Tales of the Shadowmen 2: Gentlemen of the Night

by Jean-Marc Lofficier

  “Vengeance belongs to my family,” Kritchna said without remorse.

  “Well, you know what’s going to happen now, don’t you? Eventually Sir Henry is going to think you sent that–that whatever-it-was to kill his son!”

  “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Did you?”

  “Send that thing? No. I don’t even know what it was, and that’s the truth. Appleby said something about it being a werewolf. A werewolf? Do you really think so?”

  I finally paused, out of breath and my imagination and emotions exhausted. “I don’t know,” I said at last. “But I do know I’ve got to get you out of here. I honestly believe you were as surprised as I was about the appearance of that Beast, but it won’t be long before they’re coming after you for it. Now the only way to prove your innocence is to catch it.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that.” From out of the bushes along the road, the Sâr emerged, carting his carpetbag as always. “I have a friend to avenge, and could certainly use your help.”

  I glared at him suspiciously. “How’d you get out here?”

  “Climbed over the wall during the melee.”

  “And how do we know you didn’t have anything to do with this?”

  The Doctor’s eyes turned cold. “You don’t. But if you don’t want your friend there to end up in jail or worse, you have no choice but to trust me. Now, quickly, into the bushes! I hear cars coming!” Without preamble, he was shoving us into the rushes, and for some reason we let him. Just as we did so, the gates to Westenra House swung open and a parade of cars sailed out, as fast as their wheels would carry them. We were close enough to see some of the drivers’ faces; they were the aides of many of the diplomats attending.

  “Looks like the conference is over,” whispered Kritchna. “Do you think they’re getting the Police?”

  I shook my head. “I doubt it. Try explaining what happened to a country constable. No, if I know Westenra, he’s going to do his damnedest to keep this whole thing quiet. If this got out, it would mean the end of his career. Not that it will work. The guests are bound to tell their superiors. Then, God knows what will happen.”

  “But it gives us an edge, nonetheless,” replied the Doctor. “A few hours, at any rate. Dickson–you mentioned the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange. Tell me about it, quickly.” Without knowing why, I did so. At the end, the Sâr frowned. “I have never heard this legend. And while I am no expert on therianthropology, I know enough. We must get to this Grange at once. Kritchna, do you know the way?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then let us go. My assistant is there already–and I have a very ugly feeling about this.”

  Hastily but cautiously, we slipped along the rest of the wall through the shrubbery, pricking ourselves several times but not daring to speak. Once on the far side, the foliage ended into long, grassy fields along the road–and no cover. We would have to be extremely careful, and not just to avoid being found by the Westenras. This was the direction the Beast had gone.

  “Do you think it’s still out there?”

  The Sâr smiled grimly. “I’m sure we’ll find out.”

  We moved quickly down the road, keeping our senses peeled for any signs of pursuit. There was nothing. Apparently the Westenras were too busy simply trying to save their conference to waste time chasing us. The Moon was out, giving us an excellent view of our surroundings. So it was that, about a half-mile down, we first saw the burly figure draped limply across the middle of the path.

  The Beast lay still, its sides slowly rising and falling, but otherwise it did not move. It appeared to be dying. Cautiously, the Doctor removed another Star-Stone from his voluminous bag. He held it out toward the creature, murmuring words I could not clearly hear, but the Beast made no attempt to rise. It stared at us with its red eyes, panting, the face bruised where Darshan had struck it.

  “How could this be?” I found myself whispering. “It’s impossible.”

  “Many things in this world are ‘impossible,’ Dickson,” the Sâr said quietly, “But they happen anyway.”

  “Should we kill it? Or run?” asked Kritchna nervously.

  “Neither, I think. If it could’ve attacked us, it would’ve by now. It’s hurt. The trouble is, I don’t know why. This is most peculiar. The Star-Stone and the Incantations of Nodens should be drawing the curse out of this poor man, not physically harming him. He should’ve become human again by now.” He paused. “In fact, it should have worked the first time back at the House. Why didn’t it? They were clearly affecting it, but not as they should have. The only time this poor creature actually seemed truly struck was when both Appleby and I worked together.”

