The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood

by Rupert Harker

  “Elucidate please, Rupert.”

  “The cerebellum is responsible for balance and co-ordination. Damage to it causes a significant deficit of these functions, resulting in a broad-based stomping gait of the type that you have so beautifully demonstrated.”

  “What would cause it?” asked Inspector Mallow.

  “It can be a familial condition, or it can be caused by excess alcohol or structural damage to the cerebellum; a head injury or stroke, for example.”

  “That would of course account for the walking stick,” said Urban-Smith. “The short stride length does, however, make it difficult to gauge the height of our suspect, but I estimate his weight to be somewhere between one hundred and eighty and two hundred and twenty kilograms.”

  I whistled. “That’s a big kangaroo! How can you be sure?”

  “It is very simple,” said Urban Smith. “My weight of eighty kilograms has produced a tread depth of two centimetres per shoe, which is a total tread depth of four centimetres, approximating twenty kilograms per centimetre of ground displaced. I estimate that this creature’s feet are about fifty percent larger than my own, which gives an estimated thirty kilograms per centimetre, assuming that the water content of the ground has not altered radically since these prints were made.

  “We have three prints, each of two centimetres in depth, giving a total displacement of six centimetres or one hundred and eighty kilograms. This does not take into account the significant amount of weight supported by the walking stick, which could be as much as another twenty to forty kilograms.”

  “In essence then,” said Inspector Mallow, “our suspect is a thirty stone, three-legged, arthritic, carnivorous kangaroo, wearing socks and carrying either a walking stick or a crutch.”

  “So the evidence would suggest.”

  I shook my head in wonderment. “Once explained it is so apparent as to become laughable. How could I not have seen it for myself?”

  “Ha ha,” laughed Urban-Smith. “My dear friend, if knighthoods were awarded for services to sarcasm, I should be calling you, ‘Sir Rupert.’”

  “Are Vic Timone’s injuries consistent with having been mauled by a marauding, man-eating, mutant, multi-legged marsupial?” Inspector Mallow asked me.

  “Your common-or-garden kangaroo is herbivorous, so its teeth and jaws would not be adapted to cause this amount of damage to a struggling adult human.

  “I'm afraid that this is rather beyond my field of expertise. Fairfax, do you know any forensic cryptobiologists?”

  “One or two,” he mused, “but none of them residing in the British Isles. It seems to be a branch of science prevalent only in the Americas at present.”

  “Inspector Mallow, do you think that I would be permitted to sit in for this poor fellow’s autopsy?”

  “Of course, Dr Harker. I shall have the mortuary contact you this afternoon.”

  “Other than those of the victim and your investigating officers, were there any other footprints at the scene?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “No, Sir,” replied the Inspector, “other than those of the lady who was unfortunate enough to discover the body, and those of her dog, of course. My officers have been well briefed to take care when walking through a crime scene. Pains have been taken to ensure that all footprints are accounted for, and the scene has been preserved as fully as is possible.”

  Urban-Smith smiled. “I have to commend you, Inspector Mallow. You are without a doubt the most competent and efficient Police Officer that I have ever had the pleasure to work with. I assume that you have followed the animal tracks.”

  “Indeed we have. They lead to a nearby tributary of the River Great Ouse, and there the trail goes cold.”

  “Have you closed the woods to the public?”

  “These woods cover several hundred acres and are flanked on all sides by farmland and remote villages. We can put up notices and send out bulletins via the local press and radio, but we cannot physically police such a vast area.”

  Urban-Smith sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It is the twentieth today; there are two more nights of the full moon. I fear that our killer may yet again rear his ugly head before we have brought this affair to its close.”

  “The full moon?” I asked incredulously. “You do not still cling to this preposterous werewolf theory, do you?”

  “Until we have all the facts, I think it would serve us well to keep our eyes, ears and minds wipe open.” Urban-Smith turned to Inspector Mallow. “Inspector, I believe that we have seen all that we shall see today. My brother, Ulysses, has kindly agreed to accommodate Rupert and myself for a few days at his humble abode. If you would be so kind as to ask one of your officers to deposit us at his door, he lives but a few miles from here.”

