The Wolfman (7 page)

A shadow fell across the medallion and Lawrence looked up to see the middle-aged publican who owned the tavern. The barman nodded at the empty glass at Lawrence’s elbow and gestured with the whiskey bottle he carried.

“Another, sir?”

Lawrence nodded and watched distractedly as the man poured a hefty slug and moved off. Lawrence glanced at him as he passed and saw a look of faint recognition on the man’s face. Putting two and two together, perhaps.

A noisy group of men called for fresh drinks and the publican and his assistant hurried over to pour whiskey and beer. They sat in a loose circle around a large table on which sat their hats—bowlers, cloth caps and top hats—and an assortment of tankards and wineglasses. Lawrence idly took the measure of this group as they were the centerpiece of the whole room, the kind of group who felt themselves to be of sufficient importance to speak louder and with less circumspection than anyone else. One of them was dressed in severe black with a Roman collar and Lawrence marked him as the village vicar. There was a very well-dressed man wearing expensive clothes. Local squire, Lawrence determined, and next to him was a ramrod-straight man with thick salt-and-pepper hair that Lawrence would have wagered was exmilitary, and from his patrician features probably an officer. Next to him was a fellow with a fierce Lord Kitchener mustache and suspicious eyes who was almost certainly
the local constable—he was in shirtsleeves but there was an official-looking tunic draped over the back of his chair. The bald man with spectacles had an educated look, and Lawrence figured him for a scholar or a doctor, and the broad-shouldered man with the weathered face and piercing hunter’s eyes looked like a farmer or gamekeeper—but definitely an earthier man than the others.

This was a game Lawrence often played when he was out and about, and now he did it to distract himself from the heartbreak that threatened to unman him. Like most trained actors, Lawrence was well practiced at guessing professions from dress, mannerisms and patterns of speech. Observation of real people in such situations was part of what made him so good at his craft. If he listened for ten minutes he could play each of these men convincingly on stage.

The men jabbered, each of them trying to dominate the conversation so that their remarks overlapped and commingled.

“It’s going to be hard to replace young Toland,” said the squire. “One of my best men. Widow and five little ones now on my rolls. Not to mention I’m down two hundred pound on that flock. I’d put another two hundred on the head of the beast that did this if I had it in hand.” He shook his head. “A widow and five little ones . . .”

“I feel for Sir John,” rumbled the constable. “Poor sod. Losing his son like that. ’Course he always was a bit on the edge of mad in my opinion. If anything puts him over, this will.”

The squire sniffed. “What becomes of Talbot Hall when the old man passes, I wonder.”

Lawrence’s hand tightened around his whiskey glass.
Were they talking about my family?

“Cor blimey,” said the constable to the squire, “but you’re a vulture, Timothy.”

“In all seriousness,” protested the squire.

“I should think some long-lost relative gets a happy letter from his solicitor.”

The pastor cut in, shifting the topic away from material concerns. “I saw the bodies with my own eyes.” He bent close and his voice took on a mysterious timbre. “Unnatural wounds. Most unnatural. Made by a fell creature I say. Not merely an animal,” he said, cutting a disapproving look at the constable, “as some would wish it.”

Lawrence almost opened his mouth to say something but restrained himself. His hand was closed tightly around his whiskey glass.

The military man pursed his lips. He spoke in a voice better suited for a parade ground than a quiet tavern. “What if it wasn’t a beast at all, but a cunning murderer? Someone who bore a grudge against one of these men?”

“What do you mean?” asked the squire.

“It’s a simple tactic. To misdirect the authorities he kills the men, then he tears the bodies up to make it
look
like a wild beast was responsible. I’ve seen it before—”

The others all jumped in to offer counterarguments, their volume rising to become a shouting match.

The constable slapped his hand on the table. “Ridiculous, Colonel! Who would go to such lengths? And why risk killing anyone other than the intended victim?”

The colonel spread his hands. “To conceal his true intentions. Like I’ve been saying.”

