White Fire p-13 Read online

  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.

  “Do you fear—?” I began.

  “I fear the worst.”

  Reaching the spot, Holmes ordered the driver to wait and — without wasting a second — jumped from the wagonette and began making his way through the sedge- and bramble-covered landscape. The bog lay to our left; the dark line of Kielder Forest to our right. The vegetation was damp with a chill morning dew, and there were still patches of snow on the ground. Before we had gone a hundred yards, my shoes and trousers were soaked through. Holmes was far ahead of me already, bounding on like one possessed. Even as I watched, he stopped at the top of a small hillock with a cry of dismay, and abruptly knelt. As I made my way to him, my pistol at the ready, I was able to discern what he had discovered. A body lay amidst the swamp grass, not two hundred yards from the edge of the forest. A military rifle, apparently a Martini-Henry Mk IV, lay beside it. All too well I recognized the dustcoat and leather leggings, now torn and shredded in a most violent fashion. It was Constable Frazier — or, more precisely, what was left of him, poor fellow.

  “Watson,” Holmes said in an imperious tone, “touch nothing. However, I would appreciate, via visual observation only, your medical opinion of this man’s condition.”

  “He’s obviously been savaged,” I said, examining the lifeless body. “By some large and vicious creature.”

  “A wolf?”

  “That would seem most likely.”

  Holmes questioned me closely. “Do you see any specific and identifiable marks? Of fangs, perhaps, or claw marks?”

  “It’s difficult to say. The ferocity of the attack, the ruined condition of the body, render specific observation difficult.”

  “And are any pieces of the body — missing?”

  I took another look. Despite my medical background, I found this a most disagreeable undertaking. I had seen, more than once, native tribesmen of India who had been mauled by tigers, but nothing in my experience came close to the savagery under which Constable Frazier had fallen.

  “Yes,” I said at length. “Yes, I believe some few.”

  “Consistent with the description of the second victim? The naturalist?”

  “No. No, I’d say this attack was more extensive in that regard.”

  Holmes nodded slowly. “You see, Watson. It is again as it was with the man-eating lions of Tsavo. With each victim, they grow more brazen — and more partial to their newfound diet.”

  With this, he removed a magnifying glass from his pocket. “The rifle has not been fired,” he announced as he examined the Martini-Henry. “Apparently, the beast snuck up and struck our man from behind.”

  After a brief inspection of the corpse, he began moving about in an ever-increasing circle, until — with another cry — he bent low, then started slowly forwards, eyes to the ground, in the direction of a distant farmhouse surrounded by two enclosed fields: the residence, I assumed, of the unfortunate constable. At some point, Holmes stopped, turned round, and then — still employing the magnifying glass — returned to the body and moved slowly past it, until he had reached the very edge of the blanket bog.

  “Wolf tracks,” he said. “Without doubt. They lead from the forest, to a spot near that farmhouse, and thence to the site where the attack took place. No doubt it emerged from the woods, stalked its victim, and killed him on open ground.” He applied his glass once more to the swamp grass along the verge of the marsh. “The tracks go directly into the bog, here.”

  Now Holmes undertook a circuit of the bog: a laborious activity, involving several halts, backtracks, and exceedingly close inspections of various points of interest. I stayed by the body, touching nothing as Holmes had instructed, watching him from a distance. The process took over an hour, by which time I was drenched to the skin and shivering uncontrollably. A small group of curious onlookers were by now standing back along the roadside, and the local doctor and the magistrate had come up — the latter being the titular authority, with the demise of Constable Frazier — just as Holmes completed his investigation. He said not a word of his discoveries, but simply stood there amongst the marsh grass, deep in thought, as the doctor, the magistrate, and myself wrapped up the body and carried it to the wagonette. As the vehicle rolled off in the direction of town, I made my way back out to where Holmes remained standing, quite still, apparently oblivious to his soaked trousers and waterlogged boots.

  “Did you remark anything of further interest?” I asked him.

  After a moment, he glanced at me. Instead of answering, he pulled a briar pipe from his pocket, lit it, and replied with a question of his own. “Don’t you find it rather curious, Watson?”

  “The entire affair is mysterious,” I replied, “at least insofar as that blasted elusive wolf is concerned.”

  “I am not referring to the wolf. I am referring to the affectionate relationship between Sir Percival and his son.”

  This non sequitur stopped me in my tracks. “I’m afraid I don’t see what you’re driving at, Holmes. From my perspective, the relationship seems anything but affectionate — at least, with regard to the father’s callous unconcern for his son’s life and safety.”