  “Certainly, Mr Urban-Smith.”

  “I would like to speak to the lady who found the body. May I have her details please?”

  “Of course. She is Mrs Edna Clearing of number four, The Scratchings, just up in the village. Her dog is called Gonzáles.

  “Thank you, Inspector. We will be in touch.”

  ◆◆◆

  Postscript to Chapter One

  For the sake of narrative clarity, in subsequent scenes involving both of the Urban-Smith siblings, it has been necessary to break with prescribed etiquette and refer to each brother by their Christian name.

  ◆◆◆

  2. Ulysses Rising

  Urban-Smith and I were sharing the back of a police car (not for the first time) as we wended our way through the Cambridgeshire countryside towards the home of Urban-Smith’s elder sibling, Ulysses.

  “It would seem that you owe my brother a great debt,” Urban-Smith reflected. “Had he not vacated number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews to accept his professorship at Crumble College, you should not have had the opportunity to observe me in my natural habitat.”

  “I don’t know whether to shake his hand or slap his face,” I replied.

  “Slap his face? Ha!” He barked a sharp laugh. “My dear Rupert, you would need to stand on a chair to bite his ankles. Whenever we are together, I feel as if I am looking at you the wrong way through binoculars.”

  “I am not that short.”

  “As you wish, Rupert.”

  I stared out of the window at the rolling greenery, and I was touched by the tranquillity and beauty of the area.

  “Here we are, Sirs.” The police car had slowed to a halt outside a broad white thatched cottage, standing alone at the roadside, framed by a spinney and overlooking a small brook. We thanked our driver, collected our bags from the boot and wended our way up the path, past the Daphnes and Hibisci, to the brown, lacquered door.

  “Fairfax!” Ulysses threw the door wide and greeted us earnestly. The elder Urban-Smith was remarkable for his height, standing a good few centimetres taller than Fairfax, and broader in both chest and belly. “Come in, come in.” We were ushered through to the living room to deposit our bags. “Rupert, it’s a pleasure to meet you at last. Fairfax has told me of your proclivities.” So vigorous was his handshake that I feared that all future proclivities were to be left-handed.

  There was less family resemblance than one might expect. Ulysses’ nose was blunter and broader than his brother’s, the set of his eyes wider, the lips fuller, and his hair wavy and receding. His blue eyes roamed up and down, taking in every aspect of my person.

  “You are much taller than I expected,” he concluded. “By Fairfax’s description, I rather fancied that I would require a magnifying glass.”

  We decanted to the kitchen, and Ulysses set about preparing afternoon tea. The kitchen was large but functional, with no evidence of a woman’s touch. I spied a cat’s food and water bowls upon the draining board, and a cat flap set into the side door, but currently no trace of said feline.

  “So tell me, Fairfax,” said Ulysses, brandishing a packet of digestives, “what brings you to this little corner of rural England?”

  I had seated myself at the table as a norma
l person is wont to do, but Fairfax had busied himself as usual, poking and prodding hither and thither, opening and examining the contents of drawers and cupboards and generally behaving like a visitor from another planet. Ulysses seemed unperturbed, clearly accustomed to such eccentric behaviour.

  “Rupert and I,” said Fairfax, retrieving an eggcup from a high cupboard and examining it as if it were a murder weapon, “have been summoned by the constabulary to peruse a dismembered brocktologist. The unlucky chap has been unearthed in Wottenham Wood.”

  “Badger botherer, eh? Any chance he disturbed a nest of squirrels?”

  Fairfax temporarily ceased scrutinising the crockery to furnish Ulysses with a pitying look. “I fear that we may have strayed into territory outside your speciality, Ulysses. Sciurus carolinensis is a solitary hunter.”

  “I see,” said Ulysses. “So this chap fell prey to a pack of carnivores in the woods? How odd.”

  “Not a pack; just the one.”

  “So it could have been a squirrel.”

  I was unable to suppress a chortle, not at the thought of a homicidal squirrel, but at the practised ease with which Ulysses was able to derail the conversation, much to Fairfax’s annoyance.