Throughout the debate the vicar was shaking his head and now he held up a hand as if he was about to
give a blessing. “Satan’s minions are manifold,” he said gravely. “He has forms and bodies far more terrible to draw upon than those of mere men and beast.”

The tavern keeper shook his head. “What about them Gypsies’ dancing bear? It could’ve done it.”

The colonel snorted. “That mangy thing? Kill three grown men? Doubtful, Kirk, very doubtful.”

The publican, Kirk, shrugged. “Then what, sir?” When the colonel didn’t answer Kirk turned to the vicar. “You agree, Pastor Fisk, don’t you?”

Fisk pursed his lips. “It might
not
be the bear,” he said dubiously, “but those Gypsies are behind it. Mark me. A curse on us—and we’re to blame. We allowed their paganism in our community.”

The man with the hunter’s eyes snorted. “Got nothing to do with the damned Gypsies, and ye all know it.”

All conversation at the table died away, as did much of the chatter elsewhere in the room.

“We’ve seen all this a’fore.”

“What are you saying, MacQueen?” asked the colonel.

MacQueen popped a lucifer with his thumbnail and held it over his pipe as he took a long pull. Despite his roughhewn clothes the other men waited him out, clearly invested in his opinion. MacQueen exhaled blue smoke up to the rafters and settled back in his chair, his keen eyes roving over the men as he spoke. His voice was quiet and even Lawrence found himself leaning forward to catch his words.

“It were twenty-five years ago now. My pa found him, way up on the dun. Quinn Noddy. Pastor, you knew him and his people. You, too, Constable Nye. Noddys have lived in these parts since times back. My pa was out early, following a blood trail and thinking there was a
hound gone wild. He found Quinn Noddy and his whole flock. Torn to pieces. Half eaten they were. Just like these poor souls. Brains and guts and God-knows-what lying across the moor for a quarter mile. And Quinn . . . the look on his face like he’d been eaten
alive
.”

“Good lord,” murmured the bespectacled man.

“Aye, Dr. Lloyd. The Good Lord weren’t looking after Quinn and his that night. Whatever it was that done it was big, too. Had claws. And didn’t mind a load of buckshot, on account of we found two empty shells inside Quinn’s shotgun. Quinn were a good shot, too. He and my pa took many a wily pheasant, and he weren’t one to miss what he shot at.”

“Anyone can miss,” said the colonel, but his voice lacked conviction.

MacQueen turned a knowing eye on him. “If something was killing your whole flock o’ sheep, Colonel Montford would you miss?
Could
you miss if something were close enough to tear you apart? Maybe one of your green recruits, but Quinn was nobody’s fool and he could hit what he wanted to hit. But there was nothing . . . no body, no wounded animal spoor. Whatever it was killed Quinn and tore him and flock to guts and gore was something that could not
be
killed by buckshot. Think on that for a spell.”

Dr. Lloyd opened his mouth to speak but shut it again. Constable Nye cleared his throat. “Did your father know what killed Noddy?”

MacQueen gave him an enigmatic smile; not a comfortable smile at all. He sucked on his pipe. “Well, sir, after what my pa saw, he went home and melted down my ma’s wedding spoons and cast silver slugs of ’em. Always had one barrel loaded that way and the other slugs in his pocket anytime he walked out onto the moors, even in the
bright midday.” He paused and the tavern was as silent as the grave. “And at night? Well . . . my pa wouldn’t leave the house on a full moon from then on.”

Colonel Montford laughed, trying to break the spell of MacQueen’s words. His laugh sounded hollow. “Come now, MacQueen.”

Dr. Lloyd shared a knowing look with Pastor Fisk.

Montford said, “Your father thought it was a werewolf?”

MacQueen smoked his pipe and said nothing.

The squire patted MacQueen on the arm. “Your father was an excellent gamekeeper, God rest him . . . but a gullible soul.”

“Strickland’s right,” agreed the colonel. “Your father would throw salt over his left shoulder and knock wood at any mischance. I’ve seen him do it.”

Squire Strickland nodded, but MacQueen continued to sit in silence, the blue fog of his pipe surrounding him like an aura.