  Holmes puffed at his pipe. “Yes,” he replied enigmatically. “And that is the mystery.”

  Being now rather closer to Aspern Hall than to Hexham, and having had our transportation commandeered by the magistrate, we made our way down the road to the Hall, arriving there in just under an hour. We were met by Sir Percival and h
is son, who had just finished breakfasting. The news of the latest attack had not yet reached them, and almost immediately the estate was thrown into an uproar. Young Edwin stated his intention of setting out directly to track the beast, but Holmes counselled him against it: in the wake of this latest attack, the animal had no doubt retreated to his lair.

  Next, Holmes asked Sir Percival if he could have the use of his brougham; it was his intention to ride into Hexham without delay and catch the first train to London.

  Sir Percival expressed astonishment but gave his consent. Whilst the coach was being called for, Holmes glanced in my direction and suggested we take a stroll round the garden.

  “I think you should ride into Hexham with me, Watson,” he said. “Gather up your things from The Plough and then return here to Aspern Hall for the night.”

  “What on earth for?” I ejaculated.

  “Unless I am much mistaken, I will be returning from London perhaps as soon as tomorrow,” he said. “And when I do, I shall bring with me the confirmation I seek as to the riddle of this vicious beast.”

  “Why, Holmes!”

  “But until then, Watson, your life remains at grave risk. You must promise me that you will not leave the Hall until I return — not even for a turn about the grounds.”

  “I say, Holmes—”

  “I insist upon it. In this matter I shall not give way. Do not leave the main house — especially after dark.”

  Although this request seemed eccentric in the last degree — especially given the fact that Holmes believed the much more aggressive Edwin Aspern to be in no danger — I relented. “I must say, old man, that I don’t see how you can be so certain of solving the case,” I told him. “The wolf is here in Hexham — not in London. Unless you are planning to return with a brace of heavy-calibre rifles, I confess that in this matter I see nothing.”

  “Quite the contrary — you see everything,” Holmes retorted. “You must be bolder in drawing your inferences, Watson.” But just at that moment there was a clatter of horseshoes on the gravel drive and the brougham drew up.

  I spent a dreary day at Aspern Hall. A wind came up, followed by rain: light at first, then rather heavier. There was little to do, so I occupied the hours with reading a day-old copy of The Times, jotting in my diary, and glancing through the books in Sir Percival’s extensive library. I saw nobody but servants until dinner. During that meal, Edwin declared his intent of going out again that very evening in search of the wolf. Miss Selkirk, who was by now naturally even more concerned for her fiancé’s well-being, protested violently. There was an ugly scene. Edwin, though not unmoved by Miss Selkirk’s objections, remained determined. Sir Percival, for his part, was clearly proud of his son’s courage and — when confronted by his daughter-in-law-to-be — defended himself with talk of the family honour and the high approval of the countryside. After Edwin had left, I took it upon myself to stay with Miss Selkirk and try to draw her into conversation. It was a difficult business, given her state of mind, and I was heartily glad when — at around half past eleven — I heard Edwin’s footsteps echoing in the Hall. He had again been unsuccessful in the hunt, but at least he was safely returned.

  It was very late the following afternoon when Sherlock Holmes reappeared. He had wired ahead to have Sir Percival’s brougham meet him at the Hexham station, and he arrived at the Hall in high spirits. Holmes had brought the magistrate and the town doctor with him, and he wasted no time in assembling the family and servants of the Hall.

  When all were settled, Holmes announced that he had solved the case. This caused no end of consternation and questioning, and Edwin demanded to know what he meant by “solving” the case when everyone knew the culprit was a wolf. Holmes refused to be sounded further on the matter. Despite the late hour, he explained, he would return to his rooms at The Plough, where he had certain critical notes on the case, in order to put his conclusions into order. He had made use of the carriage ride to confer with the magistrate and the doctor, and had only come out to the Hall in order to bring me back to town with him to assist with the final details. Tomorrow, he declared, he would make his conclusions public.

  Towards the end of this little speech, a coachman came in to make known that the rear axle of Sir Percival’s carriage had broken and could not be repaired until morning. There was no way that Holmes — or the magistrate or town doctor, for that matter — could return to Hexham until the following day. There was nothing for it; they would all have to spend the night at Aspern Hall.

  Holmes was dreadfully put out by this development. During almost the entire dinner that followed he said not a word, a peevish expression on his face, morosely pushing the food on his plate idly about with his fork, one elbow lodged on the damask tablecloth in support of his narrow chin. Just as dessert was served, he announced his intention of walking back to Hexham.