  “That reminds me,” I said, “just how was all this supposed to work? Appleby was praying. Does that mean there’s really a–”

  “Not necessarily, Dickson,” the Sâr said. “But what Appleby has is faith. That is great power in and of itself. Faith really does move mountains, you know. Sometimes it doesn’t even really matter if the thing you believe in exists or not.”

  “He certainly didn’t take to you afterwards,” Darshan pointed out.

  “He was frightened and disturbed by what he could not understand. I don’t blame him for that. But this is getting off the subject. We need to find out why this creature exists, and who it really is. Look! Something’s happening.”

  The Beast raised its head and whimpered. All about it, from the tip of its toes to the tips of its ears, the entire mass of fur and skin somehow seemed to be shifting. Flowing downward off the body like water.

  Fangs dripped away into nothingness, skeletal structure and musculature ran off into pools of liquid upon the ground. It was incredible. This was not blood or any other bodily fluid, this was the body itself, turning into a thick, gooey substance that poured off itself, the form growing smaller and smaller as it did. With a shock, I realized I knew what the stuff was. It was the very goo I had found on the bushes beneath Darshan’s garret two nights before.

  “Ectoplasm,” I heard the Sâr mutter. “This is unheard of.”

  For both of us, I thought. The head and snout had almost entirely melted away by now, slowly coming to reveal a wet mass of blond hair beneath the fur. Claws fell away, showing the long pink fingers of a woman. Chest and back fur slipped away into the remains of a crumbled blue dress. At last the full features of the person under the Beast became clear and I gasped in astonishment.

  “Christina! Christina Rutherford!” I cried disbelievingly. “Christina Rutherford is a werewolf?”

  The prone figure of Miss Christina Rutherford lay across the road before our stunned eyes; beautiful features marred by streaks of goo and thick bruises. Hair, skin and dress were sopping wet from the pouring away of the glop that had surrounded her–ectoplasm the Doctor called it–and her eyes, while open, stared blankly at us. Then it seemed as if recognition and memory all flowed back at once. Her mouth opened and she let out a howl, not of wolf-like malice and hatred, but one of terror, a long, drawn-out wail of horror and misery. She tried to rise but fell back, screaming: “Mama! Mama!”

  Curiously, it was Darshan who first knelt and gathered her up, pulling her close. “It’s all right, Miss, it’s all right. You’re safe now”

  “My God! Mother! Mama!”

  “Miss Rutherford!” The Sâr gently took her from Kritchna. “My assistant, Gianetti. Where is she? Is she safe? What do you remember?”

  “Gianetti?” She paused, not recognizing this man and unable to find the words to answer him. “I–I remember sitting at the table. Mama was there, and Uncle John, and Gianetti–and we were calling on Papa–and then–and then…”

  “Go on,” the Sâr said softly.

  “And then…. and then, I felt hate. The most vicious hate. Coming over me.”

  “Hate? From within? Like something was invading your soul?”

  “No...” Christina shook her head. “Like… like something from outside was covering me up, cocooning m
e. And I saw Uncle John jump and Mama screamed… and then I reached out for her but my hands weren’t my hands anymore–and I–and I–” She burst into tears. “Mama!”

  “Enough,” Darshan demanded. “Leave her alone.”

  “Someone’s coming,” I interjected.

  The beams of headlights were flashing through the night toward us, but not from the direction of Westenra House–from the opposite, the direction of the Grange. In an instant, a car which I recognized as the Rutherfords’ own swerved toward us, screeching to a halt by the side of the road, nearly banking into the ditch.

  Lord John Roxton was out of the driver’s seat before it was even fully braked. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. “Christina! Thank God you’ve found her!” Without preambles, he shoved the Sâr away to take his niece in his arms. He looked haggard. “Christina, Christina, it’s Uncle John. It’s all right.”

  “Doctor!” cried another, and an equally-haggard Gianetti Annunciata climbed out of the passenger side, racing toward her mentor. “Doctor, what are you doing here?” She seized his hands. He smiled down at her, in evident relief, but if she would have liked more, he made no move toward it.

  “Gianetti, what has happened? Tell me everything!”

  “Doctor, it’s horrible! Mrs. Rutherford is dead! Killed by that creature!”

  “It’s worse than that, my dear. It was here too. It killed Michel.”