  “Really, Ulysses,” he tutted. “You are impossible. Now you see why I choose not to engage with you in such matters; you are incapable of treating them with any propriety.”

  “Perhaps you should lay the facts before me,” said Ulysses, depositing the beverages and biscuits onto the table. “You know how much I enjoy a puzzle.”

  The brothers seated themselves, and Fairfax and I imparted all that we knew including the legend of Tripod Jack, the nature of Vic Timone’s injuries, and the extraordinary tracks that peppered the vicinity of the killing.

  This was evidently a three-biscuit problem. Ulysses nodded and murmured between mouthfuls, showing particular interest in the picture of the footprints stored on Fairfax’s telephone.

  “Were you able to ascertain the number of digits on each foot?” asked Ulysses.

  “No. The naaldlooshii akee be-ki-asz-jole had been administered most competently.”

  “What about DNA evidence? Rupert?”

  “Very doubtful,” said I. “Carrion rarely remains unnibbled for long in that environment. I suspect that you would find the DNA of every scavenger in a half-mile radius.

  Ulysses reached for another biscuit. “How do you intend to proceed, Fairfax?”

  “In my experience, there is no greater source of collateral information than a local ale house. Perhaps there is one near the village that you might recommend?”

  “I would suggest The Cock on Percy Lane; it should be right up your alley.”

  “Capital,” Fairfax enthused. “We shall head forthwith to the village to interview Mrs Edna Clearing, thence onwards to Percy Lane.”

  “I shall meet you at The Cock,” said Ulysses. “They do a rather fine dinner.”

  “Ouch!” I suddenly experienced a sharp pain in the ankle. Peering beneath the table, I discovered Ulysses’ cat, Ajax, with his claws embedded in my boot, gnawing at my medial malleolus.

  “Aha!” said Fairfax. “It would appear that the foot’s a game.”

  *

  Mrs Edna Clearing lived in a charming terraced cottage at the edge of Wottenham Wood, less than half a mile from where her dog, Gonzáles, had discovered the body. The garden was neatly laid to lawn with tidy flower beds, pruned and dormant, and a scattering of dwarf conifers.

  Fairfax rapped upon the door, thereby activating a frantic yapping from within, the tone of which suggested a small dog, probably a terrier of some description.

  The door was opened by a cheerful little lady, I would guess in her seventies, clad in a green floral frock, white cardigan and comfortable bedroom slippers. A small fluffy Bichon Frisé ran in circles around our ankles, barking cheerfully.

  “If you stand on tiptoe, you may be able to pat it on the head, Rupert.”

  “Give it a rest, Fairfax.”

  “Are you Mr Urban-Smith and Dr Harker?” asked Mrs Clearing.

  “The very same.”

  “Please come in. Inspector Mallow said that you would be calling.” She led us down the hall and into her living room, Gonzáles whirling about us like a dervish. “Please have a seat.”

  We perched ourselves upon the settee while Gonzáles busied himself charging about the perimeter of the room.

  “Would you care for some tea?”

  We declined her kind offer and Fairfax pushed straight on to the matter at hand. “Mrs, Clearing….”

  “Please call me Edna.”

  “Edna, can you tell us what happened this morning?”

  “There isn’t much to tell. Gonzáles and I walk twice daily along the Fernley Road and into the wood. About a mile down the road, there is a small heath with a brook and some thicket, and it is a beautiful spot. Gonzáles likes to chase the squirrels and rabbits. We were headed there as usual. On the left side of the road is a gap in the trees, with a narrow path that leads to the heath. We were about a hundred yards shy of that gap when Gonzáles stopped in his tracks and began to whine. He never whines, you see. He is such a good little dog.

  “Anyway, he was whining and pulling at the lead. He was so insistent that I thought that a particularly juicy squirrel must have taken his fancy, so I unclipped his lead, and whoosh! Off he shot as if from a cannon. I followed the sound of his yapping, expecting to find him chasing round and round an oak, but when I came across him… oh my, gentlemen.”

  Mrs Clearing was unable to continue and began quietly sobbing. Gonzáles ran to sit by her feet and whined miserably. There was a box of tissues upon the sideboard, so I collected a handful and presented them to the distraught woman, then resumed my seat while she regained her composure.

