“Cor blimey,” said the constable to the squire, “but you’re a vulture, Timothy.”
“In all seriousness,” protested the squire.
“I should think some long-lost relative gets a happy letter from his solicitor.”
The pastor cut in, shifting the topic away from material concerns. “I saw the bodies with my own eyes.” He bent close and his voice took on a mysterious timbre. “Unnatural wounds. Most unnatural. Made by a fell creature I say. Not merely an animal,” he said, cutting a disapproving look at the constable, “as some would wish it.”
Lawrence almost opened his mouth to say something but restrained himself. His hand was closed tightly around his whiskey glass.
The military man pursed his lips. He spoke in a voice better suited for a parade ground than a quiet tavern. “What if it wasn’t a beast at all, but a cunning murderer? Someone who bore a grudge against one of these men?”
“What do you mean?” asked the squire.
“It’s a simple tactic. To misdirect the authorities he kills the men, then he tears the bodies up to make it look like a wild beast was responsible. I’ve seen it before—”
The others all jumped in to offer counterarguments, their volume rising to become a shouting match.
The constable slapped his hand on the table. “Ridiculous, Colonel! Who would go to such lengths? And why risk killing anyone other than the intended victim?”
The colonel spread his hands. “To conceal his true intentions. Like I’ve been saying.”
Throughout the debate the vicar was shaking his head and now he held up a hand as if he was about to give a blessing. “Satan’s minions are manifold,” he said gravely. “He has forms and bodies far more terrible to draw upon than those of mere men and beast.”
The tavern keeper shook his head. “What about them Gypsies’ dancing bear? It could’ve done it.”
The colonel snorted. “That mangy thing? Kill three grown men? Doubtful, Kirk, very doubtful.”
The publican, Kirk, shrugged. “Then what, sir?” When the colonel didn’t answer Kirk turned to the vicar. “You agree, Pastor Fisk, don’t you?”
Fisk pursed his lips. “It might not be the bear,” he said dubiously, “but those Gypsies are behind it. Mark me. A curse on us—and we’re to blame. We allowed their paganism in our community.”
The man with the hunter’s eyes snorted. “Got nothing to do with the damned Gypsies, and ye all know it.”
All conversation at the table died away, as did much of the chatter elsewhere in the room.
“We’ve seen all this a’fore.”
“What are you saying, MacQueen?” asked the colonel.
MacQueen popped a lucifer with his thumbnail and held it over his pipe as he took a long pull. Despite his roughhewn clothes the other men waited him out, clearly invested in his opinion. MacQueen exhaled blue smoke up to the rafters and settled back in his chair, his keen eyes roving over the men as he spoke. His voice was quiet and even Lawrence found himself leaning forward to catch his words.
“It were twenty-five years ago now. My pa found him, way up on the dun. Quinn Noddy. Pastor, you knew him and his people. You, too, Constable Nye. Noddys have lived in these parts since times back. My pa was out early, following a blood trail and thinking there was a hound gone wild. He found Quinn Noddy and his whole flock. Torn to pieces. Half eaten they were. Just like these poor souls. Brains and guts and God-knows-what lying across the moor for a quarter mile. And Quinn . . . the look on his face like he’d been eaten alive.”
“Good lord,” murmured the bespectacled man.
“Aye, Dr. Lloyd. The Good Lord weren’t looking after Quinn and his that night. Whatever it was that done it was big, too. Had claws. And didn’t mind a load of buckshot, on account of we found two empty shells inside Quinn’s shotgun. Quinn were a good shot, too. He and my pa took many a wily pheasant, and he weren’t one to miss what he shot at.”
“Anyone can miss,” said the colonel, but his voice lacked conviction.
MacQueen turned a knowing eye on him. “If something was killing your whole flock o’ sheep, Colonel Montford would you miss? Could you miss if something were close enough to tear you apart? Maybe one of your green recruits, but Quinn was nobody’s fool and he could hit what he wanted to hit. But there was nothing . . . no body, no wounded animal spoor. Whatever it was killed Quinn and tore him and flock to guts and gore was something that could not be killed by buckshot. Think on that for a spell.”
