The Wolfman (19 page)

I
NSPECTOR ABERLINE WAS
a cool customer; Lawrence could see that much right off. He had the easygoing mannerisms of a common laborer overlaid with a veneer of education, but Lawrence wasn’t fooled. And despite the blue twinkle of his eyes Lawrence could see the calculating mind of a hunter. Under other circumstances Lawrence would have liked to play cards with this man. You can learn so much about a man from the way he played cards.

The inspector sat comfortably in an armchair. A cup of tea steamed in a china mug on the table beside him. Sir John stood beside the big globe, spinning it slowly though his eyes were fixed on Aberline.

“He was quite seriously injured, Inspector,” said Sir John. “Quite grievously injured, and his memory seems affected. I don’t know what use he can be to you.”

“Certainly there will be a more advantageous time,” agreed Gwen.

“I completely understand,” said Aberline diffidently. “Only . . . if I could have just a few words with him. A completely unofficial interview . . .”

“No, no,” said Sir John, his jaw set and eyes hard. “No.”

“Even the briefest exchange,” insisted Aberline, “could be infinitely helpful to us.”

“No!” said Sir John and Gwen as one.

“Yes,” said Lawrence, and everyone turned to him in surprise.

“Lawrence,” Gwen began, “don’t let—”

“It’s all right. I’d like to understand what happened, too.”

“It’s foolishness,” snapped his father. “You’re clearly unwell. This is an outrageous imposition on your convalescence.”

Lawrence nodded, although his eyes were fixed on Aberline, whose smile did not reach as high as his eyes; however, Lawrence thought he understood this man. Sir John’s rant trailed off as he watched the exchange between the inspector and his son. He sighed.

“Oh, very well, damn it.”

“Thank you—” Aberline began, but Sir John cut him off.

“If you push my son, Inspector . . . if you cause him distress in any way, then official papers or not, I’ll throw you out. Your intrusion is taxing my civility.”

As he said this Singh stepped into Aberline’s line of vision and stood, heavy arms folded, behind Lawrence.

Aberline looked faintly amused, but he inclined his head. “I understand, Sir John. I will not abuse your generosity.” With that he turned to face Lawrence. “Francis Aberline, Scotland Yard. It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Talbot. I’m an enormous fan of your work. It was my very good fortune to see your performance of
Othello
in Edinburgh some years ago. I agree with the critics who said that you have redefined Iago for the modern stage. Bravo, sir.”

“That was on my first European tour,” said Lawrence, surprised at the praise and the fact that Aberline had seen his work. “I suppose an inspector would appreciate a well-turned villain.”

Aberline smiled. “Indeed I do, sir. And I was delighted to have caught you as Hamlet. Let me just say that I’m sorry to hear of your troubles. I hope they won’t impede your return to the stage.”

“Thank you.” Lawrence was listening to Aberline’s tone as much as his words, and he noted the ever-so-slight stress on the words ‘caught you.’ A slip? A trick? In either case Lawrence felt himself retreat a pace mentally. For
his part, Aberline appeared to be trying to read Lawrence’s face.
Well,
he thought,
let him.
He knew that police were good at reading lies and half-truths, but Lawrence had nothing to hide and even if he had . . . his whole life was built around deliberate inflection, to conveying only what his interpretation of the script demanded and nothing more. Let the man look.

Aberline must have realized that Lawrence had caught him in his assessment and he covered it with a laugh. “Forgive me for staring. I really can’t impress upon you how much I am moved by your melancholy Dane. Are you certain you are feeling well enough for a few words?”

“Yes,” Lawrence said. “Tell me, have you caught the beast?”

This bold counter was intended to throw Aberline off his game, and Lawrence saw the inspector flicker for only the tiniest second.

“I’m afraid not,” said Aberline.

“What have you accomplished?”

Aberline looked around the room. “Mr. Talbot, I would very much appreciate if we could speak candidly and confidentially.” He gestured to the door to the hall. “In your portrait gallery perhaps? Just outside. Would you mind?”

“I damn well would,” snapped Sir John.

Lawrence waved him off. “Father, if this will help then it’s all right. I won’t let him bully me.” He said this with a smile but the look he gave Aberline was challenging. The inspector bowed.

L
AWRENCE LEANED ON
his walking stick even though he felt he no longer needed it. With every second the weakness was fading, but even so his instinct
told him to play this role until the end of the act. Aberline offered his arm, but Lawrence declined with a gracious smile. As they entered the spacious portrait gallery the inspector closed the sitting room door and spent a moment or two staring up at the long rows of handsome Talbot men and women.

“I’m grateful that Scotland Yard has taken the case,” said Lawrence.

Aberline smiled thinly. “A series of vicious murders tends to pique our interest,” the inspector said dryly. “Mr. Talbot, I’m told you suffered a savage attack. I must say you seem quite well.”

Lawrence saw the trap and had no intention of putting a foot in it. “I have been very fortunate.”

“Indeed. Did you get a good look at your assailant?”

A thousand answers fanned out before Lawrence’s mind like playing cards. Which to pick? He could deny the truth and construct a believable lie. He knew he could pull that off so easily because the truth was so unbelievable. A werewolf? Lawrence had barely allowed himself to think of that word let alone let the creature fill his mind. He could also play amnesia convincingly. He had relied on that over the last two days rather than tell his father and Gwen that a supernatural monster had killed Ben. His father had committed him to an asylum once—a story like that would have Sir John calling for the men with the straight waistcoats and the black carriage. No thanks.

