Harry Dickson and the Werewolf of Rutherford Grange Read online

  “Oh, dear, Mr. Dickson…we’re really not supposed t’ discuss it. The Rutherfords are fine Christian people—now. It’s just that… well… once they weren’t.”

  “Eh?”

  “Old stories, Dickson,” Kritchna put in. “Nobody really believes them anymore.”

  “No, do go on.”

  “Well..” Mrs. Mulligan looked around, seeming like she very much didn’t want to be there. “You have t’ unnerstand that, in the old days, the Rutherfords were just as important around here as the Master’s family. They weren’t as rich as the Westenras, but old family, you know? In fact, this area used to be called Rutherford’s Green. But that got changed about the 17th century or so.”

  “How?”

  Kritchna took pity on the woman. “I’ll tell him, Mrs. Mulligan. Apparently back in the old days the Rutherfords were considered, shall we say, a bit too friendly with those sorts ‘decent’ people like the Westenras didn’t associate with back then. You know, like Jews. And Catholics. And Gypsies. Especially Gypsies.

  “Anyway, the story goes there was a small clan of them that would come around and camp out on the Rutherfords’ land every few years, and old Roger Rutherford would go out and spend time with them. So much time rumor got around that he was learning things from them.”

  “Things such as?”

  “Such as black magic, that’s what.”

  I couldn’t help but groan. A supernatural story, again? My mentor would have been having a conniption right about now.

  Kritchna grinned at the expression upon my face. “Yes, I know, but there it is. It started getting round that Roger Rutherford was running around naked at night with the gypsies, engaging in all sorts of evil rites and things. For a while, Rutherford managed to block anything happening to him. But then the sheep started getting killed.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh, yes.” He was warming to his story now. “The farmers stated some great hairy dog was traveling from farm to farm, slaughtering their animals. But no one ever got a good look at it until one night when one actually came right across the thing. It was big. Bigger than any dog had the right to be, the story goes. And it looked right at that farmer. And there, eyes glowing blood- red in the torchlight, it laughed at him.”

  “Like ‘ha, ha,’ yes. It stood there and it laughed at him, and then it ran away. No one had ever seen anything like it. So Christopher Westenra, he was the one who owned the House then, got a bunch of men together to go and hunt the thing. One night, they finally found it, and shot at it—but it got away. But not before Mr. Westenra had wounded it in the leg. And the story goes, they followed it, they followed the trail of blood it left, through the woods and over the fields—until it led right to Rutherford Grange. And inside, they found Roger Rutherford, with his wife and the Gypsy chief, with a wound to the leg

  “I suppose you can guess what happened after that. Real dogs don’t laugh at people, and how could they shoot it in the leg and find a man right after with a wound in the same leg? Roger Rutherford claimed that he had been out looking for the beast, too; that it was something brought by the Gypsies that had gotten away. He said it had attacked him and bit him in the leg. Nobody believed him. They accused him of being a werewolf; that the Gypsies had taught him how to change his shape, and dragged him and his wife and the old Gypsy chief out of the building and down to the town. They hauled them right to the bridge and without a trial or anything, they…”

  “Hung them,” I finished for him.. “Hence the name Wolfsbridge”

  “Yes,” Kritchna nodded, “And the killings stopped right after that, of course.”

  “Oh, for—”

  “But the story doesn‘t stop here, sir,” Mrs. Mulligan suddenly put in. “They say that Roger Rutherford swore one day he’d be back for revenge; that his ghost would return and haunt those responsible.”

  “Every ghost story has the victim saying that, Mrs. Mulligan. But I suppose they say ever since then on moonlit nights you can see a great dog bounding across the fields, laughing at everyone he meets.”

  “Actually, no, sir. Nothing like that‘s ever happened. And it got to be a joke around town that whenever you said something about a Rutherford, you had to say ‘And did he howl?’ I think it’s awful. Anyway, after that, the Rutherfords—Roger’s son was away at school—kind of fell on bad times. But they’re good people, now. I hate to think that story’s still following them after all these years.”

