by Simon Hawke
universes.
PROLOGUE
His is the House of pain.
His is the Hand that makes.
His is the Hand that wounds.
His is the Hand that heals.
—H. G. Wells, The Island of Dr. Moreau Janos Volkov was curled up, shivering, on one of the benches in Whitechapel Station. waiting for the change. Ile always knew when it was about to conic: he always dreaded it. There was no cure short of death and he could no more kill himself than he could disregard the programmed imperatives locked within the cybernetic implant in his brain.
The East London Railway platforms were deserted at this late hour in this far from the best of neighborhoods. The platform was built around an open cutting. between strong retaining walls of cool, damp stone. The roof was high. to allow for the dispersion of the fumes given off by the steam engines. Covered gaps at the top allowed the steam to escape. Giant cast-iron ribs supported the roof and large stone archways spanning the tracks served to brace the walls. The underground was still relatively new. not quite twenty years old. but like most of the soot- blackened city, the stations and the tunnels had already taken on the appearance of great age, resembling catacombs with tracks running through them.
As Volkov huddled on the platform bench in fetal position. sweating and racked with fever spasms alternating with chills, the train pulled into the station, making its last scheduled run of the day. A few passengers got off. Several of them glanced at Volkovwith disgust as they passed and quickly looked away. A tall and well-dressed
gentleman in a black inverness and top hat made a brief comment to his companion about how something should be done about the drunken derelicts cluttering up the city, though in this neighborhood, such a sight was not at all unusual. Neither gentleman seemed to have any objection to the derelict women walking the streets of Whitechapel, whose favors they had come seeking. Volkov ignored them. He barely even heard them. There was a roaring in his ears and he hugged himself tightly, his teeth chattering. His teeth were unusually long and sharp, especially the canines. He was not a tall man, but he was powerfully built, not at all the sort of physical development one would expect to accompany the dissipation of advanced alcoholism. But then, Janos Volkov was not an alcoholic.
As the last of the passengers left the platform, the measured footsteps of a police constable echoed throughout the once again deserted station as he approached the huddled figure on the bench. Constable Jones was on his way home to his wife after a long day of walking his beat. He had missed the train and he was irritated. He stood over the shivering form for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back, clutching a small truncheon as he rocked back on his heels.
"Ello, 'ello," he said in a strong Cockney accent. "Wot's this then. eh? Go on with ya, old sod, ya can't sleep 'ere."
There was no reaction from the shivering man curled up on the bench.
“'Ere, move along now," said Constable Jones. tapping Volkov lightly on the soles of his boots with his truncheon. The touch of the truncheon seemed to send a galvanizing charge through Volkov. He jerked and thrashed on the bench, as if in the throes of an epileptic fit. A low growl escaped his throat.
"'Ere, none o' that, now," said the policeman, raising his voice. "Get on with ya. Move along. I said."
He prodded Volkov in the side.
Volkov jerked around with a snarl. The policeman's eyes grew wide and his jaw dropped as he hacked away involuntarily, staring at the wild, yellowish eyes, the snarling mouth flecked with foam, the face all covered with hair, the long, protruding teeth. . . .
Volkov crouched on the edge of the bench, growling low in his throat, his clawed hands digging into the wood, his eyes staring at the policeman with a baleful glare. His unruly grey hair hung down to his shoulders, which were hunched as he crouched upon the bench, his legs bent under him, prepared to spring.
"'Ere you," said Jones. swallowing hard and backing any from him fearfully, "you stop
that, now, understand?" Volkov leaped.
Constable Jones had enough presence of mind to drop down to the ground. ducking beneath the leap, which carried Volkov several yards past him. He grabbed for the whistle on the end of his lanyard, brought it to his lips, and blew three shrill blasts in rapid succession. Volkov crouched several yards away from him. growling like a beast, his teeth bared in a snarl, saliva dribbling down onto his chest. The policeman turned and ran.
Moving with astonishing speed. Volkov sprang after him and caught him before Jones had run ten feet. He leaped and brought him down hard to the stone floor of the platform, his claws digging deep into the policeman's shoulders. Constable Jones cried out and rolled over beneath him. fighting for his life. He made a fist and struck Volkov in the face with all his might, but the blow had almost no effect. With a roar, Volkov raised his right hand, fingers hooked like talons, and brought it down in a slashing motion across the constable's face.
Jones screamed as the long claws opened up his face from his left temple to the right side of his jawbone. And then the snarling mouth plunged down. Sharp teeth fastened in his throat, ripping it open, severing the jugular and sending a fountain of arterial blood spurting out into Volkov's savage face. The policeman's frenzied screams became a horrible gurgle and then there was no sound at all except for the sounds of Volkov feeding.
Inspector Grayson pulled back the bloody sheet, allowing his companion to inspect the body lying on the table in the morgue. Unlike the sallow, thin-featured and clean-shaven Grayson, he was robust, thirty-five years old, six feet tall and broad- shouldered. with a tanned complexion, thinning dark hair and a thick, bushy, dark moustache. He examined the wounds in a professional manner.
