entrance to the stables.
Avoiding the naked flame of the gaslight, I swung down from the theatre hoarding and landed lightly on my feet on the pavement below. There was nothing I could do for the unfortunate doorman, whose lifeless body lay before me in a large pool of blood.
I crossed the street into the alley, which had become even more crowded with the arrival of the local constabulary clutching nets and police lanterns, followed closely by the district fire brigade, struggling with a large ladder. Now all we needed, I thought as I looked for a likely drainpipe to shin up, was a brass band and a carnival troupe or two, and we’d be all set for the wolf hunt!
As if in answer to my thoughts, a large woman just ahead of me turned – and I saw the tattoo of a mermaid in need of a shave on her large ham of a forearm. She was as white as a sheet of finest drawing paper. Even those tattoos of hers seemed paler than usual. A flicker of recognition passed across her face. I smiled.
‘Barnaby,’ she said, in a shaky voice. ‘Barnaby Grimes. Come to see the show? They’ve got the terrible creature trapped in the old Ambassador’s stables. Only one way in and one way out …’
‘I know,’ I told her. ‘I saw it rip the throat out of the doorman at the Alhambra not five minutes ago.’
‘I saw it, too!’ she gasped. ‘At the Sow’s Ear! I was just going upstairs to wake Scaldy Sal – she had some appointment or other, and the stupid girl had overslept – when all hell broke loose in the attic rooms …’
She paused, her eyes watering and face crumpling at the memory of it all. I pulled a handkerchief from a waistcoat pocket and handed it to her. She dabbed at her eyes, and swallowed hard.
‘It must have got in from the rooftops. In a mad frenzy, it was,’ she breathed, her voice little more than a stricken whisper. ‘It raced down the stairs right past me and into the saloon bar, its evil yellow eyes blazing!’
Henrietta fanned herself with a large tattooed hand.
‘’Course, my regulars thought it was just another bar brawl. When it couldn’t escape,’ she said, swallowing again, ‘the beast went mad. Started throwing itself at anyone in its path. Old Tom Brindel copped it first, throat torn out in an instant. Then Arnold Sellers. Never stood a chance …’ She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘Then young Albert Tomkins … Lovely lad, he was. A real ge
nt … He copped it trying to save me …’
The tears were now running freely.
‘Threw himself at the beast when it launched itself at the staircase where yours truly was standing, as transfixed as if I was back in the carnival sideshow!’ she wept. ‘But the wolf turned and savaged him like it was possessed. Bit through his neck. Blood gushing …’
‘And then?’ I said, giving her a moment to calm down.
‘Then …’ Henrietta said, in a flat voice, drained of emotion. ‘Then it smashed through the saloon-bar window and ran off down the street …’
At that moment, above the din of the crowd, I became aware of another sound. I wasn’t the only one, for a hush seemed to fall on the crowded alley as all eyes were fixed on the stable doors, from which the sound was coming.
It was bloodcurdling. The sound of whinnying horses in a blind panic mingled with horrific snarls and throaty roars. Even the boldest of the rough mob in the alley took a step back. I told Henrietta to keep my handkerchief, and found the drainpipe I’d been looking for.
Up on a nearby rooftop I had a better view of the chaos below. The fire brigade and police were jostling each other at the front of the mob, clearly at a loss to know what to do. None of them wanted to be the first to enter the stables, whose great wooden doors stood tantalizingly ajar.
From inside the stable – the noise amplified by its size – the terrible sounds seemed to be reaching some hideous crescendo. The screams of the horses and snarls of the trapped beast grew so loud, so disturbing, that some of the crowd put their hands over their ears to cut it out.
Suddenly a high-pitched shriek of absolute fury and terror cut through the air. It was followed, moments later, by a reverberating crash! – and a huge grey carthorse, twenty hands high, burst out of the stables and through the scattering crowd. For a moment there was blind panic as the terrified horse – horribly mauled and bleeding – trampled several firemen in its path and disappeared off into Strap Street.
When some sort of order was restored, all eyes turned once more to the stable doors, now hanging off their hinges. Inside the shadowy interior there was an eerie silence, perhaps more appalling than the sounds that had preceded it.
Nobody spoke. Nobody moved.
Below me, a constable with a short carbine and police lantern stepped forward and gingerly entered the stables. He was followed by several more, half of whom exited at once and brought up the remains of their supper noisily in the gutter outside.
‘It’s not here,’ a voice announced from inside the stables.
A groan went round the crowd.
‘Then where is it?’ someone demanded.
‘What’s happened to it?’
‘No idea,’ the first voice replied. ‘But it’s not here. Disappeared into thin air …’
‘It must have found another way out. Dug through the floor, perhaps?’ someone suggested.
‘Or climbed up and escaped over the rooftops?’
I knew this was impossible as I would have seen the creature if it had taken to the high stacks, but nevertheless, the suggestion made my blood run cold. With a shiver, I climbed down from the rooftop and entered the stable behind a few other onlookers with strong stomachs.
To this day, I wish I hadn’t. The sight of six fine coach horses ripped to pieces in their stalls is one I never want to see again. The bitter taste of bile rose in my throat as I looked around the slaughterhouse that the old Ambassador’s stables had become.
Suddenly a voice rang out from the corner. ‘Over here!’
‘What is it?’
‘A body …’
I made my way across the blood-soaked floor of the stables. Sure enough, lying on the floor was a body. It looked as if its neck was broken, and there was the bloody wound from a carthorse hoof on its temple.
‘Does anyone know this person?’ a constable was asking.