  “The Duc? He was killed too? Oh, sweet Mary.”

  “Doctor?” Roxton said. “Your employer’s here? My God! It’s you!”

  “Ah.” The Doctor smiled, briefly. “Hello, Roxton.”

  “You’re this ‘Sâr Dubnotal’ character? You? Back when I knew you in India, you called yourself–”

  “No names, please.” The Sâr held up a warning hand. “I left that identity behind a long time ago. For good reason. But the past isn’t the issue right now. This young lady here is.”

  “You’re right,” Roxton replied. “In the car. We’ll talk as we go. Christina, do you think you can walk? Let me help.” Gently he placed his arm around the girl and assisted her to the vehicle. Gianetti took her other side. Gently, they set Christina into the passenger side, and Gianetti slid in beside her. Roxton looked at us, particularly the Sâr.

  “Well, if you’re coming, get in. This sounds like something you’d be involved in. Damn that séance!”

  “Right,” said the Sâr. “In!” Almost without thinking, Kritchna and I obediently piled into the back. The Sâr followed and the automobile revved into life, turning around and heading back the way it came.

  “Uncle… Uncle John. Is Mama–”

  “Shush, my dear. She’s beyond any pain now.”

  Christina burst into fresh tears. Tenderly, Gianetti set her head upon her shoulder. “Don’t hold it in. Just let it out!”

  “Gianetti, I don’t remember anything! Just–just that awful sense of hate. And then I felt myself change…”

  “Enough!” The Doctor’s voice was firm. “Explanations. Now.”

  “All right,” Roxton said. “I take it you knew about the séance this evening? Damn it, I warned Althea not to have it! Not that I honestly thought anything like this would happen–I was afraid she’d be defrauded! You know as well as I how many of these so-called Spiritualists are fake.”

  “And I daresay you thought Gianetti was, too.”

  “Well, I didn’t know she worked for you. Anyway, the other two–Grigori Yeltsin and Rosemary Underwood–arrived right on schedule. We had dinner and then Althea wanted to set the séance right up.”

  “Wait. Describe these other two mediums.”

  Now Gianetti spoke up. “I knew something was wrong as soon as I met them, Doctor. Yeltsin–a very fat, obnoxious man–claimed to be Russian, so I wondered why I had never heard of him, being as you take such precautions to know what psychics are from there. But I could see at a glance he was nothing but a fraud. His aura was nil. Russian, yes, psychic, no. But Miss Underwood… she was different Her aura sang of power. Sang! I’ve never seen the like, except–well, except in this young man here.” She gestured toward Darshan. The Indian blinked, shifting uncomfortably. “His is almost as strong as hers. Very odd, too, considering how drab she looks physically. Very plain, very colorless. But there was something else about her I simply couldn’t put my finger on. Still, she seemed eager enough to help Mrs. Rutherford, and I thought with my guidance, we might be able to brush Yeltsin aside and actually summon Christina’s father.”

  Finally, I found the words to speak. “But something happened?”

  Gianetti nodded, miserably. “The séance started according to plan. We had gathered around the table, linking hands, and started the summons of Mr. Rutherford. I was at the foot, Mrs. Rutherford was at the head, with Christina next to her. Then, there was Yeltsin, and then Lord John, and myself. We recruited two maids to help, and then Miss Underwood was seated. I was keeping my best eye on Yeltsin. I expected him to try something. But then I felt the power.”

  The beautiful woman shook her head. “It was overwhelming, Doctor! But it wasn’t like any other summoning I’ve ever done before! I–I can’t describe it.”

  “Like the presence of an Outer Monstrosity?” the Sâr asked.

  “No. Nothing so… alien. But hateful. Yes, something filled with hate. It swirled over us, like a great wind, and then…”

  Lord John interrupted. “I would never have believed it. Even with all the two of us encountered back in India. But I was feeling it, too–something was actually coming. But it wasn’t Althea’s husband. I knew that, from the core of my being. It seemed to hover above us, like... I’m not certain, like it was trying to decide who to take. And then it fell. Fell right upon Christina. And then she changed.”

  “Changed. Changed into the lycanthrope?”