Dr. Lloyd opened his mouth to speak but shut it again. Constable Nye cleared his throat. “Did your father know what killed Noddy?”
MacQueen gave him an enigmatic smile; not a comfortable smile at all. He sucked on his pipe. “Well, sir, after what my pa saw, he went home and melted down my ma’s wedding spoons and cast silver slugs of ’em. Always had one barrel loaded that way and the other slugs in his pocket anytime he walked out onto the moors, even in the bright midday.” He paused and the tavern was as silent as the grave. “And at night? Well . . . my pa wouldn’t leave the house on a full moon from then on.”
Colonel Montford laughed, trying to break the spell of MacQueen’s words. His laugh sounded hollow. “Come now, MacQueen.”
Dr. Lloyd shared a knowing look with Pastor Fisk.
Montford said, “Your father thought it was a werewolf?”
MacQueen smoked his pipe and said nothing.
The squire patted MacQueen on the arm. “Your father was an excellent gamekeeper, God rest him . . . but a gullible soul.”
“Strickland’s right,” agreed the colonel. “Your father would throw salt over his left shoulder and knock wood at any mischance. I’ve seen him do it.”
Squire Strickland nodded, but MacQueen continued to sit in silence, the blue fog of his pipe surrounding him like an aura.
Into the silence Pastor Fisk spoke, his voice low and tentative. “Maybe, Squire . . . and again maybe not. MacQueen lives closer to the land than we do. His people see what we in town miss. Besides . . . my uncle complained for years that his livestock disappeared at the hands of the Devil’s beast.”
The publican grunted. “I still say that bear’s to blame. Damn Gypsies. You don’t need to look past them for the Devil’s work, Pastor. Them dark-eyed buggers always wandering the countryside, bringing their woe and deviltry with ’em. They show up, and two weeks later this happens. . . .” He shook his head. “My guess is that Ben Talbot went to their camp to twiddle a Pikey whore. Bear gets him and they dump what’s left of him in a ditch.”
“No, no,” said Dr. Lloyd, “that’s all well and good, Kirk, but how does that explain—?”
Squire Strickland cut him off. “You’d think the Talbots would have learned their lesson consorting with the Roms!”
“Right,” agreed Colonel Montford. “Remember that black-eyed Salome the old man married? Gone crazy up there in the hall, killed herself? Wasn’t she a gypo whore queen or somesuch?”
Lawrence stood up with such violence that his chair legs scraped back with a furious squeal. He stalked straight to the edge of their table and as one the gathered men stopped speaking and looked up to face the tall, broad-shouldered stranger. The scowl on Lawrence’s face was so charged with dangerous fury that most of the men at the table recoiled.
“Yes, she was crazy,” Lawrence snarled. “To have come to this shit-hole you call a town.”
His words struck them to dumb silence except for the half-deaf pastor who turned to the squire. “What did he say?”
Colonel Montford was the first to recover. “You’re in your drink, boy,” he said with quiet control.
“Am I?” Lawrence sneered. “Then you must be awash in gin if you allow your mouth to jabber on about things you know nothing about!”
Montford jumped to his feet so suddenly that his chair fell over with a crash. His face flushed with red fury as he stepped face-to-face with Lawrence. Kirk moved behind the colonel and his glare showed that he was ready to back a regular against a
stranger if this came to blows.
That was fine with Lawrence. He loathed these men as deeply as if he’d known them as enemies for years. Hearing them speak of Ben was bad enough, but then they had dared—dared—say such vile things about his mother. He balled his fists, ready to tear into them; ready to defend his brother’s honor and see their blood. He stepped toward Montford, his lips still curled in a sneer that gave his features a lupine cast.
“I—” he stared to say but then Constable Nye was on his feet, thrusting his bulk between Lawrence and the colonel.
“We’ll have none of this!” he bellowed.
“Get him out of my tavern, Nye!” growled Kirk.
Lawrence started to go around the constable, but Nye put a restraining hand on his chest. “No!”
Lawrence looked down at the hand and then brushed it aside. Gently. He looked at the colonel with such a cold contempt that Montford looked taken aback.
