Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange Read online

  “None of them are as good as you, Blake!” snarled the first voice.

  “I appreciate the compliment, sir, but—”

  “I never make compliments,” thundered the speaker. “I only speak facts. And in your case, that’s little enough, Blake. I don’t believe in half the nonsense published about you. But you owe me, and—”

  As the argument, whatever it was about, continued to rage, Blake’s assistant and I exchanged looks, then shrugged. I took out my pipe and began to light it. As I did, the door to Mr. Blake’s office opened and his dark, handsome face peered out.

  “Ah, Master Dickson!” There was a smile on his face, but the cheerful tone behind it seemed distinctly false. “Good to see you! Would you be so kind as to step into my office a moment?”

  I felt a sudden sinking sensation. I glanced back toward Tinker, who shrugged again, but with the thinnest of smiles. Better you than I, his expression clearly read. But there was nothing else for it, so I put out my pipe, obediently chimed, “Yes, sir,” and went inside.

  I had always admired Mr. Blake’s office. I wished for one just like it when I got out on my own. It was sumptuous, yet comfortable, with fine leather-backed chairs and an expensive mahogany desk. The walls were lined with bookcases, save for behind the desk, which was a full plate-glass window, offering him a fine view of the comings and goings of Baker Street. It was also unnaturally crowded. In addition to Mr. Blake and myself, two others stood in the room.

  The eldest stood fuming before Blake’s desk, literally, as clenched in his mouth was a large, ill-smelling cigar. He was probably somewhere in his early sixties, and his hair and thick mustache were dappled grey. His frame was actually relatively lengthy, but with a hefty paunch distorting and bloating outward from his otherwise expertly-tailored clothing, he appeared much shorter than he should have. His skin was florid and beaded with perspiration even in the relatively cool room. Black eyes snapped arrogantly at my employer through a pair of expensive but slightly cockeyed spectacles. Looking at him, I was reminded of nothing so much as a caricature of G.K. Chesterton out of Punch—but without the natural bon homine of that celebrated writer.

  The second man was much younger, perhaps 26 or so. He hung back in one of the corners, arms folded, seemingly quite bored with the proceedings. Unlike his companion he was handsome; with dark eyes, a firm, strong chin, and a thin, straight nose, but it was a chilly, unemotional attractiveness. Compared to his elder—who was at least active, for all his girth—this man was a contemptuous mannequin. He had a queer little smile on his face, like someone who knew a great joke he was playing on all the world, and they simply couldn’t recognize it.

  But now Mr. Blake was speaking: “Dickson, may I present Sir Henry Westenra and his son, Alexander. Gentlemen, my employee, Harry Dickson.”

  “Gentlemen.” I bowed slightly and proffered my hand. They stared at me. I looked back and forth, from one to another. Neither moved. I lowered my hand.

  “No,” Sir Henry barked. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no. He won’t do at all. Boy’s barely out of short pants. What are you trying to hand me, Blake?” He glared at my employer, as if daring him to speak

  Mr. Blake closed his eyes and sighed, very low and long. “Mr. Dickson is perfectly capable of handling the requirements of your situation, Sir Henry. He has worked for me and several other detectives, and we find him most promising.”

  “That would be fine,” bristled Westenra, “if I wanted someone promising. I want someone competent, Blake, with experience.” Suddenly he wheeled toward me. “You, boy. Where’d you go to school?“

  “I’ve just completed my third year at South Kensington, sir.”

  “Kensington?” Alexander Westenra, the mannequin, spoke for the first time. I was amazed his lips could move. “Isn’t that the school Geoffrey Rutherford attended?”

  Immediately, Sir Henry snorted derisively and raised his eyes to heaven. “The Rutherfords,” he spat contemptuously. “Don’t even speak to me about the Rutherfords.”

  “Well, it’s not Christina’s fault Peter made such a hash of things,” Alexander replied calmly. “She’s not responsible for him being what he is.” Suddenly, he smiled wickedly. “Besides, look at it this way—at least now we can be sure your grandchildren won’t howl.”

  “Enough, I say! Damn it all, Blake!” Sir Henry twisted back toward my employer. “I don’t want children! I want you! Now are you coming or aren’t you?”

