Douglas Preston - White Fire

“But that will take you right past the blanket bog,” Miss Selkirk said. “Where…” She fell silent.

“I will accompany you, then,” Edwin Aspern spoke up.

“You shall do nothing of the sort. The wolf’s most recent attack occurred just the night before last, and I doubt its hunger will have returned so soon. No; I shall undertake the trip on my own. Watson, once I reach Hexham I will leave word for the wagonette to come for you and the others in the morning.”

And so the matter was settled — or so I thought. Shortly after the men had passed into the library for brandy and cigars, however, Holmes took me aside.

“Look here,” he told me sotto voce . “As soon as you are able to effect it successfully, you will contrive to sneak out of the house, making sure your departure is undetected. That point is most vital, Watson — you must leave undetected. Remember that, for the time being, you remain in grave danger.”

Despite my surprise, I assured Holmes that I was his man.

“You are to make your way unobserved to the vicinity of that small hillock where we found Constable Frazier. Find a suitable hiding spot from which no approach can reveal your position — not the bog, not the forest, not the road. Be sure to be in position no later than ten o’clock. And there you are to wait for me to pass by.”

I nodded my understanding.

“When I come into sight, however, under no circumstances are you to call out, or stand, or in any manner betray your presence.”

“Then what am I to do, Holmes?”

“Depend upon it — when it comes time to act, you shall know. Now: do you still have your pistol about you?”

I patted my waistcoat pocket, where my Webley had been in residence ever since we had arrived at the Hall the previous day.

My friend nodded his satisfaction. “Excellent. Keep it close at hand.”

“And you, Holmes?”

“I myself will spend some time here before I take my leave, engaging young Aspern in conversation, billiards, or whatever proves necessary to distract him. It is vital that he not indulge his penchant for wolf-hunting, tonight of all nights.”

Accordingly, I bided my time, waiting until the gentlemen were engrossed in a game of whist. Then, retiring to my room, I retrieved my cap and travelling coat, and — making sure I was observed by neither family nor servants — I left the house by way of the French doors of the morning room, slipped across the lawn, and from there out onto the Hexham road. The rain had stopped, but the moon remained partially obscured by clouds. Heavy tendrils of mist lay across the bleak landscape.

I followed the muddy lane as it curved leisurely to the northeast, anticipating in its course the expanse of bog that lay ahead. It was a chill night, and here and there patches of snow could still be seen amidst the brambles and swamp grass. After several miles, at the bend where the road reached its northernmost point and angled eastwards towards town, I struck off south through the low undergrowth in the direction of the bog itself. The moon had by now emerged from behind the clouds and I could just make out the bog ahead, shimmering with a kind of ghastly glow. Beyond it, and barely discernible in the darkness, was the black border of Kielder Forest.

Reaching the hillock at last, I glanced round, then set about following Holmes’s instructions: to find a blind in which I could remain unseen from all directions. It took some doing, but at last I found a depression on the eastwards side of the hillock, partially surrounded by gorse and furze, which afforded excellent opportunities for concealment, whilst at the same time commanding a view of all approaches. And here I settled down to wait.

Over the next hour I held a most gloomy vigil. My limbs grew stiff from inactivity, and my travelling coat did little to keep out the damp and chill. From time to time, I examined the various approaches; on other occasions, from sheer force of nervous habit, I checked the state of my weapon.

It was past eleven o’clock when I at last heard the sound of footsteps, coming through the marsh grass from the direction of Aspern Hall. Carefully, I peered out from my place of concealment. It was Holmes, unmistakable in his cloth cap and long coat, his thin frame emerging out of the mists with its characteristic loping stride. He was walking along the very edge of the blanket bog, headed in my direction. Slipping the Webley out of my waistcoat pocket, I steeled myself for whatever action might now transpire.

I waited, motionless, as Holmes continued his approach, hands in his pockets, heading for Hexham with perfect equanimity, as if out for nothing more than an evening’s stroll. Suddenly, from the direction of the forest, I saw another form appear. It was large and dark, almost black, and as I watched in horror it bounded directly towards Holmes on all fours. From his position on the far side of the hillock, my friend would not yet be able to catch sight of the creature. I tightened my grip on the Webley: it was beyond any doubt that here was the fearsome wolf itself, and that it was intent on bringing down a fourth victim.

I watched it draw near, ready with my pistol should the beast get too close to Holmes. But then — when the animal was some hundred yards from my friend, and just as it came into view of Holmes himself — the most peculiar thing happened. The beast stopped short, creeping forwards with savage menace.

“Good evening, Sir Percival,” Holmes said matter-of-factly.

The beast greeted this sally with a vicious bark. I was by now out of my blind and approaching the wolf from the rear. The wolf abruptly reared up on its hind legs. Drawing closer, whilst trying my best to conceal the sound of my approach, I saw to my astonishment that the creature was, in fact, human: Sir Percival, dressed in what appeared to be a heavy bearskin coat. The soles of his leather boots had been fitted out with makeshift claws, and wolf pads dangled by large buttons from his gloves. One hand appeared holding a pistol; the other a large, claw-like implement with a heavy handle and long, wicked tines. His fair, thinning hair shone a pale, unnatural white in the light of the rising moon. I found myself almost paralysed by this bizarre and wholly unexpected turn of events.

Sir Percival laughed again — a maniacal laugh. “Good evening, Mister Holmes,” he said. “You shall make an excellent repast.” And with a raving torrent of words that I could not begin to follow or understand, he cocked his pistol and raised it at Holmes.

This extremity broke my paralysis. “Stand down, Sir Percival,” I cried from his flank, my own weapon raised. “I have you in my sights.”

Caught off guard, Sir Percival wheeled towards me, aiming in my direction. As he did so, I squeezed off a shot, catching him in the arm. With a cry of pain, the man clutched at his shoulder, then fell to his knees. In a moment, Holmes was at his side. He relieved Sir Percival of his weapon and the grotesque device — no doubt, I realized, used to simulate the lacerations of a wolf’s claws — then turned to me.

“I should be glad, Watson, if you could head into town as quickly as you can,” he said calmly. “Return with a dog-cart and several able-bodied men. I shall remain here with Sir Percival.”

The rest of the particulars can be summed up in short order. After Sir Percival was taken up by the authorities and remanded to the police-court, we returned to Aspern Hall. Holmes spoke briefly, in turn, with the magistrate; young Edwin Aspern; and Miss Selkirk, and then insisted on our returning to London by the very next train.

“I must confess, Holmes,” I told him as our carriage made its way along the road back towards Hexham just as dawn was breaking, “that whilst I have often been in the dark in past cases, this is your most singular surprise yet. Without doubt it will prove your coup-de-mâitre . How on earth did you know that a human, not a wolf, was behind these outrages — and how in particular did you know it was Sir Percival, if in fact you knew that at all?”