White Fire (31 page)

The invitation, generous as it was, was offered with a certain ill-grace.

“That won’t be necessary,” Holmes said. “We passed an inn back in Hexham—The Plough, I believe—which we will make our base of operations.”

As he was speaking, Sir Percival spilt brandy on his shirtfront. He set the glass aside with a mild execration.

“I understand, sir, that you are in the hat-making trade,” Holmes said.

“In years past, yes. Others look after the business for me now.”

“I’ve always been fascinated by the process of making felt. Purely a scientific curiosity, you understand: chemistry is a hobby of mine.”

“I see.” Our host dabbed absently at his damp shirtfront.

“The basic problem, as I understand it, is in softening the stiff animal hairs to render them sufficiently pliable for shaping felt.”

I glanced again at Holmes, wondering where in the devil this particular tack could be leading.

“I recall reading,” Holmes continued, “that the Turks of old solved this problem by the application of camel urine.”

“We have come a long way from those primitive methods,” Sir Percival replied.

Miss Selkirk entered the salon. She looked in our direction, smiled a trifle wanly, and took a seat. She was evidently much worried about her fiancé, and seemed to be at pains to maintain her self-command.

“No doubt your own process is much more modern,” Holmes said. “I should be curious to hear its application.”

“I wish I could satisfy you on that score, Mr. Holmes, but it remains a trade secret.”

“I see.” Holmes shrugged. “Well, it is of no great consequence.”

At this point there was a commotion in the hall. A moment later, a young man in full hunting dress appeared in the doorway. This was clearly Sir Percival’s son, and—with his determined features, his military bearing, and the heavy rifle slung over one shoulder—he cut a fine figure indeed. Immediately, Miss Selkirk rose and, with a cry of relief, flew to him.

“Oh, Edwin,” she said. “Edwin, I beg of you—let this time be the last.”

“Vicky,” the young man said, gently but firmly, “the beast must be found and destroyed. We cannot allow another outrage to occur.”

Sir Percival rose as well and introduced Holmes and myself. My friend, however, interrupted these civilities with some impatience in order to question the new arrival.

“I take it,” he said, “that this afternoon’s foray was unsuccessful.”

“It was,” Edwin Aspern replied with a rueful smile.

“And where, may I ask, did you undertake your stalk?”

“In the western woods, beyond the bog.”

“But was nothing discovered? Tracks? Scat? Perhaps a den?”

Young Aspern shook his head. “I saw no sign.”

“This is a very devious, clever wolf,” Sir Percival said. “Even dogs are hopeless to track it.”

“A deep business,” Holmes murmured. “A deep business indeed.”

Holmes declined an invitation to supper, and after a brief survey of the grounds we rode the wagonette back into Hexham, where we took rooms at The Plough. After breakfast the following morning, we made application to the local police force, which, it turned out, comprised a single individual, one Constable Frazier. We found the constable at his desk, employed in jotting industriously into a small notebook. From my earlier adventures with Holmes, I had not formed a particularly high opinion of local constabulary. And at first sight, Constable Frazier—with his dark olive dustcoat and leather leggings—seemed to bear out my suspicions. He had heard of Holmes, however, and as he began to respond to the enquiries of my friend, I realized that we had before us—if not necessarily a personage of superior intellect—at the least a dedicated and competent officer with, it seemed, a laudable doggedness of approach.

The wolf’s first victim, he explained, had been an odd, vaguely sinister individual, a shabbily-dressed and wild-haired man of advanced years. He had shown up abruptly in Hexham some weeks before his death, skulking about and frightening women and children with inarticulate ravings. He did not stay at the inn, seemingly being without ready funds, and after a day or two the constable was called in by concerned citizens to learn the nameless man’s business. After a search, the constable discovered the man staying in an abandoned wood-cutter’s hut within the borders of Kielder Forest. The man refused to answer the constable’s enquiries or to explain himself in any way.

“Inarticulate ravings?” Holmes repeated. “If you could be more precise?”

“He spoke to himself a great deal, gesturing frantically, quite a lot of nonsense, really. Something about all the wrongs that had been done him. Amongst other rot.”

“Rot, you say. Such as?”