  “Changed into something. Christina trembled and tried to cry out–and then suddenly it was like a shimmering halo had surrounded her, and she turned into that… that thing. Althea screamed. Christina was up, knocking over the table, and then she threw back her head and howled at us. Then, before any of us could move, she was reaching for her mother. Althea collapsed. The shock killed her instantly.”

  “That makes sense,” the Sâr murmured softly. “The first impulse of the werewolf is to kill that which it loves best.”

  Gianetti cleared her throat. “Mrs. Rutherford wasn’t the only victim,” she said quietly. “We all panicked. Yeltsin especially. Of course, the last thing he would ever expect would be something like this. He actually tried to run past the Beast. But the Beast… was quicker. Then it burst through the window to the outside, and from there… well, you already know what happened.”

  “And Miss Underwood?”

  “Fainted, but unharmed. As are the two maids. They’re terrified, but we persuaded them to stay and look after Miss Underwood until we got back. They’re keeping themselves securely locked in the cellar.”

  “Doctor,” Roxton said. “I know the story of the Werewolf. Everyone in these parts does. But I never believed it until now. Did we do it? Did we call up the spirit of Roger Rutherford by accident?”

  “I don’t know yet, John. A moment.” He produced his Star-Stone mineral. “Miss Christina, please. I need you to hold this a moment. Yes, that’s it. Now: do you feel anything strange? No shocks? Not even a tingle? Thank you. John, as soon as we get to the Grange, I need to do a complete examination of the scene. There’s something very peculiar about this entire affair, and I want to find out what it is.”

  I feel so lost, I thought to myself, turning my head away to try and collect myself. In the past 20 minutes, my world had been stood on end. All my knowledge, all my training–right now, every bit of it seemed in vain. Psychics? Werewolves? Ghost werewolves? Murderers and kidnappers I could handle, but this!

  “We’re here,” Lord John spoke, pulling the car to a halt. Peering over his shoulder, I got my first look at the infamous Rutherford Grange.

  It was everything West
enra House wasn’t.

  Rutherford Grange hung back a little off the road, non-walled, non-gated, far more welcoming to strangers than Sir Henry’s domicile. Much smaller, of course, with only two stories instead of three, and far less imposing, but nonetheless I could tell that it had been a grand farm in its day. The Rutherfords no longer planted, the fields being overrun by long grass and wildflowers, but the outbuildings were still there, worn but well-maintained, and I could hear a sheep bleat in the distance. The Rutherfords maintained a small flock and a couple of horses, but these were pets, not working beasts. Surrounding the house on all sides was a sea of colors: peonies and violets and a hundred and one other types of flowers everywhere, along the wall, in great clutches in the yard, around the great elms surrounding the house like welcoming parents; none planted to add to the aesthetic and proprietary value of the house but simply because they were lovely. Something stiff and proper martinet like Sir Henry would never think of.

  The house itself was brick and Georgian–apparently the original building had burnt down years ago–and, like the surroundings, looked a bit shabby compared to its grander neighbor–some of the bricks were cracked and worn; the great green wisteria growing up to the roof was droopy, but all the same there was a sense of comfort here, a sense of belovedness. This was a home, not just a place someone lived in; a place where children played and laughter would not be hushed up lest the neighbors hear, a place where nobody cared too much if the cat scratched the furniture; a place where an old couple married for years still would sneak a kiss under the full Moon. The Rutherfords had influence and money, but refused to let it rule them. They preferred instead the better things; home, family, caring. The place practically rang of love.

  And of tragedy.

  A servant girl, haggard and frightened, opened the door. “Miss Christina!”

  We gently moved our way inside and, despite the tragedy we knew was within, I found myself more and more impressed. The interior was by no means as fine as the House, or as fresh, being old and worn-down. But that was the wonderful part–this home looked used rather than simply existing; like people actually lived and loved and laughed here. Books weren’t just set solemnly on the shelf, they were piled everywhere. Two or three cats moved among the furniture, mewing when they saw us. A large portrait of Mr. and Mrs. Rutherford hung over the mantel–but unlike the solitary Sir Henry, who stood alone, Mr. Rutherford had his arm about his wife as his other hand gently rested in both of hers. I liked this place. So it saddened me far more than perhaps it might when I found the two figures lying on divans, sheets drawn over both.