"The constable's name was Jones," said Grayson. "Allan Jones. Worked out of Bishop's Gate Station. He was a good lad, according to his sergeant, strong, alert, not one to dawdle about. The body was S discovered on the Whitechapel platform by a . ." He paused to consult his notebook. ". .. a Mr. Randall Jarvis, track maintenance engineer for the East London Railway. The time of discovery was approximately four a.m. Apparently, there were no witnesses. What do you make of the wounds, Doctor?"
"Interesting," said the large man in the tweed suit. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed a large bowled briar. He took out a rolled leather pouch filled with shag tobacco and started to pack his pipe.
"Those slash marks across his face," said Grayson, "and the way the throat's been torn open, suggest to me some soil of sharp, pronged instrument. Like one of
those garden tools, you know, what the devil do you call it?"
"A garden fork?" the doctor said, puffing his pipe alight. "No, I shouldn't think so. Something like that would tear the flesh a great deal more than this and the force with which the assailant would have had to strike should have left a bruise at the initial point of entry. Unless the instrument was filed to the sharpness of a razor. Still, that would seem unlikely, especially given the manner in which the throat was torn out. The same instrument clearly did not create both wounds.
"What the devil would have done it, then?" said Grayson.
"Unlikely as it may seem," his companion said, staring at the body and puffing out a cloud of strong Turkish tobacco smoke, "the character of the wounds would seem to indicate an animal of some sort. Those seem to be claw marks across the face of the deceased and the throat appears to have been torn open by teeth. Observe also the markings on the shoulders."
"An animal!" said Grayson. "The devil you say! What sort of animal? A rabid hound, perhaps?"
"Unlikely. If it was a hound, then it would need to be a very large one indeed. Note the spacing of the marks upon the deceased's face. Imagine the size of the paw that would have made those wounds. However, you'll notice that there are five slash marks. A dog has only four claws on its forepaw and they are hardly sharp enough to create wounds such as these."
"What then?" Grayson said. "A jungle cat? Some animal escaped from a circus or the zoo?"
"Again, not very likely, for the same reason I've just mentioned. The number of claws would be insufficient. Besides, there have been no recent reports of any such animals escaping from the zoological gardens and at present, there are no circuses in town. Look here."
He made a claw of his right hand and positioned it over the wounds.
"Good Lord!" said Grayson. "Surely you're not suggesting that a human hand could have done that!”
"A hand not unlike a human's, at the very least. You see. Grayson? An opposed thumb is called for. It is possible that a great ape might have done it, one of the larger primates. such as an orangutan. I believe there is such a creature at the Zoological Gardens. However, them have been no reports of its escaping, though it
would be simple enough to make an inquiry. Even so, it would seem highly
unlikely that such a creature could manage to make its way from Regent's Park to Whitechapel unobserved by anyone. It is a curious matter, indeed."
"A bloody headache. is what it is." said Grayson. "Something like this could get entirely out of hand. What would your Mr. Sherlock Holmes have made of this'!"
Conan Doyle smiled. "I was waiting for you to ask me that," he said. "Somehow, I did not think that it was only my medical expertise that you were seeking. Those damned stories have become something of a nuisance for me."
"Come now, Doctor," Grayson said, "surely you can employ some of this art of deduction that you write of so convincingly to cast some light upon this case. After all, the creator of a detective as brilliant as Sherlock Holmes must surely possess some of his abilities."
"You flatter me, Inspector." said Conan Doyle. "However, Sherlock Holmes is dead and dead he shall remain. I have had such an overdose of him that I feel towards him as I do towards pate de foie Eras, of which I once ate too much, so that the name of it gives me a sickly feeling to this day. I tossed him over the falls at Reichenbach and there's an end to him. And although I must admit that assisting Scotland Yard in an actual case intrigues me. it would do much to increase the already intolerable clamor for more of my stories about Holmes if word of this were to get out."
Grayson cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, well, with all due respect. Dr. Doyle," he said, "perhaps in that case you will understand why I would very much appreciate it if this consultation were to remain strictly unofficial. Soliciting your opinion as a medical man is one thing, however—"
"Consulting a writer of popular fiction would be quite another," Conan Doyle said. "I quite understand. The slant the newspapers would give to such a consultation could prove somewhat embarrassing to Scotland Yard. And it would be no less embarrassing to me, come to think of it, if I proved unable to assist you in any way." He chuckled and clapped the man on the shoulder. "You can set your mind at ease, Grayson. We shall keep this matter strictly between ourselves."
Grayson sighed gratefully. "I'm so glad you understand. Doctor. Frankly, I must admit that I am baffled by this case. And if, as you suggest, we are indeed faced with some wild animal running about loose in the East End, there could be widespread panic. Something must be done and quickly."