  “But that’s out of the question,” said Sir Percival in astonishment. “It’s over ten miles.”

  “I shan’t be taking the road,” Holmes replied. “It’s far too indirect. I shall make my way from Aspern Hall to Hexham in a direct line, as the crow flies.”

  “But that will take you right past the blanket bog,” Miss Selkirk said. “Where…” She fell silent.

  “I will accompany you, then,” Edwin Aspern spoke up.

  “You shall do nothing of the sort. The wolf’s most recent attack occurred just the night before last, and I doubt its hunger will have returned so soon. No; I shall undertake the trip on my own. Watson, once I reach Hexham I will leave word for the wagonette to come for you and the others in the morning.”

  And so the matter was settled — or so I thought. Shortly after the men had passed into the library for brandy and cigars, however, Holmes took me aside.

  “Look here,” he told me sotto voce. “As soon as you are able to effect it successfully, you will contrive to sneak out of the house, making sure your departure is undetected. That point is most vital, Watson — you must leave undetected. Remember that, for the time being, you remain in grave danger.”

  Despite my surprise, I assured Holmes that I was his man.

  “You are to make your way unobserved to the vicinity of that small hillock where we found Constable Frazier. Find a suitable hiding spot from which no approach can reveal your position — not the bog, not the forest, not the road. Be sure to be in position no later than ten o’clock. And there you are to wait for me to pass by.”

  I nodded my understanding.

  “When I come into sight, however, under no circumstances are you to call out, or stand, or in any manner betray your presence.”

  “Then what am I to do, Holmes?”

  “Depend upon it — when it comes time to act, you shall know. Now: do you still have your pistol about you?”

  I patted my waistcoat pocket, where my Webley had been in residence ever since we had arrived at the Hall the previous day.

  My friend nodded his satisfaction. “Excellent. Keep it close at hand.”

  “And you, Holmes?”

  “I myself will spend some time here before I take my leave, engaging young Aspern in conversation, billiards, or whatever proves necessary to distract him. It is vital that he not indulge his penchant for wolf-hunting, tonight of all nights.”

  Accordingly, I bided my time, waiting until the gentlemen were engrossed in a game of whist. Then, retiring to my room, I retrieved my cap and travelling coat, and — making sure I was observed by neither family nor servants — I left the house by way of the French doors of the morning room, slipped across the lawn, and from there out onto the Hexham road. The rain had stopped, but the moon remained partially obscured by clouds. Heavy tendrils of mist lay across the bleak landscape.

  I followed the muddy lane as it curved leisurely to the northeast, anticipating in its course the expanse of bog that lay ahead. It was a chill night, and here and there patches of snow could still be seen amidst the brambles and swamp grass. After several miles, at the bend where the road
reached its northernmost point and angled eastwards towards town, I struck off south through the low undergrowth in the direction of the bog itself. The moon had by now emerged from behind the clouds and I could just make out the bog ahead, shimmering with a kind of ghastly glow. Beyond it, and barely discernible in the darkness, was the black border of Kielder Forest.

  Reaching the hillock at last, I glanced round, then set about following Holmes’s instructions: to find a blind in which I could remain unseen from all directions. It took some doing, but at last I found a depression on the eastwards side of the hillock, partially surrounded by gorse and furze, which afforded excellent opportunities for concealment, whilst at the same time commanding a view of all approaches. And here I settled down to wait.

  Over the next hour I held a most gloomy vigil. My limbs grew stiff from inactivity, and my travelling coat did little to keep out the damp and chill. From time to time, I examined the various approaches; on other occasions, from sheer force of nervous habit, I checked the state of my weapon.

  It was past eleven o’clock when I at last heard the sound of footsteps, coming through the marsh grass from the direction of Aspern Hall. Carefully, I peered out from my place of concealment. It was Holmes, unmistakable in his cloth cap and long coat, his thin frame emerging out of the mists with its characteristic loping stride. He was walking along the very edge of the blanket bog, headed in my direction. Slipping the Webley out of my waistcoat pocket, I steeled myself for whatever action might now transpire.

  I waited, motionless, as Holmes continued his approach, hands in his pockets, heading for Hexham with perfect equanimity, as if out for nothing more than an evening’s stroll. Suddenly, from the direction of the forest, I saw another form appear. It was large and dark, almost black, and as I watched in horror it bounded directly towards Holmes on all fours. From his position on the far side of the hillock, my friend would not yet be able to catch sight of the creature. I tightened my grip on the Webley: it was beyond any doubt that here was the fearsome wolf itself, and that it was intent on bringing down a fourth victim.