by Ron Weighell
I found Holmes cross-legged in an armchair, violin bow poised, a contented smile playing about his thin lips. Indeed so contented was the smile, that for an instant an unpleasant possibility suggested itself to me. Holmes stopped playing just long enough to shake his head and say, as if in answer to my unspoken question, ‘No, Watson, I have not returned to my old ways and sought “surcease from sorrow” in the seven per cent solution!’
‘Then it must be the Arnot case,’ I offered. ‘You have solved it!’
‘Oh that. Yes, it is solved. It was the sundial, Watson! They had turned it.’
‘Of course! So when the old man sat in the garden and noted the hour in his diary, he wrote down his murderer’s alibi!’
‘And signed his own death warrant.’
‘Then who was it, Holmes? Which one of the brothers?’
‘Both of them, Watson. By their clever ruse, each implicated the other, for the sundial was far too heavy for one to have moved it alone. However, you are wrong in supposing that to be the reason for my good mood. Read this, Watson; it arrived a little while ago.’
He held out a telegram speared on the end of his bow. I took it and read:
Mr Sherlock Holmes. Come at once if you can. One man dead. Others will die. Werewolf responsible. Freya Sturleson. Tarn Lodge.
I noted that the telegram had been despatched from Crowford in the county of Yorkshire.
Holmes, who had been watching keenly for my reaction, said innocently, ‘It has the charm of brevity, has it not? If you look in the index lying beside me, you will see what we are up against.’
I did so, and read, ‘“The change of man or woman into wolf, either through magical means, or judgement of the gods.” But Holmes, this is foolishness.’
‘Read on Watson.’
‘“A form of madness, Lycanthropy, Kuanthropy, or Boanthropy, depending on whether the victim thinks themselves transformed into wolf, dog or cow.”’
‘Now be so good as to read this.’
He handed me one of the sensational journals to which he devoted such close attention.
‘Let me see—“Tarn Lodge slaying—horrible death of young man—found with throat and face terribly torn—police have no clues as to culprit’s means of escape. Window open, but no prints on the snow outside.” Holmes, the telegram——’
‘Was sent from Tarn Lodge. You see, Watson, there has undoubtedly been a crime, and a very interesting one at that. I rather think this case satisfies my requirement of an outré and macabre element in full. Do you think your practice could spare you for a few days?’
‘I do
‘Splendid; then let us consult our Bradshaw. We must brave the wild north country.’
Tarn Lodge proved to be a sombre Jacobean pile standing in extensive grounds. That winter was a particularly harsh one, and the forbidding look of the house was not mitigated by the bleak, snowlocked landscape or the now-frozen expanse of tree-encircled water which gave the house its name. The sky was clear, but the country lay under an unbroken carpet of white, the trees plumed and swathed with snow.
The door was opened by a steely eyed old butler who seemed to expect us. He ushered us with barely a word into a chilly hall, dominated by a statue of a jackal-headed deity of Egypt carved in black basalt. Following him down a long, stone-flagged passageway we came to a door which he threw open, gesturing us to enter.
I was expecting to enter a room, so I was amazed to find myself in a vast conservatory, its walls of misty glass offering fragmented views of the snowy landscape. Inside, the atmosphere was that of a steamy jungle, suffocatingly hot and humid. All around us stood giant ferns, bamboo trees, and palms all hung with creepers, vines, and orchids.
Through this steamy atmosphere vividly coloured birds and butterflies fluttered. The woman who stepped forward to greet us was more colourful and exotic still. She wore some long flowing garment such as I had sometimes seen worn by devotees in Indian temples. Her black hair was suffered to fall in a wild mass of curls about her face and shoulders, and many strings of beads hung about her neck, along with a heavy pendant of bronze. Her whole appearance should have looked unseemly for a Western woman, but she was magnificent, her features calm and very dignified under their mantle of dark tresses. When she spoke, however, her voice was grim and clearly offered no welcome.
‘Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, I presume? I am Mrs Sturleson.’
