THE WEREWOLF OF WOTTENHAM WOOD
An Urban-Smith Mystery
Rupert Harker
The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood
Copyright © 2019 by Rupert Harker.
All Rights Reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Moon-slash cover logo c/o freepik.com
Please visit my website at http://r-harker.com/
ISBN 978-1-913006-02-0
For my wonderful wife, Jo,
and all our beautiful animals.
SPECIAL THANKS TO
Becky Stewart
Jeff Haddow
Thank you all for your helpful suggestions.
“Even the man with a heart of gold,
Who fights for what is right,
May transform from man to beast,
When the moon hangs full in the night.”
Traditional East European Gypsy Rhyme
CONTENTS
1. The Legend of Tripod Jack
2. Ulysses Rising
3. Dividing Vic Timone
4. Iam de Wolfmann
5. Edna Clearing
6. Flouting Mendel
7. The Beast Lives
8. A Malign and Eldritch Rancour
9. Auschwitz and the Fourth Atman
10. Death of a Wolf
11. Modus Operandi
12. A Slippery Piglet
13. Corpus Delicious
14. The Urban Dude
15. Icky Sticky
16. Amongst the Amphibians
17. I Got Soul
18. Gunfight at The Blue Whale Corral
19. Seeking Solace at The Blue Belvoir
20. The Fist Strikes Once More
21. Thine to Suffer
22. Climbing Trees in the Hesperides
23. The Path Less Followed
24. A Worthy Adversary
25. Unto the Breach.
26. The Upstart’s Tale
27. A Light Bite
28. Has Justice been Served?
29. Fo’ Sizzles.
30. Happy New Year
1. The
Legend of Tripod Jack
Wednesday, 3rd January 2007
Sunrise 08:06, Sunset 16:04
Of all my adventures in the company of detective, author and paranormal researcher and investigator, Fairfax Urban-Smith, nonesoever is as bizarre and macabre as that of the three-legged werewolf of Wottenham Wood.
As always, it started with a death.
*
Though blustery and wet, the start of the year 2007 was uncharacteristically temperate, yet a palpable pall hung over the streets of London. England was reeling in the wake of the LOL Curse, a series of murderous telephone calls unleashed by The Fervent Fist under the auspices of their nefarious leader, Dr Saxon Schwarzkröte.
Thanks to the efforts of author, detective, paranormal investigator and researcher, Fairfax Urban-Smith (with assistance from yours truly), two of Schwarzkröte’s employees had been apprehended, but the investigation had been arduous and fraught with danger, and I must confess that the whole vile affair had put a terrible strain upon my nervous system. As a result, I had elected to take a week’s break from my duties as a forensic pathologist in order to catch up with some private reading.
This particular afternoon found me relaxing in the living room of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews, Marylebone, NW1. I was supine upon the sofa, perusing the British Amateur Journal of Female Anatomy, when Urban-Smith entered, clutching his mobile phone. At several inches above six feet, he stood almost a foot taller than I, and the tiny device seemed almost comical in his grasp. Despite his long crooked nose and the deep lines etched at the corners of his light blue eyes, he was strikingly handsome, with a determined jaw and a thin but wiry physique, honed from his years of boxing at Eton and Imperial College. As ever, he was clad in formal shirt and trousers with his straight brown hair combed down upon his scalp and his school tie clipped against his chest.
“I have just received the most intriguing telephone call,” said he. “Are you familiar with the legend of Tripod Jack?”
I squinted at him over my spectacles.
“Is he perhaps an adult entertainer of noted prowess?”
“No, Rupert, he is not. If you would care to pass me Faulkner’s Compendium of British Folklore from the bookcase, I will illuminate you.”
“Can you not fetch it yourself, Fairfax?”
“It is on the lowest shelf; if you stand on tiptoe, you may be able to reach it.”
What I lack in stature, I more than make up for in stubbornness, and I steadfastly refused to budge from my place upon the sofa until Urban-Smith was forced to relent. In view of his great height, he had to contort himself most uncomfortably to access the deepest recesses of the bookshelf, and I watched with some amusement as he scrabbled for the volume, cursing me roundly as he scratched and struggled.
“Ah, I have it,” he cried, finally liberating said tome and rummaging through the pages for a few moments. “Here we are. The Legend of Tripod Jack.”
He lowered himself into his favourite armchair and began to read aloud.
“Of all the recorded cases of lycanthropy, that of Tripod Jack remains unique in that it is the only case which involves a three-legged creature.”
“A three-legged werewolf?” I snorted. “Whatever next? A phantom egg and spoon race, I fancy!”
“There can be no thunder without lightning,” he reproached. “All myths and legends begin with a spark. Add the fuel of superstition, and soon you have the roaring fire of folklore.
“As you wish, Fairfax. Please, continue.”