Trauma was the easiest role to play, and since waking from his coma he had to give that version of the truth at least a nod because the story
was
so fantastic. Monsters belong in fairy stories and penny dreadfuls. Lawrence was only slightly more than half convinced that his memories were, in fact, memories and not the lingering
ghosts of fevered dreams. The Gypsies’ dancing bear could well have slashed him up and everything beyond that attack could be a sideshow of phantasms.

All of this flashed through Lawrence’s mind in an instant.

“It was some sort of beast,” he said flatly. “I . . . don’t know what kind. It was dark.”

Aberline frowned. “You’re certain it was an animal?”

“Oh yes,” said Lawrence. “A large one.”

“Hmm. A great mystery it is, given that there are no natural predators on the moors capable of inflicting such horrific injuries.” The inspector clasped his hands behind his back and pursed his mouth judiciously.

“There are no bears on the moors, either,” said Lawrence, “and yet one travels with the Gypsies. It doesn’t take a great deal of wit to imagine how almost any kind of animal could be here, Inspector.”

“There have been no other reports—”

“There were other witnesses,” Lawrence cut in. “No doubt they had as good a look as me. Better, perhaps. Did you ask the Gypsies?”

“They are a suspicious lot. They talk only of devils and demons,” Aberline said. “What I wonder is, is it possible that in fact you were attacked by a man? The savagery of the attack would
suggest
the action of an animal . . . compounded by the darkness . . .”

“No.” Lawrence’s answer was flat and hard. “What attacked us that night was in no way a man.”

“Not just any man. A lunatic perhaps? Someone with a history of mental disturbance, who had spent time in an asylum? And who may have suffered injuries at the hands of his own victims? . . .”

That hung in the air between them, and with sinking
horror Lawrence realized that Aberline had to know of his own incarceration in an asylum.

“What are you suggesting, Inspector?”

“I find it strange that all the murders, including your estranged brother’s, occurred near your ancestral home. And while you were in England with your acting company.”

Lawrence could feel the inference jab him in the stomach but he would be damned if he let it show on his face. Damn the arrogance of this fool.

“Inspector Aberline,” he said with care, “you are clearly aware of my personal history, as I believe I am aware of yours.”

“Oh?”

“Weren’t you in charge of the Ripper case a couple of years back?”

Aberline’s face became wooden. “Yes. A sorry business that.”

“I should say. So . . . is this a demotion, or have you come all the way out here because you have something to prove?”

The inspector’s face underwent a process of change. His air of affability dropped from his face like a discarded veil and the face Lawrence now saw was harder, humorless and devoid of compassion. “Very well. You are a direct man, so I will be equally direct with you. I’m not your enemy, Mr. Talbot. But I’ve seen your Hamlet, Macbeth, Richard the Third . . . all in that same face. When you step on stage you become a different person. Every movement, every personal tic, every aspect of your personality undergo a disturbingly genuine transformation. A prudent man would ask who else might be living inside that head of yours. I’m sure you understand.”

“What I understand now,” Lawrence said bitterly, “is
why you never caught the Ripper. I would have hoped for more from Scotland Yard. In America the Yard is legendary, but I suppose that’s the nature of reviews. You can never trust them for accuracy.”

He stood up and Aberline rose more slowly, his eyes as cold as a cobra’s.

“But hear me on this, Aberline,” said Lawrence. “My brother was killed by that thing. I was in London. I can act the part of other men, but I can’t separate myself into separate bodies that can be in two places at one time.”

“Yes. That does seem to be the case.” Aberline did not appear to be defeated by Lawrence’s reply. “So you won’t mind if I establish your whereabouts during all of your performances in London . . . and since.”

“You would be doing your own case a disservice,” Lawrence said. “But considering how the Ripper case was mishandled I can infer that this is the way you like to proceed. While you’re at it you might want to establish my whereabouts on September twenty-eight of this year. Perhaps Herman Melville’s death was no accident. Could have been me. Oh, and I was in Toronto in early June when the Canadian Prime Minister died. Better check to make sure he hadn’t been savaged by an actor.”

“This is hardly the time for jokes, Mr. Talbot.”

“No, it isn’t . . . nor is it the time for absurd accusations. If you want people to believe that you are an inspector worthy of that title, then I would suggest that you devote your time looking for whatever
thing
committed these atrocities rather than squandering your resources by harassing the victims.” Lawrence’s voice had steadily risen to a shout and the gallery door opened sharply as Sir John stepped in looking fierce.

“That’s enough of this nonsense,” snarled the old
man. “My son has answered your questions and he’s been too accommodating by half.”

“Sir John, I—”

“Get out,” said Sir John in a voice that brooked no discussion and no refusal.

Aberline bowed stiffly and left, with Singh dogging him all the way to the door.

L
awrence spent the rest of the afternoon in the portrait gallery. Singh brought him food, but he had no appetite. He pulled on a brocade dressing gown and slippers, secured his cane from the urn, and walked out into the garden, then took the path that led to the lake. The sun was high and bright and it sparkled like jewels on the gently rippling water. The refracted light was intense, hard to look at, but Lawrence stared at it for as long as he could bear, imagining on some deep level that there were answers there if he could only discern them.