“Mere fragments. How he had been betrayed. Persecuted. How cold he was. How he would go to law and get a judgement.”

“Anything else?” Holmes pressed.

“No,” replied the constable. “Oh yes—one other very odd thing. He often mentioned carrots.”

“Carrots?”

Constable Frazier nodded.

“Was he hungry? Did he mention any other foods?”

“No. Just carrots.”

“And you say he mentioned carrots not once, but many times?”

“The word seemed to come up again and again. But as I said, Mr. Holmes, it was all a jumble. None of it meant anything.”

This line of questioning struck me as a useless diversion. To dwell on the ravings of a madman seemed folly, and I could see no connection to his tragic end at the jaws of a wolf. I sensed that Constable Frazier felt as I did, for he took to looking at Holmes with a certain speculative expression.

“Tell me more about the man’s appearance,” Holmes said. “Everything that you can remember. Pray spare no details.”

“He was singularly unkempt, his clothes mere rags, his hair uncombed. His eyes were bloodshot, and his teeth black.”

“Black, you say?” Holmes interrupted with sudden eagerness. “You mean, black as in unsound? Decayed?”

“No. It was more a dark, uniform grey that in dim light almost looked black. And he seemed to be in a state of continual intoxication, though where he got the money for liquor I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“How do you know he was intoxicated?”

“The usual symptoms of dipsomania: slurred speech, shaking hands, unsteady gait.”

“Did you come across any liquor bottles in the wood-cutter’s hut?”

“No.”

“When you spoke with him, did you smell spirits on his breath?”

“No. But I’ve had to deal with enough drunkards in my time to know the signs, Mr. Holmes. The matter is absolutely beyond question.”

“Very well. Pray continue.”

The constable took up again the thread of his narrative with evident relief. “Well, opinion in town was strong against him, so strong that I was about to run him off, when that wolf did the job for me. The morning after I questioned him, he was found on the edge of the forest, his body dreadfully torn and mangled, with tooth marks on the arms and legs.”

“I see,” said Holmes. “And the second victim?”

At this point, I confess I nearly objected to the line of enquiry. Holmes had questioned the constable closely on trivial matters, but was leaving the main points unbroached. Who, for example, had found the body? But I held my tongue, and Constable Frazier continued.

“That took place two weeks later,” the constable said. “The victim was a visiting naturalist up from Oxford to study the red fox.”

“Found in the same location as the first?”

“Not far away. Somewhat nearer the bog.”

“And how do you know both killings were done by the same animal?”

“It was the look of the wounds, sir. If anything, the second attack was even more vicious. This time, the man was…partially eaten.”

“How did the town react to this second killing?”

“There was a lot of talk. Talk—and fear. Sir Percival took an interest in the case. And his son, who was recently returned from the Indian campaign, began roaming the woods at night, armed with a rifle, intent on shooting the beast. I opened an investigation of my own.”

“After the second killing, you mean.”

“Beg pardon, Mr. Holmes, but there didn’t seem to be any purpose to one before. You understand: good riddance to that ancient ruffian. But this time, the victim was a respectable citizen—and we clearly had a man-eater on our hands. If the wolf had killed twice, he would kill again…if he could.”

“Did you interview the eyewitnesses?”

“Yes.”

“And did their stories agree?”

The constable nodded. “After the second killing, they saw the beast skulking back into the forest, a fearsome creature.”

“Seen from how far away?”

“At a distance, at night, but with a moon. Close enough to note the fur on its head having gone snow white.”

Holmes thought for a moment. “What did the doctor who presided over the inquests have to say?”

“As I said, amongst other things he noted the fact that, whilst both victims were severely mauled, the second had been partially eaten.”

“Yet the first merely had a few tentative bite marks.” Holmes turned to me. “Do you know, Watson, that that is the usual pattern by which beasts become man-eaters? So it was with the Tsavo lions, as we spoke of previously.”

I nodded. “Perhaps this wolf’s hunting range is deep within the forest, and it has been driven closer to civilization because of the long, cold winter.”

Holmes turned back to the constable. “And have you made any further observations?”

“Lack of observations is more like it, I’m afraid, Mr. Holmes.”