  “No, Sir Henry,” Blake said through gritted teeth. “I am not.” He strode to his desk and sat. “For the last time. I am deeply involved in another case the Prime Minister himself asked me to look into I cannot—cannot—break away right now. Either you take Mr. Dickson, or you take nothing. Or would you rather take it up with Mr. Asquith himself?” He lifted the phone receiver. “I can ring him up, at any moment. Now, what’s it going to be?”

  For a long moment, Westenra stared at Blake, eyes boggling as if they was about to burst His head twisted toward me sharply, glared me up and down, and finally snarled: “All right, Blake. I’ll take him. But he’ll have to remember just who is in charge. The slightest mistake and he’s out. And mind you—if that happens, I’ll make certain everyone knows he’s your employee!”

  He whipped around quickly for such a fat man and stalked toward the door. Over his shoulder, he called: “I’ll expect you by two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, young man! I’ll have someone waiting at the station to pick you up! See that you’re not late! Come along, Alexander!”

  With a flourish, he threw open the door and left. Alexander Westenra, after a cold nod to each of us, followed. A moment later, we heard the door to the street fling open and slam shut.

  Mr. Blake sank his head to his desk with a groan. “That,” he said, “was Sir Henry Westenra.”

  “So I gathered,” I replied wryly.

  Blake sighed. “Don’t be impertinent, Dickson; it doesn’t suit you. Do you know anything about him?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, you’re about to learn. Sit.”

  I did so. He spun his own chair around to face the window, steepling his fingers together thoughtfully “Sir Henry Westenra has come to that title only five years ago, when he was granted it due to his work in India. At least, that is the story; in point of fact, he received it due to nepotism and his one great talent, as you will see While up until now his family have never been granted titles or peerages, they’re extremely rich and influential—they’re apparently distantly related to the Westenras of Whitby, whom you may have heard of—and are based in a remarkably ugly domicile in Surrey he had constructed with his late wife’s money—not his—and called, with all due modesty, Westenra House.” Mr. Blake turned to face me, a little smile playing across his lips. “Are you with me so far?” I nodded.

  “Good. Now. The Westenras have always had interests in India; apparently quite a bit of their money is invested there. As a result, the sons of the Westenras have, as a rule, entered either the Army or the Foreign Office, specializing in the subcontinent. Henry Westenra was the latest to do so. He became a small functionary in the Office, and was based, I believe, in Bombay. There he married—very late, and to a very rich woman—and had two sons; Alexander, whom you met, and Peter, the youngest. Still, nothing much was expected of him. It is well known that Sir Henry is not the brightest light in the Office.” Mr. Blake turned back toward the window, thoughtfully. “However, this is where it all matters. For all his incompetence—and he is very incompetent from what I’ve heard—Sir Henry Westenra has one great ability. He is very, very good at being in the right place at the right time.

  “What happened was this. There was what appeared to be a small uprising in Bombay A group of native Muslims had walked into a small white community, and Sir Henry just happened to be on the scene when it occurred. He managed to escape, get the Army and lead them back, where the ‘uprising’ was put down in a most bloody manner.” He sighed. “As it turned out, the natives were there to prote
st the mistreatment of their women by certain British officials. Among them, it seems, Westenra’s son Alexander. They had no intention of doing violence; they simply wanted to lodge their protests with the local officials. There were no survivors.”

  For a moment, Mr. Blake simply sat silently. Then: “The whole affair was hushed up, of course. No questions were asked. Natives vanish in India all the time, I’m told. If not addressed, no one cares. But some of Westenra’s relatives higher up in the Office heard about their scion’s ‘heroics,’ and insisted he receive some kind of reward. They made such a fuss that to finally shut them up, Sir Henry was granted his knighthood and has used it to advance his career ever since. Two years ago, he was recalled to England, and now works directly for the Office. Which brings me to why he was here today.”

  Mr. Blake leaned towards me intently. “You need to understand, Dickson. Sir Henry is a fool, an ass and as self-centered a boor as I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet. But he knows where to be and when, and he knows how to curry favors and when to call them in. As a result, he has made himself look far more important to the outside world than he actually is. And there are a great deal of important people who are in his debt. Myself, unfortunately, being one of them.”