  “I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “Never in all my born days have I seen anything so terrible. My first thought was that Gonzáles had become overexcited and mauled a passing jogger.”

  I stared at the little Bichon Frisé. He stared back, his tail wagging and his mouth hanging open, panting happily and bobbing his head as if listening to some popular tune that I could not hear.

  “What happened next?” Fairfax prompted.

  “Of course it wasn’t long before I recognised poor Victor from the village. He was in a terrible state, spread all about the woods as he was, and Gonzáles would never hurt Victor. Sometimes we walk down by the big pond and we often see Victor feeding bread to the ducks, and he would always have some for Gonzáles.

  “Anyway, I immediately took some photos and posted them on my Twitbook page, then I called the police and told them what had happened. They were there in a flash.” She shrugged. “That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

  “Did you notice anything else at all, Edna?”

  “No, Mr Urban-Smith. Although… no, it’s ridiculous.”

  “Please, Edna. Anything you can tell us, anything at all, may prove critical.”

  She giggled nervously. “You’ll think me a daft old fool, but now the nights are drawing close, we often have to take our second walk in the dark. Gonzáles and I both have our fluorescent coats, and Gonzáles has a collar with little flashing lights so that he stands out. Last night and the night before, I could have sworn that I heard something peculiar coming from the woods.” Her smile faded, and she gazed distractedly out of the living room window. “The first time, I thought I must have imagined it, but last night I was sure. Gonzáles heard it too; his little hackles stood right up on end.”

  “What was it, Edna? What did you hear?”

  She leaned forward, her eyes wide.

  “I heard a wolf howling at the moon.”

  *

  Following our tête-à-tête with Edna Clearing, we proceeded to Percy Lane to sample the delights of The Cock.

  From our initial vantage point, it appeared rather the worse for wear, neglected even, as if the entire edifice were finding it a challenge to remain erect. As we entered, it b
ecame apparent that some considerable extension had taken place and, although not wide, its length was quite impressive.

  We were greeted at the bar by Ulysses, who advised us that the dining section was to the back of the premises, but suggested that we first indulge in a drink and some local gossip. We ordered three pints of fermented mead and one more for the barkeep, whom it transpired was also the landlord.

  It was still early, and The Cock was not busy, so Fairfax took the opportunity to probe the vender for information while Ulysses and I nursed our beverages at the far end of the bar and eavesdropped.

  “Did you hear about Vic Timone?” asked Fairfax, innocently supping at his foamy brew.

  “Indeed I did. ‘Tis the talk of the whole village, so it is, Sir.” The barkeep leaned forward conspiratorially. “They say that his arm was bitten clean off, and a set of giant footprints led away from the body.” He shook his head sadly. “’Tis devilment, Sir. There’s no other word for it. Even the God-fearing will toss unsoundly in their beds tonight.”

  “Dear God!” exclaimed Fairfax. “What manner of foul beast could sever a man’s arm?”

  “They say that it is the work of Tripod Jack,” whispered the barkeep.

  “Ha! Poppycock! A legend, nothing more.”

  “I’m not so sure." The barman's good eye darted this way and that. "I hear things," he whispered. "People talk.”

  “And what do these people say?”

  “They speak of strange noises, Sir. They speak of a wolf’s howl in the night.”

  “Surely somebody’s pet dog?” said Fairfax dismissively.

  “Maybe, Sir. Maybe.”

  There were other customers requiring attention at the bar and thus was the conversation terminated.

  Fairfax rejoined us. “The locals are spooked,” he observed, “and it appears that it is not only old Mrs Clearing whose ears have been assailed by nocturnal howling.”

  A young man ambled to the bar, a tall lank youngster with hair to his shoulders. He removed his leather jacket, revealing a black T-shirt sporting the face of a savage, wolf-like beast, with the words, 'Werewolves of Wottenham Wood,' in dripping, blood-red letters. Around the perimeter of the snarling face, there projected three clawed hands, one at the twelve o’clock position and the others at the four and eight o’clock positions, rather like a bestial version of the Isle of Man’s flag.