‘Good day, Mrs Sturleson,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘I perceive that you are a Tantrika, and have visited Tibet at some time.’
The woman gasped, but quickly regained her composure and said, ‘How clever of you Mr Holmes! Let me guess—the pendant.’
‘—which is peculiar to the sect of that area, and whose significance you clearly understand judging by the colour of the cord on which you wear it. Forgive me for saying so, Mrs Sturleson, but you are clearly not pleased to see us, from which I conclude that it was not you who summoned us.’
‘That is correct. My stepdaughter sent the telegram. I do not approve of her action.’
‘There has been a murder——’
‘My step-son will reincarnate to fulfil his destiny with or without Your assistance, Mr Holmes.’
I could not keep silent at this.
‘His death does not seem to have upset you unduly.’
‘Upset? He has gone on to a higher plane, that is all.’
‘This is a magnificent collection of plants,’ observed Holmes. ‘Is your interest professional?’
‘My father was a botanist, and I was born in India. I spent much of my childhood travelling with him through the Himalayas as he collected plants for his work. It was during that time that I learned of the philosophy and medicine that have enriched my life.
‘As you see, I have been able to recreate the conditions of certain Himalayan Regions. Many of the alpine plants can be propagated outdoors in northern climate, but those whose home is found on the bitter heights of the Tibetan mountains must spend part of their time in specially prepared ice houses if they are to develop naturally. Each thing is adapted to its place.’
‘I should like very much to see some of these mountain dwelling plants,’ said Sherlock Holmes. ‘I have myself spent some time in the Himalayas.’
‘As it was said,’ replied Mrs Sturleson. ‘“As the dew is dried up by the morning sun so are the sins of men dried up by the sight of the Himalayas.”’
‘The Skanda Purana, I think,’ Holmes rejoined.
This seemed to please her.
‘I would be delighted to show you my plants, Mr Holmes, but I fear they would not make a very interesting spectacle at the moment. Some weeks ago a disease which I have not been able to identify killed off many of the high mountain dwelling plants. All my Mecanopsis Horridula, and the related species, are dead.’
‘Are you engaged in scientific study of the plants?’ I asked.
‘Not exactly, doctor. I distil various tinctures and lotions from my plants. At least I did until so many of them were killed.’
She sounded so crestfallen that I did not pursue the matter. If Holmes had a higher opinion of herbal medicine than I, he did not express it, but simply said, ‘I too have experimented a little with the distillation of certain substances. Before we leave I must see the equipment you use.’
Mrs Sturleson looked disturbed by Holmes’s request.
‘If you wish to, I suppose. Now I expect you would like to speak to my stepdaughter. Goodbye, gentlemen.’
As we left for the healthier atmosphere of the house I whispered, ‘She seems unwilling to let you know too much about her concoctions.’
‘Perhaps, Watson, perhaps. Still, we must resist the temptation to theorise from too few facts. Time will tell.’
Freya Sturleson, who awaited us in the hall, was a woman of a very different stamp. She was much younger; a fresh northern beauty with golden hair and ruddy cheeks, and she was dressed in mourning. She was obviously struggling against deep distress.
‘Mr Holmes
, and Dr Watson, I am so relieved to see you. It was I who summoned you.’
‘A most tantalising missive,’ said Holmes. ‘The murdered man was your brother, I take it?’
She bowed her head at this, then nodded and straightened her back. ‘Yes, it was John, and I was the one who found him.’
‘You are very couragous’ I interjected. ‘If this is too upsetting——’
But she would have none of it.
‘No, I will not rest until this is solved. It was for this reason that I called on you. I must be strong for John’s sake. Come, I will show you the room where—where it happened.’
She led us to a room whose windows looked out to the frozen tarn. Blood stains on the carpet left no doubt where the terrible event had occurred. Holmes was suddenly the hunter, stalking round the walls, crouching over the terrible stains, gauging their distance from the window. Miss Sturleson left the room, and returned with the butler.