  He pulled out his pipe and lit it, indicating that I could do the same. I was grateful for the opportunity. I had the sensation the next few words were not going to be something I would enjoy hearing.

  “Two years ago, while working on a case, I was obliged to go to Sir Henry for some information the Office had on a certain suspect,” Blake said quietly. “The information was very sensitive, and something I should not have had, but without it a dangerous murderer would’ve escaped the gallows. Sir Henry gave it to me, but with the stipulation that I, as a private investigator, would owe him one favor when he needed it. Yesterday, he called that favor in.”

  Once again he spun around toward the window. “This weekend, there will be a conference between Great Britain and France. Through his sources, Sir Henry has somehow managed to get permission to host the entire affair at his estate. Why, I do not know, but it undoubtedly involves puffing himself up to his superiors. Supposedly, this conference is merely on matters of various economic aspects of our respective colonies, particularly Ceylon and India. You know, discussions of tariffs and such. But I suspect it involves rather more than that. Firstly, a man like Sir Henry does not take an interest in something so mundane as importation fees. Secondly, the main attendee from France will be the Duc d’Origny himself.”

  I stifled a gasp and nodded. The Duc d’Origny! Although fairly unknown to the general public, even in his own country, the Duc was a near-legend in government circles. In his younger days, he had been a government agent for France, traveling the Far East and South Asia and infiltrating dozens of rebel groups. It was he who had been instrumental in revealing to the West just how fully the fingers of Russian imperialism were spreading in the East and, it was said, had personally stemmed an invasion of Tibet by the Tsar’s forces several years earlier. No one knew more about the influence of Moscow in our colonies than he. The Duc was very old now, and had for the most part retired, but he had remained on call in an advisory capacity by his own government—and, on occasion, ours. If he was to be in attendance, then this conference was definitely concerned with anything but tariffs!

  “Naturally enough,” Mr. Blake was continuing, “such a important conference would need adequate security. And that is why Sir Henry contacted me. He wanted me to take charge of it personally. You saw that I refused—but nevertheless a favor is a favor. Therefore, someone from this office must go in my place. That someone is you, Dickson.”

  I’m afraid I groaned rather more loudly than I intended. From all that I had heard, I should have expected something like this, but really! Security detail? Mere security detail! And here I had been expecting a reward for good work!

  Mr. Blake, seeing the obvious despair upon my face, chuckled, then reached over to pat me consolingly on the shoulder. “Now, now, Dickson, it isn’t as bad as all that. It’s something every detective has to do now and then. We have to deal with all sorts of people in our trade, and you’ll find that very few of them are actually pleasant to work with. Particularly the aristocracy.” He smiled briefly. “Do you think this is a punishment, Dickson?”

  I coughed, cleared my throat, and started, “Well, sir, I—”

  “Well, it isn’t,” Blake interrupted sternly. “Nothing of the sort. I must admit, I’ve been very pleased with your work thus far. Like your mentor, for your age I find you very promising. In fact, I was going to recommend to him that I go ahead and place you in full charge of some of my smaller cases to see how you did, but this takes precedence. It’d be good practical experience for you, and you need that. Without such, you can spend your career ratiocinating about murders all you like, and it will make not one whit of difference to you as a detective.” He picked up a pen and fiddled with it. “It’s only for half-a-week, Dickson. Besides, you’ll be in a position of more responsibility than you think. With Westenra ‘taking charge’ of things himself since I’m not there, he’s bound to make a mess of it, and I’ll need you to help keep things on an even keel. The other agents he’ll have there are good-hearted chaps but rather vacuous, so try to keep an eye on him and guide him as best you can. Besides, before the conference you might even get some time to go sightseeing. I hear the countryside’s quite beautiful. Very steeped in folklore and occult history, too, I understand. Are you at all interested in the occult, Dickson?”

  “No, sir,” I replied honestly. “I have no belief in the supernatural in the least. The Master once told me that when it comes to the rational mind, no ghosts need apply. I have never seen any reason to disregard that advice.”

