The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood

by Rupert Harker

  ◆◆◆

  4. Iam de Wolfmann

  Dr Steinway and I lunched together in the hospital canteen, and then I hired a taxicab to return me to Ulysses’ cottage. Ulysses was at the University, teaching or professing or whatever it is that professors of particle physics are paid to do, and Fairfax was sitting in the kitchen, working at his laptop computer.

  “What-ho, Rupert,” he cried. “What say you of the late Vic Timone?”

  “I have little to add, I’m afraid. He has died of exsanguination following traumatic amputation of the arm and legs. Samples have been sent for toxicology, and Gibson will examine the tissue samples in greater detail. A forensic odontologist should be arriving tomorrow by train to examine the bites.”

  “Gibson?”

  “Steinway,” I clarified. “Gibson Steinway.”

  “Ah yes. Of course. Have you lunched, Rupert?”

  “Yes I have, but I need to shower.” I hovered in the doorway. “What is the plan for the afternoon, Fairfax?”

  “At three, we are to meet Professor Iam de Wolfmann at his not insubstantial manor at the far side of Wottenham Wood. He has agreed to speak to us about his work in relation to PARP.”

  “Does he know of the killing?”

  “Oh yes. It seems that he is extremely well informed.”

  I consulted the wall clock; it was approaching a quarter past one. “Very well. I shall shower and shave forthwith, if not sooner.”

  Urban-Smith sat silently, and I bristled at his demeanour. Recently the man had developed an infuriating habit of regarding me critically, much as one might regard a slightly undercooked sausage, and the practice was proving most irksome.

  “Stop it, Fairfax. I feel you undressing me with your eyes.”

  “I am sorry, Rupert, but since the last full moon you have been without your usual joie de vivre, as if under the influence of a creeping malaise. Additionally, the abrasions to your wrists and ankles and the telltale signs of blood around the toilet bowl (indicating recent perineal and testicular trauma) have been noticeably absent. Has your relationship with the fair Nell reached a hiatus?”

  “Not one of my choosing,” said I, surprised at Fairfax’s interest in the matter, “but it is true that our usual level of intimacy has become unattainable due to her prior commitments to work and study.”

  “Is there nothing you can do to rectify the situation?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have contacted her by text this very morning in order to schedule a romantic evening and attempt to break the deadlock. I currently await her response. I must say,” I added, “that I am touched by your concern.”

  “Your happiness is of critical importance to me, Rupert. Without it, your company becomes almost intolerable.”

  “Intolerable?” I was affronted.

  “Not intolerable,” he replied placatingly. “Almost intolerable.”

  *

  Set within ten acres of private woodland, the de Wolfmann estate was substantial indeed. Clearly, the professor took his privacy extremely seriously, the estate being bounded by railings and accessed via a remotely-controlled iron gate. Our taxi cab paused briefly at the entrance, and the driver pressed a buzzer mounted beside the gatepost. Words were exchanged, the gate slid slowly to the side, and we progressed down the driveway to the entrance. As usual, it fell to me to pay the taximan.

  We rang the bell, and presently the door was opened by a slender gentleman in his early sixties, wearing corduroy trousers and jacket, a thick cotton shirt, and unmatching bow tie. A crescent of fluffy white hair nestled around the base of his skull, leaving his bald dome protruding like the peak of the Matterhorn above stratocumuli. In his left hand, he held a walking stick upon which he leaned heavily as he extended his right hand in greeting.

  “Mr Urban-Smith and Dr Harker. Please come in.”

  We entered, and the professor closed the door behind us. “Please follow me through to the sitting room, gentlemen, but do forgive my slow progress. Several years ago, I suffered a stroke, and it was several weeks before I was able to walk. Even now, I am prone to misbalancing and must rely on this cursed stick.”

  “Please do not rush on our account, Professor. We shall admire some of these beautiful paintings and adornments as we follow you.”

  “Thank you, Sir.” He turned and set off down the hall, raising his foot high off the ground with each step and bringing it down with a stomp, maintaining a broad-based gait as he made his way towards the sitting room. Urban-Smith and I furnished one another with an appraising look, he sucking his lower lip, as is his habit, and me, doubtlessly, cocking my left eyebrow, as is mine.

  The sitting room was tastefully appointed, with French windows that opened onto the gardens, and three leather settees set about the perimeter. At the centre of the room stood a glass-topped table with three wicker chairs about it, into one of which the professor eased himself.

  An elderly gentleman in a wheelchair was already seated at the table. His eyes were dark but clear, his grey beard was neatly trimmed, and his bald head shone like a beacon beneath the light of the chandelier, a stark contrast against his dark flannel suit.

  “Please may I introduce my father, Anders de Wolfmann.”

  Urban-Smith and I shook Mr de Wolfmann’s hand and seated ourselves at the table. No sooner had we done so, but the doors at the far end of the room opened to admit the butler.