“Tripod Jack is said to have lived in a cabin deep in Wottenham Wood. Jack was born of two souls merged inside the womb but, being the stronger of the two, Jack mostly absorbed his twin so that only the leg of his sibling remained without, though the spirit remained within.”
“Conjoined twins,” I offered. “Very rare.”
“Jack was a gentle and fair man who worked hard as a furrier and was said to be kind to his wife and children. However, the spirit of his twin that dwelt in Jack was malevolent and jealous. Jack was strong of heart and mind, and able to master this cohabitee of his body until, one St Swithin's day, he was struck by a most terrible malady of the elbows and beard. His howls of anguish could be heard late at night, echoing around the forest.
“Taking advantage of Jack’s weakened state, his twin’s unsympathetic spirit began to gain mastery and, when the moon was at its fullest, was able to control Jack’s body, soul and reason. During these times, it is said that Jack would undergo a monstrous transformation into a savage, hirsute beast, occasioning his wife and children to hide in fear and loathing as he wreaked havoc within the wood, hunting and devouring deer, hares and other woodland creatures.
“The locals soon learned to avoid the woods, but nearby farmers began losing sheep and horses to Jack’s vicious bloodlust.
“Inevitably, tragedy struck one moonlit night when a visiting Bible salesman from Ipswich happened to wander into the beast’s path. He was rent asunder, and his remains discovered on the edge of Fernley Road. The creature was witnessed by a passing chimney sweep, whose testimonial was transcribed and reads as follow
s.
“‘I was returning home from the local Ale House, where I had been engaged in a gentlemanly game of shove ha’penny, when I chanced upon the most heinous and abominable sight. There on the Fernley Road, beneath the light of the full moon, crouched a demonic presence. As to its size, it appeared many orders of magnitude greater than a stoat, but less than an ox, should said ox happen to rear up on its hind legs. From crown to ankle it sported long browny fur like a fox, but its jaws were monstrous, those of an ogre or gigantic pike. Its jowls were matted with spit and blood, and its claws dripped with offal and gore. But it was its hindquarters that whelmed me with the greatest revulsion and loathing, for as it rose to greet me, I was struck by the number of its legs; not two, but three. It turned upon me with a gaze of pure hatred and ravening but, through some divine providence, something seized its attention and it hastened away through the undergrowth. I was frozen to the spot for several moments until a dreadful howling brought me from my catatonia, and I fled as fast as my feet would allow.’
“In a delirium of feverish retribution the local townspeople formed a mob and, armed with torches and pitchforks, hunted the beast through the woods with hounds. They followed it to the home of Tripod Jack and they barricaded the doors and windows from the outside and burned the house to the ground. What they were not to know was that Jack’s wife and children, as they had done on nights previous, had hidden themselves from the creature and were concealed within the cabin as it burned.
“The next morning, the remains of four victims were found in the smouldering ruins of Jack’s dwelling; two children, a woman and a three-legged man.
“And so, as is too often the case, violence met with violence, and six souls were taken too soon, deep in Wottenham Wood.”
He closed the book. “Well, Rupert; what do you think?”
“Of that? Utter nonsense. You cannot possibly give credence to such a preposterous story.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “Perhaps not. I have received this photograph via text message.” Urban-Smith handed me his phone. There was a picture of several footprints, clearly not of human making.
“They are the tracks of either a squirrel, a swordfish or a unicorn,” I offered helpfully.
“But there is more. The locals speak of a strange creature seen lurking by the roadside, and of a wolf’s howling in the night. The most recent sightings occurred during the last full moon.”
“Do you believe in lycanthropy, Fairfax? That a human can become transformed into a giant wolf?”
“I believe it possible. You are of course familiar with the concept of paroxysmal autosomal recessive permeation? PARP for short.”
“Absolutely not,” I confirmed. “I am thoroughly convinced that you make these things up to unsettle me.”
“There have been several studies written on the subject by one Iam de Wolfmann, retired Professor of Genetics at Crumble College, Cambridge. He happens to own a mansion of the edge of Wottenham Wood.”
I returned his phone. “Are you planning a trip to Cambridge?”
“Indeed I am. I have been contacted this very day by an Inspector Mallow of the Cambridgeshire Police. There has been a violent death, the circumstances of which have mystified the local Constabulary in attendance.”
“Dare I ask how this relates to all this werewolf nonsense?”
“Because, Rupert,” he replied, “the tracks I have shown you were found at the scene. It appears that Tripod Jack has struck again.”
*
My interest was piqued and, finding myself without any duties for a few days, I elected to accompany Urban-Smith to Wottenham Wood in Cambridgeshire.
And so it was that at four o’clock that afternoon, I found myself in the company of Inspector Mallow and Urban-Smith at the scene of the killing.
The body had been rent truly asunder. Both legs had been severed below the knees as had the whole of the left arm up to the shoulder. None of the amputated limbs were visible in the vicinity. Part of the face and scalp was also missing as was a sizeable portion of the chest wall.
