Box Set: The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series: Books 1-3

by Brian Ference

  Lord Crawley’s dark eyebrows rose a few centimeters. “The papers have been going on about it for some time now. Some are saying he faked his own death.”

  Inspector Clarke chuckled. “I wouldn’t put so much stock in everything you read, son. The papers spend far too much time on sensationalism and very little on fact or science.”

  Lord Crawley took a few steps forward and paused. “If I may?”

  Inspector Clarke inclined his head as he intently observed the other man’s movements.

  Lord Crawley carefully looked around while making sure to avoid contact with any items in the room. He simply peered at everything around him as though creating a sketch in his head of the scene. His gaze finally came to rest on the portrait that hung on the back wall.

  “So, this is the painting he so loved. I can see the beauty in it and why it was his most valued possession.”

  The Inspector moved closer. “Is there some significance to this painting?”

  Lord Crawley removed a letter from his coat. “That is why I have come, Inspector. I have a letter here from one of Mr. Gray’s closest friends, the Lady Helena Rivera, formerly Lady Helena Wotton.”

  “Lady Helena? That name seems familiar to me.”

  “Yes, she has been writing to you for days. She would have come herself, but the weather has weakened her constitution somewhat and she asked that I come in her place.”

  “Ah, now I remember. A Lady Helena requested that any paintings found in the locked room be given to her care for safe keeping.”

  Lord Crawley dipped his head. “That is correct.”

  Inspector Clarke removed his bowler but stopped himself from running his hand over his bald spot. “Well, tell Lady Helena that she is mad if she thinks I will release evidence to her during an active inquest.”

  Lord Crawley scowled and his eyes began to gleam, as if hatching a scheme. “How is a painting evidence? The portrait is, however, the greatest work of the artist Sage Holdsworth. She was also close friends with Lady Helena. The two were business partners, you see. It follows that ownership of the painting now reverts to her as the only surviving partner. She demands that you relinquish her property at once. She intends to exhibit the work in a gallery as a tribute to both of her deceased friends.”

  The lines in the Inspector’s brow knitted together. “Once the inquest is concluded, and the legality of these claims can be proven, then the painting will be released to the proper owner.”

  Lord Crawley reached again into his coat and produced a second letter. “She thought you might say that.”

  The Inspector cautiously reached for the letter. “What is this?”

  Lord Crawley placed it in the Inspector’s hand with a flourish. “A letter from Chief Inspector Williamson requesting that you comply with her demand.”

  Inspector Clarke’s face fell at the name. “Let me guess. Lady Helena is also friends with the Chief Inspector?”

  Lord Crawley began putting on a pair of leather riding gloves. “Undoubtedly. She has far reaching connections, to be sure.”

  Inspector Clarke took the letter and opened it. He carefully read the message and scrutinized the signature and seal closely. “Very well, you may remove the painting. But I caution Lady Helena that this matter will be raised again. I may need to examine it further and interview her myself.”

  Lord Crawley was already moving towards the wall and carefully lifted the painting by its canvas sides. “As you say, Inspector. We are happy to cooperate.”

  It was only about an hour after Lord Crawley had wrapped up the painting and taken it away when Inspector Clarke heard yelling outside on the front lawn, punctuated by gunfire.

  CHAPTER 3.

  N

  EW ABILITIES

  Dorian had managed to make it to his manor in Woodford undetected. He had run straight through most of the night, stopping only when he heard someone approaching. Each time he was relieved that it was only some passerby and not the monster he feared waiting for him in the empty places of the night.

  Now that he had arrived at his destination, he had a dilemma. The grounds of the large country house were crawling with constables. He was crouched behind a large hornbeam bush near the southern gardens. From his vantage point he could count, eight…maybe nine, uniformed men patrolling the area. A large wall surrounded the east and west sides, leaving only two points of entry. He observed the lights and the additional set of men posted at the front door, dismissing the main corridor as a possible entrance. It was flattering to see so much of the police force turned out for his murder. It was, however, terribly inconvenient when it came to breaking back into his own home.