‘Dodds found the body. Tell them all you know, Dodds.’
‘Were the windows open?’ asked Holmes.
‘They were sir. A cold wind blowin’ in and master John just lyin’ there covered with blood.’
‘Quite so—the report said no prints were found outside.’
‘There’d been no fresh snow that night, and it did not snow for a day after. You could have seen where a sparrow had walked. It were clear and untrodden all the way to the Tarn.’
‘No wildlife at all then. That is most instructive. And outside the other windows?’
‘The same sir. Not a mark in the snow.’
Thank you, Dodds. Your assistance has been invaluable.’
Turning to Miss Sturleson, Holmes asked, ‘I take it the house was thoroughly searched?’
‘Very thoroughly, I assure you. We ordered an immediate examination of every room.’
‘So, now I must ask you why you believe the culprit to be a werewolf.’
She smiled grimly and replied, ‘Because I have seen it, Mr Holmes.’
I have rarely seen Sherlock Holmes as stunned as he was at that moment. Then his expression changed to one that mingled intense interest and pleasure.
‘Come, sit down and tell me what you saw, in as much detail as you can. Leave out nothing.’
‘It happened the night before we found poor John. I was out walking in the grounds with my pet dog, when it began to growl and ran off into the bushes. Then there was a cry of pain, and when I looked, poor Loki was dead. Dead and horribly torn, just as my dear brother John was torn. I only glimpsed the monster that did this, but it moved on its back legs, yet crouched over, and it gave me the impression that its top half was that of a wolf. I may as well tell you, Mr Holmes, that I believe it to be the astral body of my stepmother in wolf form.’
Holmes showed no more visible reaction to this than someone who had been bidden the time of day.
‘I am most interested,’ said Holmes. ‘Pray continue.’
‘I know it must sound insane to you, but she is a woman of remarkable powers. She once told me that each of us possesses a subtle body capable of assuming a form shaped by thought and emotion. My father is a bedridden invalid, and we are very close. My stepmother is a very jealous woman, and is envious of every call on his attention; she hates me, and knew that the loss of my pet would hurt me deeply. My brother’s recent return gave her another rival.
‘I live in fear of her, Mr Holmes. From my childhood she has sought to do me harm. She was my nurse when mother was alive. I saw her administering her drugs to my mother in the last days of her illness. For all I know she may have killed mother, and may hold my father in thrall with them. I do know that she has tried to poison me.
‘She began giving her potions to me when I was very young. The excuse she used was that I suffered nightmares and troubled sleep. For all I know it might have been the drugs that caused it. I would be locked up in a stupor for days at a time. When I refused her “medicines”, as she called them, she simply slipped them into my food and drink. But I suppose you will think me foolish and deluded.’
‘I think nothing, Miss Sturleson, save that the time has come to meet your father.’
She led us back through the hall and up the stairs to the very top of the house.
‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘but if your father is an invalid, would it not be easier to locate his room on the ground floor?’
‘There is good reason for his choice of room, as you will see, doctor.’
She opened a door and gestured us in. The room was a species of studio, with a skylight that let in little radiance, as the expanse of glass was covered with snow. In the grey light stood many canvasses covered by dust-sheets. Under the skylight sat a giant of a man, lean-jawed, grizzled of beard and mane, staring at us balefully with deep-set eyes whose unhealthy, ivory-yellow tinge gave him the malevolent gaze of some beast of prey. He lay upon an upholstered reclining chair with winged dragons for front legs, double foot stools supported by gryphons, and a movable reading desk whose stem was a coiling serpent. The desk held a half-finished watercolour of the Fenris Wolf of Norse legend. Within arm’s reach on either side stood canvasses depicting in gruesome detail wolf packs at hunt and the kill. Miss Sturleson ran to him and they embraced tenderly. He whispered some words, and she left us with the words: ‘I will be next door in my room if you want me.’
‘Mr Holmes,’ bellowed the man, after she had gone, ‘welcome to my house. But I fear yours has been a wasted journey. My daughter meant well in bringing you here, but it is useless, unless you can defeat the power of an ancient curse.’