Into the silence Pastor Fisk spoke, his voice low and tentative. “Maybe, Squire . . . and again maybe not. MacQueen lives closer to the land than we do. His people see what we in town miss. Besides . . . my uncle complained for years that his livestock disappeared at the hands of the Devil’s beast.”

The publican grunted. “I still say that bear’s to blame. Damn Gypsies. You don’t need to look past them for the Devil’s work, Pastor. Them dark-eyed buggers always wandering the countryside, bringing their woe and deviltry with ’em. They show up, and two weeks later this happens. . . .” He shook his head. “My guess is that Ben Talbot went to their camp to twiddle a Pikey whore. Bear gets him and they dump what’s left of him in a ditch.”

“No, no,” said Dr. Lloyd, “that’s all well and good, Kirk, but how does that explain—?”

Squire Strickland cut him off. “You’d think the Talbots would have learned their lesson consorting with the Roms!”

“Right,” agreed Colonel Montford. “Remember that black-eyed Salome the old man married? Gone crazy up there in the hall, killed herself? Wasn’t she a gypo whore queen or somesuch?”

Lawrence stood up with such violence that his chair legs scraped back with a furious squeal. He stalked straight to the edge of their table and as one the gathered men stopped speaking and looked up to face the tall, broad-shouldered stranger. The scowl on Lawrence’s face was so charged with dangerous fury that most of the men at the table recoiled.

“Yes, she
was
crazy,” Lawrence snarled. “To have come to this shit-hole you call a town.”

His words struck them to dumb silence except for the half-deaf pastor who turned to the squire. “What did he say?”

Colonel Montford was the first to recover. “You’re in your drink, boy,” he said with quiet control.

“Am I?” Lawrence sneered. “Then you must be awash in gin if you allow your mouth to jabber on about things you know nothing about!”

Montford jumped to his feet so suddenly that his chair fell over with a crash. His face flushed with red fury as he stepped face-to-face with Lawrence. Kirk moved behind the colonel and his glare showed that he was ready to back a regular against a stranger if this came to blows.

That was fine with Lawrence. He loathed these men as deeply as if he’d known them as enemies for years.
Hearing them speak of Ben was bad enough, but then they had dared—
dared
—say such vile things about his mother. He balled his fists, ready to tear into them; ready to defend his brother’s honor and see their blood. He stepped toward Montford, his lips still curled in a sneer that gave his features a lupine cast.

“I—” he stared to say but then Constable Nye was on his feet, thrusting his bulk between Lawrence and the colonel.

“We’ll have none of this!” he bellowed.

“Get him out of my tavern, Nye!” growled Kirk.

Lawrence started to go around the constable, but Nye put a restraining hand on his chest. “No!”

Lawrence looked down at the hand and then brushed it aside. Gently. He looked at the colonel with such a cold contempt that Montford looked taken aback.

“My mother was a Marquesa, you idiot. Solana Montrosa de Verdad.” He spat on the floor. “And she was no Gypsy.”

With that he turned and stalked out of the room leaving behind him a stunned silence so profound that the gathered men could hear the soft hiss of the log burning in the fireplace on the far side of the room.

It was Dr. Lloyd who broke the silence. “That man . . . that was Lawrence Talbot.”

Nye looked at Colonel Montford for a long and ugly moment, and the echo of Lawrence’s words seemed to haunt the air around them. The colonel turned away, snatched up his wineglass and threw it back. He sank into his chair without comment.

T
he sun was down, its last feeble light staining the sky as it tumbled into the distant west. Lawrence stalked down the street, fists still balled in rage, his jaw aching from the clench of his teeth. God how he wanted to pound those men, especially that pompous military buffoon.

He made it as far as the church and then wheeled around and headed back to the tavern. Maybe beating some sense into them was the right thing to do. Maybe that’s what it would take to—

But Constable Nye stepped from the shadows into his path. Lawrence squared his shoulders, ready for a fight, but the constable gave him a sad smile and held out the small pouch of Ben’s belongings. “I’m sorry for your loss, Talbot . . . but it’s time for you to go home.”