  I nodded. Something had come to my mind. “Would you excuse me?” I quickly left the table.

  In a moment, I found myself back in the library. Glancing quickly about to see if anyone was present, I swiftly ran my eyes along the shelf, searching for the volume I had snuck a look at the afternoon before. Ah, there it was. Yes: The Journal of Christopher Westenra. Flipping quickly through the pages, I located the paragraph I had left off and hurriedly scanned the rest. This is what I read:

  “I have buried the body under the bridge where no one will think to look for it. As soon as we have a good flood, the grave will be smoothed out. I dare not let anyone know what I have discovered. If it should be learned, I would be the one hanging off the edge of the bridge, not the Rutherfords. Damn them and their wretched Gypsies! If they had just remembered their place, this never would have happened. Not that I’m sorry Rutherford is dead, but I will forevermore be looking over my shoulder. And damn the beast for not dying when first I shot it. It probably did attack Rutherford, just like he said. But the chance was too good to pass up. Now I am rid of an enemy. But the cost!

  “Still, at least the beast is truly dead now. I blew its head apart myself. I still have no idea what it is—it certainly is neither dog nor wolf—but I am well rid of it. But if anyone should learn the truth, my life would be forfeit. May that never be. As for Rutherford’s curse before he went over; well—I should be king if I had a penny for the times anyone has damned me. Still, the look on his face—but no. Once again my fears run away with me—”

  “Reading something interesting?” came a mild voice.

  I whipped around, terrified I was going to find Sir Henry or Alexander about to pounce upon me for reading their private histories. But instead, it proved to be a slight, fair-haired, sallow figure, good-looking in a weak way, who smiled gently at me and said, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” He stuck out his hand. “You’re the detective, aren’t you? Harry Dickson? I’m Peter Westenra.”

  So this was the son I had not yet met, but had heard so much about. Peter Westenra. He looked awful. His eyes were red and bleary and his breath hissed with the stench of stale beer. Quite obviously young Westenra had been on the town the night before and was yet to recover. I confess, seeing what I had recently learned of his preferences, that I was leery of grasping the hand he held out. But he was, after all, my client, at least partly, and I took it. The grip was surprisingly firm, and he smiled self-depreciatingly as he said:

  “I know it doesn’t look it, but I really do hate gin. It’s just that when it calls, I must answer.” He laughed shortly. “I was just going along to the kitchen to get a glass of tomato juice. Care to come along?”

  I must have mumbled something affirmative, trying to turn his attention from the fact I had just violated his family’s privacy, but he seemed to take no offense at it. He kept up a patter of small talk as we returned to the kitchen. He nodded to Kritchna, who was still sitting there, then turned to the cook and said:

  “Ah, Mrs. Mulligan. I heard what happened last night about poor Colleen. If I may ask, what were you planning on doing with—? What, the incinerator? No, no, no; that won’t do; won’t do at all. Look, there’s a little corner of my garden that’s rather secluded, why don’t you bury her there? What Father doesn’t know… no, no, that’s all right, Mrs. Mulligan. I had a dog once as a boy, myself.”

  With his glass of tomato juice, he sat across from Kritchna and I. “So, Dickson, what do you think of Westenra House so far?

  I paused. “Well,” I be
gan, “its architecture is certainly unique—”

  “Oh, please. It’s the bloody ugliest house in this part of the county,” Peter smiled. “Not that I’d ever tell Father that, of course.”

  Despite myself, I found myself smiling back. Perhaps oddly, I found myself liking Peter Westenra. In addition, I was aware that Kritchna next to me seemed to relax more. Whatever else the young Indian may have thought of the rest of his employers, he didn’t seem to mind the youngest Westenra. “To be perfectly frank,” the young man continued, “I’m not looking forward to this conference at all. It’s just another meeting to see what we can get from the Far East without giving anything back. Not that we should just let the Russians have it, of course, but there it is. I was never good at this diplomacy thing, in any event. Wanted to be a writer, but Father wouldn’t hear of it.”