  “Ah, Bricker,” cried the professor. “There you are.”

  Bricker was tall and greying, but with a good head of hair which he had plastered down upon his scalp and parted in the centre. He was most expanded around the waist, but held himself with a dignity and bearing that was unmistakable.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said he. “I am sorry that I was unable to meet you at the door, but when you rang, one was summoning a fudge dragon.”

  “No matter, Bricker, no matter. Perhaps you could fetch our guests some drinks.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  We watched Bricker withdraw, and the conversation resumed.

  “I observe from the stains upon your walking stick,” said Urban-Smith, “that you are in the habit of walking within the woods.”

  “Oh yes,” agreed the professor. “Despite my stumbling gait, it is still my pleasure to avail myself of all the forest has to offer. The Velvet Shank are particularly succulent at this time of year, and our chef, Antoine, is only too happy to incorporate my spoils into his cooking.”

  “What other fungi do you covet?”

  “At this time of year there is really only the Shank and the Oyster, though I have been known to stumble across the occasional Blewit. But I know that you did not come to me to discuss woodland flora.”

  “You are correct, Professor,” confirmed Urban-Smith. “It is the local fauna that has brought us here. We are investigating the disturbing attack that took place within the woods in the early hours of yesterday morning.”

  “Yes, you did allude to that fact on the telephone. You were of the opinion that there may be a lycanthrope responsible.”

  Anders de Wolfmann gave a snort of derision. “Vot nonsense,” he drawled. “There are no verevolves or vampires.”

  Urban-Smith regarded our elderly companion with keen interest. “The name de Wolfmann is Utrechtian, is it not?” he observed. “Hence the absence of an umlaut over the 'o', yet your comedy accent is Bavarian.”

  “That is correct, Herr Urban-Smith. Mein grandfather made his fortune in the steel industry, moving first to Luxembourg, then onwards into the Rhineland at the turn of the century, along mit mein mother. Ven war broke out, demand for steel skyrocketed, und our family did vell. Father made enough money to bribe his way out of national service, but mein grandfather ordered him to move to De-Bayerischer Vald.” He sneered. “There mein father spent the war hiding away und living off of his own family’s fortune, while his countrymen died to protect his liberty. He voz a coward und ein Schwein.”

  “Father!” Professor de Wolfmann cried. “How
can you speak so?”

  “Perhaps you would prefer to speak of verevolves und fairies, Iam?”

  I rose from my chair. “I think we should return at another time.”

  “No, please!” implored the professor. “Do not leave.”

  I reseated myself. “If you are sure.”

  “Forgive Rupert,” said Urban-Smith. “He is of a sensitive disposition.”

  “No I am not!”

  “Tetchy too.”

  Thankfully, at this juncture, Bricker the butler reappeared with a silver tray bearing three glasses.

  “Crème de fromage, Sirs?”

  “Thank you, Bricker.”

  Anders de Wolfmann, Urban-Smith and I each accepted a glass of the thick yellow liquor. Urban-Smith gave his an appraising sniff.

  “Hmm,” he mused. “Mild but tangy, with a hint of butyric acid. A vintage Roquefort, I’d say. An ‘85 or ‘86 perhaps?”

  “A ‘91, sir.”

  I sipped at my drink, enjoying the smoky flavour and the salty finish.

  “Are you not partaking, Professor?”

  “Sadly, I cannot. My stroke has left me with pan-sensory fromagic inattention. I cannot see, smell, hear, or taste cheese of any form.”

  “Hmm,” I murmured with sympathy. “I have heard of the condition. It must be a terrible burden.”

  He shrugged. “I have become accustomed to it, and Antoine’s cooking is such that one never has cause for complaint. Still,” he mused, staring past me with a wistful look upon his face, “sometimes I yearn for the touch of an Edam.” He startled from his reverie. “Goodness me. But you are not here to listen to my woes. What can I do to assist you gentlemen in your enquiries?”

  Urban-Smith took up the tale. “Professor, I have read some of your work on paroxysmal autosomal recessive permeation. I was particularly interested in your work with fruit flies.”

  “Oh yes,” enthused the professor. “Fascinating creatures, and so easy to work with. Some of my earliest results were achieved with them. As you are no doubt aware, the average fruit fly is a rather dull shade of khaki, but there are small subpopulations of paler flies and of darker flies. These variations in pigment are recessive traits, and therefore the fly must carry the same gene from each parent to express them.” Professor de Wolfmann became slightly tremulous, his nostrils flared and his eyes widened; evidently a rabid Drosophile. “I was able to isolate a number of fruit flies who carried one of these recessive genes and, through a combination of low level microwave radiation and ultrasound in a powerful magnetic field, was able to affect a noticeable change in pigment lasting for several seconds.” He stared past us again, a benign smile playing about his lips. “That was the year I was first nominated for Nobel Prize.”