  “Hmmm,” Blake murmured thoughtfully. “He would say that. Never likes to admit anything outside his precious ratiocination skills. One day I should tell you what he and I encountered once in the catacombs under Bayonne. But that’s neither here nor there. You’ll find some notes on the Westenras and their guests upon your desk, Dickson. After you walk Pedro, I suggest you spend the rest of the day studying it. You leave first thing tomorrow morning.”

  He glanced up at the clock in the corner. “And I have to get busy. I’m lunching with the Becks today, and have to get this paperwork finished. Dismissed.”

  There was nothing else left to say. Feeling a great weight on my shoulders, I stood to go. Then I thought of something. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Excuse me, but you told Sir Henry that the Prime Minister might have you leave for Geneva at any moment. I was unaware he had retained you for any case.”

  “Oh, that,” Blake smiled. “I’m sorry, Dickson. I lied. If I had gone to Westenra House, I should have throttled the man before the weekend was out. Never could stand him. You know how it is—Rank Has Its Privileges and all that.”

  Then he smiled broadly. “Cheer up, Dickson! As I said, it’s only for a couple of days! Besides, it’s Surrey, for God’s sake! What could possibly happen there?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Despite my disappointment, never let it be said a Dickson ever shirked his duty. I arrived at the station bright and early, taking one of the private compartments Mr. Blake had kindly booked for me (Sir Henry having apparently not bothered). I had brought with me the file I had been given, and while the train was beginning to pull out, I opened it to reacquaint myself with its contents.

  There was little about Sir Henry I did not already know, save that his wife had passed on a few years earlier. Currently he lived in his ancestral home, Westenra House, some few miles outside the village of Wolfsbridge. I had never heard of the town in question, figuring it to be the archetypical tiny collection of insular housing seemingly ubiquitous throughout Britain.

  Of rather more interest were his two sons, Alexander and Peter. Both were also members of the Foreign Office, albeit at lower levels than their father, and both would be present at the confe
rence. Both had been born in India, although Peter, the youngest by two years, had proven a very frail, sickly child. Photographs of the two showed the waxly handsome Alexander looming over a sallower, thinner young man, with fair hair and pale eyes. There was a quiet sadness about the image of Peter Westenra that caught my attention. Within each picture there was an air about his visage that seemed to read as if he wished to be anywhere else but there, in that illustration, beside his family. Knowing what little I did of them, I found it difficult to blame him. Still, the information about him in the files was scant. Primarily it seemed he did his work quietly, avoided trouble, and had maintained his bachelor status after most men his age were married with families.

  Alexander was more intriguing. After Blake’s assertion that this Westenra had been considered something of a rake while in India, I found the file added that there were reports of other incidents he had been involved in, which Sir Henry had often been forced to extricate him from. The details were vague, but it was said he was often seen in the company of characters of unsavory repute, and had often been involved with fights with the native population. Since returning to England, however, he had married, maintained a home in London and apparently had calmed his hot temper considerably.

  So intent was I on my reading I almost didn’t hear the voice ask: “Excuse me, young fellah-me-lad, are these seats taken? It’s too noisy in the other cars, and when you‘ve got two ladies wantin‘ conversation, you have to look elsewhere.”

  I looked up to see a tall, lean, but well-built man gazing with regal amiableness down at me. He had obviously seen much travel in foreign climes over the years, for his face and hands were bronzed and toughened by storm and sun. He seemed vaguely familiar to me somehow, but I could not place him. Besides, it was his two companions that garnered most of my attention.

  Unlike my mentor, I have never been totally... impervious to the presence of the fairer sex. And the two that accompanied this man were fair, indeed. The youngest was a beautiful girl of about 18 years, brandishing a glorious crown of sun-gold hair that seemed to shimmer with every movement. High cheekbones, a pert nose and intense blue eyes completed the ensemble. A lovely picture, indeed, but compared with her companion, still shallow. She was standing behind the others, but was almost as tall as her male associate. Of obvious Mediterranean ancestry, a flowing mane of cascading black hair created an ebon halo around perfect porcelain features that seemed to glow, even in the relatively bright light of the car.