‘I make no claim to supernatural powers, yet I have helped in many cases where all hope seemed lost.’
‘Then hear this, Mr Holmes. In the dark forested regions of Norway an ancestor of mine was once savaged by an albino wolf. Thereafter his village suffered periodic depredations by some wild beast. When at last the creature was wounded, my ancestor was found maimed and bleeding in his bed. From that day my family has been under the shadow of the wolf. Mr Holmes, that curse has returned to plague this house, and I fear for my wife and daughter. I have done terrible things in my attempt to fight it, but to no avail. It was I who killed my son. Oh, I see the look on your faces. You do not believe in werewolves. Well, you will learn. I only wish my daughter might be spared this. All my children . . . it is too cruel. Please guard her, and my wife, Mr Holmes. And when the time comes, put an end to me.’
Holmes allowed himself the briefest of smiles.
‘Let us hope things may never come to such a pass. I have rarely had to resort to such action. By the way, Mr Sturleson, you have a rare gift for art. Might you not choose a less depressing subject? Excuse us.’
As we left the room, Holmes said quietly, ‘Yes, it has some similarities to that case, Watson, but this is a good deal simpler than the affair of the Hound.’
‘Would you say so? I would—but Holmes, how did you know . . .?
‘Not mind-reading my dear fellow. You could hardly fail to note that the ancestral curse and the savage beast were reminiscent of one of our strangest cases. But come, there is no time to be lost. We must make a search of the house and be certain that nothing has been overlooked.’
During the hours that followed, Sherlock Holmes stalked through every room, examining, measuring, comparing the internal and external dimensions of the house to eliminate the possibility of hidden spaces.
‘Do I take it from your search for a hiding place that you suspect some unseen hand in this, Holmes?’
‘I have reached no conclusions yet, Watson. I merely seek to exclude impossibilities.’
‘And whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’
Holmes shrugged. ‘I suppose so, Watson. Though when I said that I did not have werewolves in mind! Now as to our course of action, shall we watch the suspects? Mrs Sturleson? The Tantric path is a dark and sinister one, but hardly constitutes proof that she is a murderess. In any case, what use would we be against—what did she call
it—an astral body? Is the doting father more mobile than he pretends? Is his obsession with a curse a harmless eccentricity, or a sign of dangerous unbalance? There are too many variables here. So let us forget the culprit and guard the most likely victim. Let us see. First Miss Sturleson’s pet is killed, then her beloved brother. It is not unreasonable to conclude that she is, herself, the next victim. I think we could do worse than to keep an eye on the young lady’s room tonight.’
We ascertained that a room close to Miss Sturleson’s was vacant, and it was agreed that I should wait there with my revolver at the ready. Holmes insisted on taking up a position outside the house, where he could watch the only other means of ingress, the window.
On taking up my post, I looked out of my window. It was a bitterly cold night, the moon large and bright against driving rags of cloud that ran before a north-east wind. There had been a light fall of snow earlier, deepening the carpet on the lawns to a frozen crust that broke with sharp detonations, audible through the panes, as Holmes trudged into view and took up his position by the wall.
Two hours later I looked again, and he had not moved an inch. Had I not seen his arrival, I would have taken him for a statue.
I fear that I had dropped into a fitful doze when a shrill cry rang through the house. I was on my feet and out of the room, revolver at the ready, before I had realised that the cry had not been that of a woman. Even as I stood undecided, Holmes came bounding up the stairs, the blade of an unsheathed swordstick glinting in the lamplight.
‘It came from the studio, Watson.’
Holmes was soon battering at the studio door. From beyond the unyielding panels came cries of agony and fear. We threw our combined weight against the door, but it held. Before our second assault a silence fell in the studio. Again the door withstood our charge. At our third attempt the frame splintered and we fell into the room. At once Holmes closed the door and jammed a chair under the handle to prevent anyone else from entering.