“It is very reminiscent of an early Jackson Pollock,” stated Urban-Smith with his usual tact.
“Good God, man!” I exclaimed. “Have some compassion.”
“I’m sorry, Rupert. I often forget that you are of an uncommonly sensitive disposition for one in your vocation.”
“What do we know of the victim?” I enquired.
The Inspector withdrew his notebook. “He is a Mr Vic Timone, forty-one years of age, single, worked as an accounts manager in Huntington. A local dog walker discovered him this morning and identified his remains.”
I put on some vinyl gloves and made a closer examination. It had been a frenzied attack, with blood, offal and tissue fragments spread for several feet around the poor wretch. The body was cold to the touch, with rigor mortis in the remaining arm and livor mortis in the lower back and back of the thighs.
Rigor mortis is a well-known phenomenon by which the muscles of the recently deceased stiffen. This process begins a few hours after death, is maximal at around twelve hours, and then dissipates until, after a day or so, the muscles become flaccid.
Most people, however, are less familiar with pasta mortis. After death, blood pools in the internal organs, draining away from the skin and leaving it pale and clammy like a handful of spaghetti. The presence of pasta mortis is diagnostic of death and can be confirmed by throwing the deceased against a wall and observing whether they remain adherent to it (Al-Dente’s sign).
If you have been unfortunate enough to be on a hospital ward when resuscitation is being attempted, you may hear the command, “stand clear!” followed by a loud thud. This is the medical team checking for pasta mortis.
A related but transient phenomenon occurs shortly thereafter as the blood leeches back out of the internal organs, forming stripes in the skin. This is known as zebra mortis and is best seen if the person has died whilst standing on their head; but I digress.
“Death has occurred in the last twenty-four hours. Rigor mortis is quite pronounced, so I suspect between eight and sixteen hours. There have been some scavengers nibbling at the body and there are flies buzzing about, but no maggots as yet. If it were summer, he would be crawling by now. For a more accurate estimate I would need to check his rectal temperature. I assume your own pathologist has already done so.”
“Indeed he has, Dr Harker. He calculates that death occurred between one and two this morning.”
“Do you have any idea what he was doing here so late at night?”
“He was an avid badger watcher, Doctor. There is a hide just a stone’s throw from here.”
I continued my examination. “These limb injuries were sustained either while the victim was alive, or immediately post-mortem, as evidenced by the profuse amount of blood on and around the stumps. The wounds to the face and chest display slightly less bleeding and were probably caused after those to the limbs. The cause of death was acute blood loss due to amputation of the lower legs and left arm. Judging by the ragged nature of the wounds, I would suggest that they have been torn or bitten off. After that, the creature went to work on the head and torso. The victim was dragged about somewhat, resulting in the widespread blood spattering you can see, and has been in the supine position overnight.”
Urban-Smith was on his hands and knees, looking through his magnifying glass at the strange animal tracks that led away from Mr Timone’s shattered torso. They were large, clearly too large to be of human origin, but irregularly shaped; nothing like a wolf’s print at all.
“What on Earth could have made those tracks?” I asked. “And please spare me any nonsense about Tripod Jack or werewolves.”
“You know of Tripod Jack?” Inspector Mallow seemed both surprised and impressed.
“That we have, Inspector,” confirmed Urban-Smith, “and despite your scepticism, Rupert, whatever beast left this trail does indeed have three legs, two on the left side and one on the right.”
“Why are the tracks so indistinct?” I asked.
“They are indistinct because the feet that made them were clad in socks or stockings to obscure the creature‘s true nature. Are you familiar with the Navajo practice of naaldlooshii akee be-ki-asz-jole?”
“Does it involve baby oil and rubber hoses?”
“No, Rupert. It is the custom of wrapping or covering an animal’s feet in order to disguise its tracks. I have published several monographs on the subject.” Urban-Smith motioned with his hand. “But that is not all. You see these round indentations alongside the others? See how they are at regular intervals upon the right side, in tandem with every trio of prints. I would say that our attacker has developed arthritis, for he is using a walking stick or possibly a crutch and, judging by the depth of the imprints, leaning upon it weightily.
“Additionally, you will observe the meandering furrow that follows the tracks. This animal has been dragging a heavy tail, reminiscent of a kangaroo’s tail, rather than a wolf’s.”
“A kangaroo?” said Inspector Mallow incredulously.
“Yes, Inspector. And evidently one which is unable to jump, due to some malady; perhaps arthritis or an old sporting injury. The step pattern is most abnormal. The strides are short but widely spaced, indicating a stomping gait.” For the benefit of the Inspector and myself, he stomped a few paces, raising his knees high, and with his feet greater than hip width apart.
“It appears that our kangaroo is afflicted by cerebellar ataxia,” I said.
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