“My mother was a Marquesa, you idiot. Solana Montrosa de Verdad.” He spat on the floor. “And she was no Gypsy.”
With that he turned and stalked out of the room leaving behind him a stunned silence so profound that the gathered men could hear the soft hiss of the log burning in the fireplace on the far side of the room.
It was Dr. Lloyd who broke the silence. “That man . . . that was Lawrence Talbot.”
Nye looked at Colonel Montford for a long and ugly moment, and the echo of Lawrence’s words seemed to haunt the air around them. The colonel turned away, snatched up his wineglass and threw it back. He sank into his chair without comment.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The sun was down, its last feeble light staining the sky as it tumbled into the distant west. Lawrence stalked down the street, fists still balled in rage, his jaw aching from the clench of his teeth. God how he wanted to pound those men, especially that pompous military buffoon.
He made it as far as the church and then wheeled around and headed back to the tavern. Maybe beating some sense into them was the right thing to do. Maybe that’s what it would take to—
But Constable Nye stepped from the shadows into his path. Lawrence squared his shoulders, ready for a fight, but the constable gave him a sad smile and held out the small pouch of Ben’s belongings. “I’m sorry for your loss, Talbot . . . but it’s time for you to go home.”
Muscles bunched and flexed at the corners of Lawrence’s jaws. He looked past Nye to the tavern door and the moment stretched.
“Truer words were never spoken.”
Then he drew in a breath through his nose and exhaled slowly and took the pouch from Nye. As Lawrence turned and began walking to where his gelding was tethered, Nye fell into step beside him.
After a dozen silent paces, Lawrence said, “What happened to my brother and those other men?”
Nye shook his head. “It had to be some kind of animal.”
“And what are you doing about it?” Nye hesitated and Lawrence wheeled in front of him. Lawrence stepped closer. He was bigger and taller than Nye and the constable was forced to look up in order to maintain eye contact. “You’re not doing anything.”
For all the raw menace that Lawrence exuded, Constable Nye held his ground. “There’s been no sign of it for weeks, Talbot. It’s likely moved on . . . whatever it was.”
“And what if it hasn’t?” Lawrence asked. “What then?”
Nye did not even try to answer it. It was clear that he had thought about that and did not have a clue as to what to do.
“I thought as much,” said Lawrence with venom and pushed Nye out of his way. He stalked to the hitching post and whipped the tethers away from the wrought-iron rail and swung into the saddle. He threw one black look at Nye and a longer, far darker one at the tavern door, then nodded to himself as if he’d made a hard decision, and kicked his horse into a canter.
CHAPTER NINE
Lawrence’s foul mood was with him all the way home and only slightly diminished when Singh informed him that he was expected at the table with Sir John and Gwen Conliffe. The image of the young woman was captured in his mind as if the photograph had sunk beneath his flesh, and as he bathed and dressed he felt conflicted. Gwen had been engaged to Ben. She was a stranger to him. Nevertheless his baser self had been powerfully drawn to her image.
The lust, guilt and anger at the townsmen were all bandages to hide the real wound: grief. Lawrence knew it and that just pumped more bile into his demeanor.
By the time they sat down to dinner his troubled feelings had not much diminished. In person Gwen Conliffe was even more beautiful than the photograph had suggested. She was young and lovely in a way that made all of the beautiful actresses Lawrence cavorted with suddenly seem plain. She was uncorrupted, unsullied. Her fair skin was not the product of powder and paint, and her eyes were bottomless.
She was dressed in a mourning gown of black, but it was beautifully cut and did nothing to divert his attention from her beauty. By contrast, Sir John wore a suit with an old-fashioned cut. Elegant but out of place and showing wear. The old man’s white hair was sketchily combed, his face unevenly shaved. Lawrence himself had no mourning clothes, though he wore his most somber colors and a cravat that was as modest as he could manage with no notice.