"Well, let us see what Constable Jones has to tell us about his assailant," Conan Doyle said, bending down over the body. "Hold my pipe a moment, will you. Grayson? Thank you. Now, it would seem reasonable to assume that a stout young man like Jones would not surrender his life meekly. He would certainly have struggled. Therefore, it is entirely possible that if we were to examine underneath his fingernails . . . ah, what have we here?"
"What is it?" Grayson said, leaning forward intently.
"If you would be so kind," said Conan Doyle, pointing, "I noticed a small wooden box beside that microscope there on the counter. undoubtedly it holds some glass slides. No. no, bring the entire box, please. The slide must be quite clean. Thank you. Ah, yes, perfect. Now, we shall place our find upon this slide here . .
"What is it," said Grayson, bending over and squinting at the slide. "Hair?"
"So it would appear," said Conan Doyle. "Now, the question is, what sort of hair?"
"Can you tell just by looking at it through the microscope?" said Grayson.
"To some extent," said Conan Doyle. "I have studied zoology and there are certain differences to be observed between human and animal hair, coarseness of the fibre, for example, the thickness of the shaft . . . let's sec now, ah, there we have it." He peered into the microscope. "It has been some time since I have observed various samples of animal hair through a microscope while at Edinburgh University, but I am fortunate in that I possess an excellent memory. I had given some thought to writing a monograph upon the subject, but ... well! That is curious!"
"What is it, Doctor?" Grayson said. "What do you see?" "See for yourself," said Conan Doyle.
Grayson squinted through the eyepiece, then straightened up with an apologetic shrug. "I never studied zoology," he said. "I couldn't tell that bit of hair from one plucked out of my own head.••
"If that sample had been obtained from your own head." said Conan Doyle. "I would be tempted to make a most unorthodox diagnosis of your condition, Grayson. In that event, I would suspect that you were suffering from a disease generally regarded as a form of insanity."
"And what disease would that be, Doctor?"
"Lycanthropy. Inspector Grayson. The belief that one is capable of becoming a wolf or, more specifically. a legendary creature known in folklore as a werewolf.”
1 ________
The man who came to the door of 7 Mornington Place in northwest London was of medium build, with blue eyes, light brown hair parted neatly on the side and a large, full and slightly drooping moustache that somehow did not quite seem to fit his boyish face. His eyes were expressive and alert as he gazed past Amy Robbins at the three strangers on his doorstep. They were well dressed. two men and a young woman. One man was clean-shaven, with angular features, blond hair and a hooked nose. The other was heavyset, muscular. with dark red hair and a full beard. The woman was very blond, statuesque, with an erect carriage and a very striking face.
"These people insist on speaking with you," Amy Robbins said. "I have told them you were very busy—"
"That's all right, Jane." he said, using her pet name. "How may I help you?"
"Mr. Wells?" said Finn Delaney.
"I am H. G. Wells. We have not met before?"
"No, sir. we haven't. My name is Finn Delaney. This is Mr. Creed Steiger and this is Miss Andre Cross. We have come a long way to speak with you on a matter of some importance. It concerns your writing. We understand that you are a busy man and we are quite prepared to compensate you for your time."
"Well, I must say, your offer is appreciated. but quite unnecessary. Do come in."
They entered the modest, but comfortable rooms. "May I offer you some tea?" said Wells.
"Please don't trouble yourself, Mr. Wells,•• said Steiger. "We won't take up much of your time.•"
"No trouble at all. Please, come this way."
He led them to a small and tidy study, filled with bookshelves and a writing desk. The desk had some papers spread out on it and a wastebasket beside the desk was filled with crumpled paper. Several of the crumpled sheets had missed the wastebasket.
"I have been busy writing articles for the Pall Mall Gazette," said Wells, picking up the errant litter. "Merely some light sketches, dialogues and essays, an occasional book review . . . excuse me, you are American, are you not?"
"Yes, Mr. Delaney and 1 are from the States." said Steiger. "Miss Cross is originally from southwest France."
"I see. Again, how may I help you? You mentioned something about my writing. I am astonished that anyone in America could be familiar with it. I have only recently begun my journalistic career."
"We were not quite so much interested in your articles for the Gazette." said Andre, "as in a story you once wrote called 'The Chronic Argonauts.' "
"Good God!" said Wells, sitting back with surprise. "That was some seven years ago! It was pr
inted in the Science Schools Journal. I was only twenty-one at the time and woefully incompetent at writing fiction. I abandoned it after only three installments because I realized that it was hopeless and that I could not go on with it." He shook his head. "The story was clumsily invented and loaded with irrelevant sham significance, an entirely inept romance with the most absurd, rococo title. What possible interest could you have in it?"
Steiger spoke carefully. "Well, actually, Mr. Wells, it was not the story itself so much as the idea that intrigued us. The idea of traveling through time, that is. We are academicians of a sort, specializing in the sciences, and as such, our reading tends to be quite diversified. We were struck by the fascinating combination of ingredients in your story, philosophy, science, fiction. .. ."