Pax Britannia: Human Nature (13 page)

ACT TWO

The Hound of the Hanivers

November 1997

Chapter Nine

A Word to the Wise

The journey north took no time at all, or so it seemed, once the train had left St Pancras and the looming edifices of London. Heavily built-up suburban conurbation gave way - along with the ever-present, tangible tobacco-yellow Smog - to pleasant green countryside beyond the furthest limits of Londinium Maximum as they passed through Hertfordshire, Bedfordshire and Northamptonshire. Stations, villages and towns whipped past in an anonymous blur as the speeding locomotive ate up the miles.

The further north they travelled the darker loomed the sky ahead of them as the clear cerulean blue, drawn with streaks of white cotton clouds, steadily gave way to the polluted skies of the North. The towns of the Midlands had been swallowed by the rampant industrialisation that had continued throughout the twentieth century leaving the conurbations as islands of miserable, second-rate civilisation, separated by great expanses of automated factories and industry-polluted wasteland. At this point in the journey, stewards took care to secure all the windows, least the sulphurous fumes of that region proved disagreeable to those travelling on the ten thirty from St Pancras.

What had started out as a relatively fine day in London - and that had become a clear, chill autumnal day in the farmland beyond - now gave way to the permanently overcast misery of Nottinghamshire. The toxic wasteland gave way at last as the train diverted across the windswept moors of Yorkshire, this natural wilderness seeming almost as desolate as the industry-spoiled wasteland through which they had passed on the way.

Having left London only that morning, that same afternoon saw the huffing and puffing locomotive hissing to a halt amidst a rising cloud of steam at Whitby Station, the end of the line, the tracks coming to a stop less than half a mile from the sea.

It being late in the day, the dandy and his manservant set about finding lodgings for the duration of their stay. After making enquiries at the station master's office, they took a horse-drawn cab to the East Crescent and took rooms at a superior lodging house there that had plenty of vacancies, for those few visitors Whitby still received at this time of year; people looking to benefit from the curious properties of the sea air or wishing to follow in the footsteps of Mr Stoker's Dracula.

Determining to begin their search for the mysterious Mr Bellerophon - an assumed name, Ulysses presumed - first thing the following morning, He and Nimrod retired for the night in their suite of rooms on the second floor, Ulysses taking the master bedroom, while Nimrod made for the significantly smaller valet's chamber off the suite's day room-cum-dining room.

"Nimrod, that was a triumph," Ulysses declared, placing his knife and fork together on the grease-smeared plate before him.

"I shall pass your compliments to Mrs Scoresby, sir," Nimrod replied.

"There's nothing like a full English to set oneself up for the day. And I do like black pudding."

"More coffee, sir?"

"Yes, why not, old chap?"

Ulysses lent back in his chair, putting his arms behind his head. His wrist still hurt as did the broken fingers of his right hand which were still bound together to aid their healing.

Nimrod dutifully got up from his seat at the breakfast table opposite his master, draped a freshly-pressed napkin over one arm, lifted the cafetiere from its silver-plated salver, walked round the table to where Ulysses sat stretched out in his dressing gown, and carefully re-filled the dandy's coffee cup.

"Thank you, Nimrod," he said as his manservant placed the cafetiere back on the salver in the middle of the table and returned to his seat. Nimrod nodded in polite acknowledgement.

Ulysses deposited a heaped teaspoon of sugar into the dark steaming fluid and began to stir languidly.

"So, where to start?" he mused, not so much asking Nimrod for his advice as simply giving voice to his own thoughts.

His eyes drifted across to the front page of the local paper that had been laid on the pristine white tablecloth next to his place setting.

"Hey, look at this will you, Nimrod?"

Eyebrows arching, Nimrod looked down his nose, concentrating as he read the inverted headline in front of him.

"'Ghestdale Beast claims Tenth Victim'," he read. "Hmm, it sounds... intriguing, sir."

"I'd say!" Ulysses exclaimed excitedly, scanning the column inches beneath the attention-grabbing banner headline.

"Tabloid scare-mongering?" Nimrod queried as Ulysses reached the bottom of the page and looked up again, a delighted grin on his face.

"It says here that the body of some poor sod was found up on the moors yesterday with his throat and intestines torn out."

"Sounds ghastly," Nimrod said dispassionately.

"Apparently he was found by a sheep farmer who's lost a number of his sheep to wild animal attacks over the last few months."

"Wild animals, sir?"

"That's what it says here."

"But the British Isles have very few natural predators left, certainly nothing big enough to take down a man, surely. I must be some kind of feral dog, or perhaps one of those big cats that keep getting lose from private zoos."

"That's what the editor of this local rag thinks too." Ulysses pointed to the editorial comment at the top of the second page. "At least, local rumour's blaming it on the Barghest, some local legend, a phantom hound said to stalk Ghestdale Moor."

"A phantom hound, sir?"

"According to folklore, those who see the beast don't live to see another day."

"If that's the case, how can anybody have ever reported that that is the case?"

"You can't over-analyse folklore, Nimrod," Ulysses pointed out. "That's what it says here."

"Surely they can't be serious."

"Well, according to this, there have been ten confirmed deaths, supposedly perpetrated by this hobgoblin hound, and just as many people have simply disappeared over the last four months. Most of the bodies were discovered on Ghestdale, the expanse of moorland that lies south-east of Whitby, close to the coast and the notorious Beast Cliff, which is said to be another haunt of the Barghest."

"If you don't mind me saying so, sir, that is nothing but a load of old poppycock."

"But something's responsible for all those deaths."

Nimrod's eyes narrowed as he attempted to assess his employer's true opinion regarding the matter.