The dining hall itself was a strange setting for the meal. The big ballroom was in disrepair and this smaller room had been intended for informal meals, which this should have been. The table was too large, the draperies too heavy, the paneling too dark, the chandelier burning with too many candles so that the overall effect was ostentation shoved to the edge of claustrophobia. The walls were crowded with tables and sideboards, and the dining table itself groaned under the weight of an absurdly large feast. Lawrence suspected that Singh had used every piece of silver plate in the house. Platters were laden with eels baked with lemon and black pepper, whole pheasants sitting in nests of roasted chestnuts, grilled brook trout whose eyes glared in apparent shock at the room, a rack of rare lamb’s ribs in mint sauce and a massive boar’s head with an apple larger than Lawrence’s fist shoved between its jaws. Bowls of roast potatoes stood alongside the last of the autumn greens.
Under other circumstances Lawrence would have dug in with the rapacity of a Roman at a bacchanal, but under the circumstances it all seemed too much, and it was far too soon. A feast like this would have been better suited to entertain a crowd of mourners after the funeral.
He briefly caught Gwen’s eye as she picked delicately at a sliver of fish. Her manners were those of a cultured London lady, though he could not yet tell if she had the snobbery to go along with them, or if her reserve was like his own. Grief and awkwardness.
In truth they’d barely said ten words between them since Sir John had made introductions prior to ushering Miss Conliffe to the table. Sir John, on the other hand, had set to the feast with a will and had managed to keep a flow of conversation going between hefty portions of every meat on the board. Lawrence watched Gwen as she in turn watched Sir John reach across the table to tear another rib from the rack. The fragile bones cracked and he smiled at the sound, then laid into it with his strong white teeth. Gwen colored slightly and turned away, apparently interested in the arrangement of the silverware beside her plate. Sir John must have caught the movement of her head and flicked a glance first to her and then to Lawrence.
“You should have sent word you were coming,” he said while chewing. “The telegraph line does reach us here at Blackmoor.”
Lawrence said nothing. He was trying not to stare at Gwen as he played and replayed the moment when he first saw her. He and his father had already sat down, and Sir John had started eating without preamble. When the door to the cramped dining room opened, Lawrence turned but Sir John had leapt nimbly to his feet. Lawrence stood slowly, entranced and, for once in his life, unaware of the emotions on his face.
Sir John was a clumsier host than Lawrence expected. He was gruff, possessive and even rude—but all of this was directed at Lawrence. To Gwen he was overly deferenti
al and courteous. Too much so.
Now, half an hour into the meal, Sir John was still eating and both Gwen and Lawrence seemed to be looking for an open window through which they could separately escape. Lawrence was hoping to make direct eye contact with Gwen so they could share that fragment of awareness. Would it make her smile? Even a rueful smile would be a wonderful thing to see on so beautiful a face.
“You find it surprising?”
Lawrence blinked, realizing that his father was talking to him. He read back the script of the last few moments and understood that his father was making a challenging follow-up to his remark about the telegraph. Lawrence had no intention of rising to the bait. He offered a meaningless smile and token incline of his head and sipped the wine. That, at least, was excellent.
Sir John reached for a platter and held it out to Gwen. “May I suggest some baked eel? Singh has outdone himself.”
Gwen smiled—as meaningless a gesture as Lawrence’s had been—and selected a piece of eel that looked less alive than did the others.
“Lawrence seems surprised that the telegraph wire reaches us here, even at lonely old Blackmoor.” He chewed for a moment. “Also—I hear that the Americans are running lines for their new telephone system in the Boston area. How about that?”
“Is that so?” Gwen said with feigned interest. Had an actress read the line that way Lawrence would have scolded her for a poor performance, but Sir John was a devoted audience and took it as a cue to continue his ramble.
“I don’t think I could stand the intrusion,” the old man said, forking more eel onto his plate, “being at the beck and call of every Tom, Dick and Harry with such a device.”
“I’m not surprised,” murmured Lawrence, and immediately regretted it as Sir John turned a hostile eye toward him. For a moment the air crackled with tension but then Sir John cut another covert look at Gwen and jammed another forkful of eel into his mouth.
Gwen used the moment to shift the topic, and she turned her smoky blue eyes toward Lawrence.
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