  Dorian had expected to need a rest from his desperate dash through the night. Rather, he was breathing regularly and with energy to spare. It was strange. He couldn’t afford to think about that now. He needed to focus on timing the movements of the patrol. He could see the men moved in groups of two in a rotating clockwise pattern. By counting his heartbeats, he guessed that they passed by his position every two minutes. That should give him enough time to make it across the gardens undetected. His goal was the white trellis heavily overgrown with vines that climbed the stone walls of the main house. With luck, the thin wood and plants should support his weight as he scaled them up to the second story.

  A pair of constables walked by. One of them was solidly built and quite tall. The other was shorter and struggled to catch his breath as he was patrolling. Dorian sunk lower and smiled when they walked by without seeing him. As they rounded the corner and vanished from sight, Dorian sprang into action.

  Running hard, he sprinted across the soft ground. He covered the distance faster than he had imagined and surprised himself with the height of his jump. As he leaped onto the trellis, he grasped wildly for a handhold. The trellis shuddered as he crashed into it. For a moment, he thought it would separate from the stone wall. But the clinging climbers of the plant held fast to the porous rock beneath and it supported his weight. With a breath of relief, Dorian began his ascent towards the broken window above.

  Once he reached the top, he began pulling himself up and into the room. Fortunately, he paused long enough to look inside and spot the man standing in the room. This was a problem. How was he supposed to get the painting now? The painting! It wasn’t there. The wall where it had hung now stood bare. How could this be? If the painting wasn’t here, then there was no telling where it was. How would he ever find it now?

  The trellis shifted and his hand slipped. It was all Dorian could do to catch himself and hold on. He clung there for a few moments, hoping the man inside hadn’t been alerted to his presence. How many heartbeats had passed since he left the cover of the bushes? Eighty or one hundred? He was running out of time. He began climbing down as fast as he could and jumped the remaining three meters to the ground. He had just risen to his feet when a voice called out from the edge of the garden.

  “Halt! You there, stand and identify yourself.”

  Dorian took one look at the approaching constables and then turned and ran in the opposite direction.

  “Halt! McDonaugh, Stoker! To your left. Intruder on the run!”

  Dorian easily outpaced his pursuers only to have the shorter constable suddenly appear right in front of him, fumbling to draw his pistol. He charged the constable and dropped his shoulder into the man’s chest. Dorian skidded to a stop as the constable flew back nearly two meters and crashed to the ground. The pistol spun away and into the garden. The downed man stayed motionless. That was when the larger constable grabbed him from behind with powerful arms.

  Without thinking, Dorian lashed out with his elbow and struck the man in the face as he twisted in his grasp. He tore the man’s shirt around the collar, breaking the thin chain around his neck. The constable was momentarily stunned and grabbed at his neck where the chain had been. Dorian seized on his opponent’s distraction and wrenched open the strong arms. The constable grabbed Dorian’s forearm while throwing a quick jab wi
th his right fist.

  Time seemed to slow as the meaty fist approached his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, Dorian ducked under the punch and struck the constable in the stomach. The man staggered back a few steps and doubled over in pain. His face crinkled in a contorted grimace; the wind whooshed out of his lungs, yet still he staggered forward for more.

  The constable rushed forward and spread his arms and shoulders wide in an attempt to grapple. Dorian responded in kind and grasped the man’s hands in his own, pushing him backward. Despite his smaller size, Dorian could feel the constable’s muscles giving out as they strained to contain him. He slowly bent the larger arms out and downward. He was winning. His opponent slowly sunk lower, fighting back for every centimeter. Dorian paused to look over the man’s shoulder and saw the other constables had nearly reached them. Of course, this man knew if he could hold him long enough, his fellows would end the contest with sheer numbers.