“Pray explain.”

“Well, it’s strange.” Constable Frazier’s face assumed a look of perplexity. “My family farm is at the edge of the forest, and I’ve had opportunity to go out looking for traces of the animal half a dozen times, at least. You’d think a beast that large would be easy to track. But I only found a few tracks, just after the second killing. I’m no tracker, but I could swear there was something unusual in that beast’s movements.”

“Unusual?” Holmes asked. “In what way?”

“In the paucity of sign. It’s as if the beast were a ghost, coming and going invisibly. That’s why I’ve been out of an evening, searching for fresh track.”

At this, Holmes leaned forwards in his chair. “Permit me to advise you right now, Constable, I want you to put a stop to that immediately. There are to be no more nocturnal ramblings in the forest.”

The constable frowned. “But I have certain obligations, Mr. Holmes. Besides, the person in true danger is young Master Aspern. He is out half the night, every night, looking for the creature.”

“Listen to me,” Holmes said severely. “That is utter nonsense. Aspern is in no danger. But you, Constable, I warn you—look to yourself.”

This brusque dismissal, and the notion that Miss Selkirk’s fears for her fiancé were unfounded, amazed me. But Holmes said nothing more, and had no further questions—save to again warn the constable to stay out of the woods—and, for the time being at any rate, our interview had ended.

It being Sunday, we were forced to confine our investigations to interviews with various inhabitants of Hexham. Holmes first tracked down the two eyewitnesses, but they had little to add to what Mr. Frazier had already told us: they had both seen a large wolf, remarkably large in fact, loping off in the direction of the bog, the fur on the top of its head a brilliant white in the moonlight. Neither had investigated further, but instead had the good sense to return to their homes with all speed.

We then repaired to The Plough, where Holmes contented himself with asking the customers their opinion of the wolf and the killings. Everyone we spoke to was on edge about the situation. Some, as they lifted their pints, made brave statements about taking on the hunt themselves one day or another. The majority were content to let young Master Aspern track down the beast on his own and expressed much admiration for his courage.

There were only two dissenting opinions. One was a local grocer, who was of the firm belief that the killings were the result of a pack of feral dogs that lived deep within Kielder Forest. The other was the publican himself, who told us that the second victim—the unfortunate Oxford naturalist—had stated point-blank that the beast which committed these outrages was no wolf.

“No wolf?” Holmes said sharply. “And to what erudition, pray tell, do we owe this unequivocal statement?”

“Can’t rightly say, sir. The man simply stated that, in his opinion, wolves were extinct in England.”

“That’s hardly what I would call an empirical argument,” I said.

Holmes looked at the publican with a keen expression. “And what particular beast, then, did the good naturalist substitute for the wolf of Kielder Forest?”

“I couldn’t tell you that, sir. He didn’t offer anything else.” And the man went back to polishing his glassware.

Save for the interview with the constable, it proved on the whole to be a day of rather fruitless enquiry. Holmes was uncommunicative over dinner, and he retired early, with a dissatisfied expression on his face.

Early the following morning, however, barely past dawn, I was awakened by a cacophony of voices from beneath my window. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was just past six. I dressed quickly and went downstairs. A cluster of people had gathered in the High Street, and were all talking and gesturing animatedly. Holmes was already there, and when he saw me emerge from the inn he quickly approached.

“We must hurry,” he said. “There has been another wolf sighting.”

“Where?”

“In just the same spot, between the bog and the edge of the forest. Come, Watson—it is imperative we be the first on the scene. Do you have your Webley’s No. 2 on your person?”

I patted my right waistcoat pocket.

“Then let us be off with all speed. That pistol may not bring down a wolf, but at least it will drive him away.”

Securing the same wagonette and ill-tempered driver we had employed before, we quickly left Hexham at a canter, Holmes urging the man on in strident tones. As we headed out into the desolate moorlands, my friend explained that he had already spoken to the eyewitness who had caused this fresh disturbance: an elderly woman, an apothecary’s wife, who was out walking the road in search of herbs and medicinal flowers. She could add nothing of substance to the other two eyewitnesses, save to corroborate their observations about the beast’s great size and the shock of white fur atop of its head.