"How did the others die?"

"All in a similarly savage manner, from what I can gather from this. Gutted, throats torn out, internal organs missing; some of the bodies were even partially devoured."

"Delightful. It really is a mystery, sir."

"A mystery indeed. And you know how I feel about mysteries."

"Indeed I do, sir," Nimrod said with what Ulysses hoped was feigned weariness.

"But," Ulysses went on, with what sounded like profound disappointment, "we already have one mystery on our hands; that of the identity of the elusive Mr Bellerophon, which is, I have to assume, an assumed name."

"Quite, sir," Nimrod agreed. "So, if I might be so bold as to ask, how do you suggest we move things forward from here?"

Putting the paper to one side, Ulysses devoted all his attention to the older man seated opposite him, immaculate as ever in his simple self-styled butler's uniform.

"You know what, Nimrod? I think it's about time we played the part of tourists to the full and took in the sights of Whitby, starting with some of those delightful looking ale-quaffing establishments down by the docks."

"Very good, sir. Shall I unpack the pistols, or will the bloodstone suffice?"

By the time Ulysses was dressed and ready to face the day - wearing a light tweed suit underneath a long check overcoat, finished off with a crimson cravat held in place with a diamond pin - it was already past ten.

Leaving their lodging house on the Crescent, the dandy and his manservant made their way to the East Terrace and the footpath that led down towards the estuary of the Esk, passing through the whale bone arch - a reminder of Whitby's whaling past - to emerge at the harbour end of the great stone West Pier. From there, the two men skirted the Esk, following the river back upstream through the old fishing town. The air was thick with the smell of fish, wood smoke and the ever-present pollution that drifted down off the moors from the vast brick-built factories with the morning mist.

Through the bobbing forest formed by the masts and rigging of the ships moored in the Lower Harbour, Ulysses could just make out the grey ghost of the Abbey, up there on the windswept crown of East Cliff, through shifting spaces between the smoke billowing from chimneys up and down the town.

Whitby was all of a bustle at this time in the day and even though it wasn't the height of the tourist season, there was still plenty for the local populace to do; the fishing and jet industries were still the life-blood of the old town.

Passing the swing bridge that crossed the silt-brown river as if flowed on its inexorable way to the sea, following the smell of bubbling pitch and the echoing clamour of sawing and hammering, Ulysses led the two of them towards the shipyards of Endeavour Wharf and onto New Quay Road.

They stopped at last outside the white painted facade of a large, five storey building that sported a sign declaring that this was 'The Angel Hotel'.

"This looks like just the place to start making our enquiries," he said, looking past the stacks of lobster pots to what had all the appearance of being one of Whitby's principal drinking establishments, "don't you think?"

"If you're sure that this is the best way to go about our business here, sir," Nimrod replied with a hint of wariness in his voice.

"Oh, don't be such an old woman," Ulysses chided the older man good-humouredly. "Come on, it'll be fun!"

Five drinking establishments later, and Ulysses Quicksilver and his manservant found themselves in the blue-fugged bar-room of the Black Swan Inn on Baxtergate. It was just like every other. Although it was still only the middle of the day, the taverns in the vicinity of the docks were heaving, the fishermen and many of the stevedores having finished work for the day and made it the few yards to the public houses of Whitby to start spending their wages straight away.

Such was certainly true of the fish-reeking clientele of the Black Swan. For many of them, the working day had finished hours ago, and the men were well into their cups, having been at their seats in the bar since the pub first opened its doors to the desperate drinkers.

Ulysses stepped into the lamp-lit dark of the snug and, blinking against the change in light levels, he casually took in the sprawl of the bar - with its low beams and closeted drinking stalls - which looked just like every other tavern he had entered that morning.

As flamboyantly dressed as he was and as out of place he would obviously appear no matter how he carried himself, Ulysses saw no point in being anything other than the dandy he truly was, striding across the bar-room with a cocky swagger and an all-embracing smile on his face. Such misplaced confidence made people wrong-footed and that gave him the advantage.

He could feel the eyes of everyone on him and couldn't help but allow himself a private smile. Nimrod followed behind, as ever, apparently above it all, whether he was faced with cocky arrogance or disgruntled hostility.

From the furtive glances he kept giving the two of them, it looked like the barman - his belly swollen from beer, his cheeks jowly, his eyes small back holes amongst the flab - was doing his best to keep a clandestine eye on them. The bar-top looked like it had been made from the warped timbers of a ship's deck, uneven and stained almost black.

Ulysses tapped three times on the wooden counter with his cane and grinned as he saw the man twitch. With a face as overcast and thundery as the dull November day outside, finally admitting defeat, he looked up at his newest customers.

The man eyed Ulysses and Nimrod uncomfortably from under beetling brows. Sweat covered his face like grease. He started wiping the beer glass he held in one hand vigorously with the grubby rag he held in the other.

"Yes?" he asked, grudgingly.

"Good -" Ulysses paused and made a show of taking out his pocket watch and checking the time, before putting it back. "- afternoon, my good man. I wonder if I might take a moment of your time."

"Case you hadn't noticed, this is a pub."

Ulysses looked almost bewildered for a moment and then said: "Ah, yes, of course. I see. Cognac, please. Nimrod?"

"This, is a
pub
," the barman repeated.

"Oh. Better make it a pint of... What would you recommend?"

"Bitter is what most people drink round these parts."

"Then make it a pint of bitter please, barman."

The sweating barkeep scowled as he filled the glass he had been smearing with the dirty cloth with something the colour and clarity of watered down sewage from an age-worn pump on the bar.