  With a crack, he smashed his forehead into the face of the constable. The man’s nose gave way and his grip immediately loosened. Dorian took his opportunity and untangled himself before running towards the tall firethorn hedges growing on the edge of the estate. He crashed through the shrubbery just as one of the other constables opened fire with a revolver. He paused just long enough to hear them cut off pursuit and check on the injured men behind him before continuing to flee.

  Constable Cunningham ran over to his downed colleague. “McDonaugh, are you okay? I’ve never seen any man outmatch you before.”

  Constable McDonaugh spit blood and put his hands to his nose. It was rapidly turning blackish-purple. He ignored the other constable as he searched the ground for his broken chain. He slurred his words, “Wher’ is my swee’ Abiageal?” He sighed in relief as he found the sack with her picture still inside.

  Constable Cunningham politely ignored the sad display. “Damnation, he must’ve been strong. McDonaugh was a champion brawler in Her Majesty’s Royal Sappers.” He bent to check on the unconscious man on the ground. Satisfied he was breathing regularly, he turned back to McDonaugh.

  “Eeh ‘roke my ‘ose,” McDonaugh struggled to speak with the blood pouring from his face.

  “What’s that? I can’t quite understand you.” Constable Cunningham took a step closer. “My word, he broke your nose.”

  Satisfied that they would not pursue him, Dorian retrieved the steel maul he had stashed nearby in a pile of leaves. As he stood from bending to recover it, he saw with a shock that blood covered his shirt and hands. His blood. He ripped open his shirt and put his hands to the wound, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood. Except there was no wound. Nor any pain. His chest was bloody but whole. There weren’t even any scratches on his arms from the long thorns of the hedge. There was no gaping hole left by a bullet. “What the?” Then a realization dawned on him as he remembered the last time he had been shot.

  It had been a duel between gentlemen over his involvement with the man’s daughter. He remembered the feeling as his shoulder tore open when struck by the lead ball. Even more terrible was the pain of the soft ball flattening and exploding out his back, leaving a gaping bloody wound. He had passed out and thought it all some terrible dream. But he had miraculously healed that time as well. To have the same thing happen twice was undeniable. What had given him the endurance to travel such a far distance that night and still fight off the constables? That larger one should have easily bested him. He needed help. But who could he trust to assist him in locating the painting and making sense of these strange manifestations?

  CHAPTER 4.

  L

  ADY HELENA

  Lord Crawley entered the mansion of Lady Helena by the back gate. Thick grape vines hid the metal thatch-work gate and passage behind it. Only a select few knew of this entryway to her property. Secret business and unseen deliveries passed through these doors. Deliveries such as the painting that Lord Crawley held under his arm. He had carefully covered it with a well-oiled sailcloth, protecting it against the damp air.

  He fumbled with the overgrown vegetation for a few moments before uncovering the latch. After glancing around him, Lord Crawley produced a key and turned the lock. The heavy gate swung open on well-greased hinges. He moved inside the dark tunnel and closed the iron gate carefully behind him. A few seconds later, a torch flared to life in his hand and he proceeded down the narrow brickwork path.

  He traveled for nearly thirty meters before coming to a heavy kingwood door. Once there, he placed his torch in a waiting sconce and knocked loudly. The metal knocker was a strange choice. It featured the image of a siren, luring a pair of sailors to their deaths as she perched on jagged rocks. He re-adjusted his grip on the canvas and was surprised at how quickly the peephole slid open in response to his knock.

  A set of beady eyes scrutinized him for a few heartbeats before the bolt slid across and the portal opened. The pale light from within illuminated the grizzled outline of Lady Helena’s gardener, Lucious MacIllian. In the few months the man had worked for her, Lord Crawley had never once seen Lucious tend to the garden, or any other plants for that matter. He was convinced the foul-tempered servant took care of much more unpleasant tasks for his employer. The role of gardener was merely a contrivance to explain his presence.