Around me, everyone shook their heads. Yet as the flickering torchlight fell across the body, and I saw the black hair, the thin lips and bulbous nose – the angry skin, blistered, flaking and the colour of a strawberry – I knew that I did.
It was Scaldy Sal.
By the time I’d taken a near-hysterical Henrietta back to the Sow’s Ear and helped her to clear up the shattered furniture and broken bottles, not to mention mopping down the floors – and earned her undying gratitude in the process – the night had passed.
As the sun rose over the rooftops, I returned to my rooms. I was tired. Dog-tired. I made my way wearily along the roof gutter to the window of my attic and stepped inside.
The terrible events of the night before … the murderous beast, the mayhem in the streets and, most of all, Scaldy Sal’s dead eyes staring up at me. It hardly seemed real – yet already, the headlines of the first editions were being shouted out by the early-morning newspaper sellers in the streets below.
‘Wolf runs amok! Five dead in hellhound horror!’
I kicked off my boots and crawled under my quilt – the oriental one the captain of the Jade Dragon had given me after the shocking incident of the temple demon …
As my head hit the pillow, I was out like a watchman’s brazier in a hailstorm. Not that it did me any good.
My dreams were full of blazing yellow eyes, bared fangs and dead doormen. I was highstacking over the rooftops, pursued by a whole pack of hellhounds, their fetid breath hot on my collar, when I made a wild leap for a chimney I never should have attempted. Sure enough, down I went. Falling, falling into blackness, until the scabby red face of Scaldy Sal came looming up at me—
I awoke with a start, dripping with sweat and tangled up in my bedclothes. Shafts of bright afternoon sunlight broke through a gap in the shutters and sliced through my cluttered rooms.
‘It was just a dream,’ I said out loud. ‘It’s over now.’
Yet even as I uttered the words, I knew they weren’t true. It wasn’t a dream – and it was very far from over!
I climbed from my bed, splashed water over my face and got dressed. With the terror and confusion of the previous night, I hadn’t had a chance to spy on Dr Cadwallader’s consulting rooms. I shook my head. I knew, with a cold chill in my heart, what I had to do now.
Without further ado, I highstacked over to Bradstock and Clink’s chambers, entering through an open window on the fourth floor, and descended the stairs to the two gentlemen’s offices. I knocked.
‘Enter!’ came a voice.
‘Ah, Barnaby,’ said Mr Bradstock as I walked into the chambers. ‘Come in, come in …’
‘Has Mr Clink stepped out?’ I said, hoping against hope as I spotted the empty desk on the other side of the window from the younger lawyer’s.
‘No, Barnaby,’ he replied. ‘And it’s most unusual. Mr Clink hasn’t come in to chambers this morning.’
My heart sank.
He nodded across to the desk opposite. It was tidy, with the quills sharpened and laid out in a neat row, the inkpots filled and stoppered, and a clean blotter in place. The old man was obviously in the habit of preparing his desk for the following day. This morning, however, the tools of his trade were clearly untouched.
‘I don’t understand it at all,’ Mr Bradstock was saying. ‘Forty-seven years he’s been working at that very desk – long before I ever started here – and he’s never missed a single day’s work in his life. Even when he was troubled by those aches and pains of his, he would be here at eight o’clock on the dot. You could set your timepiece by him, Barnaby. I can’t think what could have happened to him.’ He shook his head. ‘Surely he can’t be ill. I mean, he’s been so fit and healthy lately, ever since—’
‘He started taking Doctor Cadwallader’s cordial,’ I broke in.
‘Precisely.’ He nodded, then paused. ‘I don’t suppose you could look in on him at his house …? I can give you his address—’
‘No need,’ I said, patting my waistcoat pocket. ‘I have Mr Clink’s address already.’
‘You have?’ said Mr Bradsto
ck.
‘Yes,’ I said, my mind racing. ‘And I’d be happy to check on him.’
‘Thank you, Barnaby!’ said Mr Bradstock, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘It would set my mind at rest!’
Back up on the rooftops, I took a moment to survey the filth and grandeur of the city all around me. The sooty rooftops of the Wasps’ Nest, where Mr Clink lived, and the tall ele gant spires of the financial district. I turned and headed off in a different direction com pletely. If I was to stand any chance of finding Mr Clink, I knew where to start looking …
Twenty minutes later, with the sun already sinking in the sky, I was balancing my way along the line of ridge tiles at the top of the curving row of houses that formed Hartley Square. At number 27 I paused, clambered over the sloping roof and peered down through the skylight I had just noticed.
On closer inspection, the skylight was shut tight. What was more, some sort of mechanical shutters inside made it impossible to see in.
Strange, I thought as I made my way down from the roof. A skylight that shuts out light …
I shinned down the drainpipe and dropped lightly to the ground. I was just checking for lurking policemen before turning the corner and approaching the front door when it opened. And who should emerge but Ellen Wicks, the pretty shop girl. Only today, I noticed, her face was pale and pinched, and her eyes had a haunted, frightened look about them.
She and the second attendant I’d seen before were carrying a large packing case between them, staggering awkwardly down the steps to a waiting carriage. I would have given them a hand if it hadn’t been for their employer, Madame Scutari. She came bustling out after them, waving her umbrella and insisting that Ellen ‘be careful with the merchandise’ and ‘look lively and wipe that expression off your face, my girl. I don’t know where he gets them from, but where else are we to get such quality? You tell me that!’
The packing case was bundled inside the carriage and the three of them disappeared in a cloud of dust, cracked whips and cries to the coachman of ‘Faster! Faster! We’ve got customers waiting!’