  He seemed almost pathetically glad to have someone to talk to. I suppose I couldn’t blame him. With a family like his, it was probably difficult to have the slightest of meaningful conversations. This was proven just a few seconds later when the door flew open and Alexander burst in.

  “Appleby! We’re going to have to redo the entire seating arrangements! Nayland Smith just cancelled and—what, are you finally up, Peter? Another bender last night? Why am I not surprised?” He shook his head in contempt. “It’s not like I haven’t tried to help, Heaven knows. All the women I introduced you to in India. Hell, I even dragged you to a couple of whorehouses, and you know how easy Woggie women are. But no. Still, try at least not to embarrass us at the conference tomorrow, hm? Act like a man for just one night?”

  “I’ll try, Alexander,” Peter said at last, voice low.

  “I hope so. You know how important this is for my—er, Father’s career. Oh, and Dickson—” He turned, putting the lowered head and red face of his brother completely out of his mind. “The rest of your crew should be arriving sometime around two. Give them the lay of the place and tell them to meet Sir Henry in the drawing room at four. He’ll give you the rest of your orders then. You can handle that, can’t you?” He swiveled back as if to go back into the main rooms, only to find his way blocked. For some reason Kritchna had risen and quietly placed himself directly in front of the door.

  “Well? Out of the way, boy.” There was a pregnant pause, then without a word the young Indian stepped aside.

  As soon as Alexander had gone, he said, “Excuse me,” and left via the servants’ hall.

  “I should go, too,” murmured Peter.

  Left alone in the kitchen, save for Mrs. Mulligan who made a great show of concentrating on the dishes. I tried to absorb all I had just learned.

  Why had Kritchna so obviously placed himself in Alexander’s way? I knew he hated the man, but that was grounds for dismissal. Was he trying to lose his position? And why was he condescending to work here in the first place? While his race foolishly and unfortunately barred him from many occupations, he was obviously too intelligent to stoop to mere Service. Even if the Westenras were too boorish in general to see it; surely someone in the Foreign Office would have noticed and snapped such a potentially valuable asset up. There was an undercurrent of something here; something I simply could not see.

  And what was it that had killed poor Colleen? What had Kritchna had called the stuff again? Ectoplasm? I knew what that was—chemical mixtures used by fraudulent Spiritualists to make suckers think something came from “Beyond.” My own father had used to concoct cauldrons of the stuff for his performances.

  I thought of the upcoming séance at Rutherford Grange. Did that have something to do with it? Had Miss Annunciata been trying to play some sort of prank on us? I smiled grimly. She was a beautiful woman, but was no more a psychic than Roger Rutherford was a real werewolf, no matter what the superstitious peasants of the 17th century had believed. Spiritualism was all rubbish! Rubbish!

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully as I made a concerted effort to keep my mind on my official duties. I did not see Kritchna for the rest of the day. I was concerned, but decided that, whatever was happening, he should handle it. I had no right to press into his personal affairs, and besides had more pressing matters to attend to.

  As Alexander had stated, the rest of the conference’s security force arrived at about two o‘clock. We gathered for a brief discussion, and I found them much as Mr. Blake had predicted. Good-hearted, eager to please, and bovine. Clearly, I would get nowhere with them. If anything truly bad were to happen, I would be on my own.

  Kritchna reappeared at dinner, making no comment on his odd behavior, and I did not pry. Once again, we bunked together in his garret (now clean with fresh linen) but only made small talk.

  The night passed without incident, and bright and early the next morning I rose, put on the fine suit Sir Henry had lent me, and went downstairs to watch the official guests arrive.

  For all his haranguing, Sir Henry’s rules for our behavior were quite simple. Keep quiet, do not speak to anyone of the least importance, keep out of the way, and, above all, do not touch the food. The others smiled and nodded like eager puppies, caring only for the wages at the end of the weekend. I simply stated I would endeavor to satisfy.

  Sir Henry stated that remained to be seen.