  The man spoke in a grinding tone with a heavy Scottish accent. “Come alang, yer Lordship. Must’nt kep th’ Mistress awaitin’.” He turned his face down in the sour look most commonly found there. Somewhere between a frown and a sneer, the expression barely hid the man’s contempt behind a thin veil of servile submissiveness. It was an ugly face, pockmarked and weathered from age and hard labor. Long sideburns concealed a set of scars on both cheeks, and the face ended in a long hooking nose. The beak bent in the middle, likely from a break that had healed poorly. The head sat upon a wiry frame that still had some strength, despite its age. The man wore the common clothes of a laborer with worn brown boots that had a military cut to them. A dark-wool Scottish cap, tilted slightly to the side, obscured his balding head.

  Lord Crawley refused to be baited by this cur, so he simply smiled and pretended not to notice the disrespect shown to him. “Lead the way. My lady will be most pleased to see I have returned victorious.”

  Lucious harshly shut the door, and then hurried down the stone hallway. He climbed up a flight of red brick steps without bothering to pause and see whether the man followed or not.

  Lord Crawley cursed under his breath and followed the man up the steps and into the main house. How rude that he had not offered to unburden him from his package. Once up the steps, he passed through a series of richly appointed rooms, stopping finally in a drawing room warmed with a roaring fire. Under a pile of plush blankets and soft furs sat Lady Helena.

  Despite her advanced age and weakened condition from a recent sickness, her eyes were still mischievous. Though wrinkled and thinning, hers had once been a beautiful and regal face. She was still graceful in defiance of the onslaught of time.

  “Ah, my Lord Crawley. I see you were successful in the small task I set for you.”

  Lord Crawley inclined his head. “I would hardly,” he said with his most charming smile, “call it a small task, my lady. The Detective Inspector was loathe to release this painting into my custody and required a great deal of persuasion.”

  She laughed in a silvery tone, which turned suddenly into a coughing fit. Lord Crawley dutifully ignored it. Once she mastered her composure, she proceeded on as if no interruption had occurred. “Fancied it as evidence, did he?”

  Lord Crawley began unwrapping it. “Yes, and I can see why. You did not tell me what an exquisite work of art it is. It must be very valuable.”

  Lady Helena waved her hand towards the painting with a flourish. “I would call it invaluable. A good thing I thought to call upon the Chief Inspector for his support in this matter.”

  “A brilliant move, my lady. Your resourcefulness was the prod that allowed me to guide him towards releasing it into my care.�
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  “If only I were a decade younger, I would have better use for that silver tongue of yours, Lord Crawley. Please, set the painting over there in the light and let me take a good look at it.”

  With a slight blush on his cheeks, Lord Crawley moved over to the table and carefully finished unwrapped the painting. He set it on the waiting wood easel and stepped back.

  Lady Helena gasped and then spoke in a whisper, “It has changed.”

  Lord Crawley peered closer and spoke in a confused tone. “What do you mean, ‘changed’? That’s a spitting image of Dorian.”

  Lady Helena smoothed back her hair. “Oh yes, Mr. Gray is the same as always. The painting captures his sculpted figure and timeless youth perfectly. When I last saw this painting he wasn’t alone on the canvas, but was holding a small wolf pup.”

  Lord Crawley grew nervous. “Perhaps it’s a different painting?”

  “Oh, no. True, Sage painted many images of Mr. Gray, but this was the only one that was so alive with realism. Shortly after its creation, he stopped sitting for her and Sage never painted another portrait of Mr. Gray before her death. This is that same painting. I was there when it was finished and my memory is still as sharp as it ever was. Somehow the wolf cub has been removed.”

  Lord Crawley breathed a sigh of relief. “So Dorian had it painted out. Perhaps his vanity could not suffer any upstaging from the charm of some tiny animal. Why was it so urgent for you to have it in your possession?”

  Lady Helena examined the jeweled rings on her fingers. “My reasons are my own. Now, please recount to me the room exactly as you found it, and leave no detail out.”

  This was why Lord Crawley had examined the room so carefully. He had committed every detail of the scene to memory as Lady Helena had commanded. He related the details to her as best he could.