  As per my instructions, I hung back in a little alcove off the Great Hall as the officials arrived, mentally checking each one off as they came. There was Hale, usually connected with China but brought in from previous experiences in India. D’Athys, well-known explorer of Indochina. Ingles, the writer. A dozen others, all with their hordes of faceless assistants. They milled about, smiling, joking, and renewing old acquaintances though the formal introductions would not come until dinner. And then, at the end, the most important and famous of all. The Duc d’Origny.

  He must have been an astoundingly handsome man in his youth; now age had faded that somewhat but even so, he carried himself with an air of poise and dignity many of his much younger compatriots could not meet. But it was neither cold nor self-important; his was the confidence of a man comfortable with both his strengths and flaws, a man who knew what he was capable of but who was not afraid to laugh at himself. The Duc d’Origny neither wanted nor needed any prestige, and it was that, more than anything, that made him such a natural leader. He accepted Sir Henry’s gushing posturing with good grace; instantly recognizing that here was a weak man with little to offer, but willing to suffer him for a while for the greater good. Still, it was a surprise when he caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye and instantly diverted his steps to come and shake my hand.

  “The Duc d’Origny, young fellow. And you are?”

  If my eyes were raised, Sir Henry’s were practically bulging. Any more and his optic nerves would rip themselves out. Still, my mother had raised me to be honest. “Harry Dickson, Your Grace. I’m afraid I’m not a guest, just a security officer.”

  “There’s nothing ‘just’ about it, young man,” the Duc replied in his perfect English. “Every position is an important one in some way or other, and nothing to be in the least shamed over. Remember that. And now, Sir Henry, you were saying something about my quarters?” He smiled again, turned and rejoined his host, who by this time was suffering from massive eyestrain. I couldn’t help but grin. This was going to be an interesting conference after all.

  I had no idea.

  The dinner was finished, the brandy and cigars broken out, and the guests shuffled slowly out of the dining room into the main hall. The hired musicians started up their instruments as Appleby and the other servants, dressed in their best, moved in unobtrusive grace among the crowd, refilling glasses and ready to answer every need. About them the guests mingled, sipping their brandies, chatting blandly about general politics, the weather and other such mundanities. The real discussions would not begin until the morrow. This was merely an after-dinner party, not the conference proper.

  I hung back a reasonable distance from the main crowd, keeping a sharp eye on the
proceedings. So far, all had gone well, if you discounted the fact most of the rest of the “security” had been surreptitiously helping themselves to the liqueurs for quite some time now. A few were just teetering out now to go on “patrol.” I sighed. It was so hard to find good help these days.

  Among the crowd, I noticed Kritchna; the handsome Indian cutting a striking figure in his finery. Not that anyone was paying much attention to him. He was merely a servant, and a Hindu at that. The fact that they were there to discuss the future of his own homeland mattered not one jot. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder why some young maid back in Bombay hadn’t snapped him up while he was still there. I was supremely grateful when he sidled up to me, casually handed me a brandy and said, “You look as bored as I feel.”

  “Worse,” I replied, sipping the drink. “I need a smoke. But Sir Henry made it clear we mere detectives were to keep out of the way and not have any fun at all. Not that it’s stopped any of the others.”

  “True,” Kritchna grinned. “Two of them have been taking turns kneeling on the floor of the loo since the brandy came out. But if you insist on doing something on the cheap, you get what you pay for. Present company excepted, of course.”

  “Of course,” I smiled. “Have you seen the Duc yet, by the way?”

  “As a matter of fact, he actually spoke to me for a few minutes. I was giving him a drink and he insisted on asking me what part of India I was from, what I thought of the Russian threat and so on. Charming man. If only half the rest of these were like him rather than the host. And look, there’s the Great Man now, lording over his court.” He nodded toward the center of the room, and, sure enough, there stood Sir Henry, pontificating to anyone within earshot of the sorry state of Empire and how the Lower Classes didn’t know their places anymore. At his right hand waited Alexander, nodding at whatever his father had to say, while a few paces back stood Peter, shuffling his feet and looking like he very much didn’t want to be there.