  I was fascinated. I had studied Mendelian genetics at medical school, but never had I heard of a successful experiment to alter phenotype in this manner.

  “Was it only fruit flies on which you experimented?” I asked.

  “Oh no. The technique works on rats too. Both on fur colour and eye colour.”

  “You changed the colour of their eyes?”

  “Transiently, yes.”

  “That’s amazing,” I gushed.

  “I know. It would have worked on primates too, but the ethics committee refused.” His expression soured. “Short-sighted imbeciles!” he spat. “I’ll show them.”

  “Iam. Calm yourself.”

  “I’m sorry, father.”

  “Do you think it possible,” asked Urban-Smith, “that this bringing forth of less dominant genetic traits could arise naturally, given the presence of sufficient geomagnetic resonant energy?”

  “I do not think it,” replied Professor de Wolfmann irritably. “I know it.” He sat fuming for a few seconds, clearly still irked by the perceived slight upon his work by the dreaded ethics committee. “Mr Urban-Smith, I have read your theses on the subject of subterranean river networks and their role in the formation of ley lines. I am convinced that if a subject has the correct genotype, and is within an area of intersection of two or more of these lines when the underground water tables are at their highest, then there could be a paroxysmal shift in genotypical dominance and subsequent transient physical transmutation.”

  “Some have theorised,” said Urban-Smith “that within junk DNA, there lies the genetic code for all living things, from microbe to man. Do you think that with the correct stimulation, other suppressed genes could come to the fore.”

  “Therein,” replied the professor, “is the theoretical mechanism of lycanthropic change. Oh yes, I have read these theories.”

  “Have you formulated an opinion, Professor?”

  “It is my opinion,” said de Wolfmann, “that when the moon is full, no man is safe within these woods.”

  De Wolfmann senior had also formulated an opinion. “Dass ist stierscheiße!”

  “Really father?” snapped Professor de Wolfmann, “If it is such stierscheiße, then how do you account for what has happened? Do you think that poor man dismembered himself?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Pah!”

  “Has anybody continued your research, Professor?” I asked.

  “As far as I can tell,” said he, “nobody seems to see any practical value in it. I have been forced to continue my research here at my own expense.”

  “You have research facilities here?”

  “Oh yes. I have had the sub-basement extensively refurbished and equipped. All state-of-the-art.”

  “May we see it?”

  The professor shook his head vigorously. “I’m sorry, but I am at a critical phase of my research. I cannot allow anybody access until my findings are published. You understand, of course.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  A soft beeping emanated from Urban-Smith’s pocket, and he withdrew his mobile telephone. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I must take this call.” He flourished the telephone at me. “It’s Kenneth Badgerton.”

  Urban-Smith excused himself from the table and answered the call. “What-ho, Kenneth. Yes, I’m well, thank you. Seen what news? Another one? Good Lord. Yes it is, very much so.” He became quiet for a short while, listening intently. “That is most peculiar. Yes, I will. Righto then. Toodle pip.”

  He rejoined us at the table. “The Fervent Fist have destroyed another football stadium. West Tuppence in Cheshire this time.”

  Mr de Wolfmann senior’s head swivelled upon its stalk to look directly at Urban-Smith, as if noticing him for the first time.

  “Good Heavens,” I declared. “Schwarzkröte strikes again.”

  At these words, our elderly companion emitted a faint gurgling, and his drink slipped from his hand onto the parquet floor, spreading fragments of glass and cheesy liquor far and wide.

  I sprang from my chair. “Mr de Wolfmann! Are you alright?”

  “Ja, ja,” he managed, waving me away, “I am just ein bisschen veary.”

  “I shall ring for Bricker,” said the professor, but there was no need. The butler had evidently been skulking nearby and, at the sound of disturbance, had presented himself.

  “Is everything alright, Sir?”

  “Ah, Bricker. Please will you escort my father back to his room and bring him a brandy?”

  “Of course, Sir. I shall be back forthwith to clean up.”

  “Very good, Bricker.” The professor grunted and heaved himself upright from his chair. “Gentlemen. Evidently, the excitement has proved a little too much for my father. I am afraid I will have to bid you farewell.” He shook our hands warmly. “Please do keep me apprised of your progress in this matter.”

  We agreed to do so and took our leave.

  “It would appear,” said Urban-Smith, once we were safely across the threshold and on our way towards the front gate, “that the name Schwarzkröte exerts a dreadful fascination for our host’s father.”

  “Yes indeed, but I was of the distinct impression that he wished to hide the fact from his son.”

&n
bsp; We passed through the gate, which could be opened from within without an access code, and walked a little way down the road while Urban-Smith used his telephone to summon a taxicab.

  “I think that we may have cause to return to the de Wolfmann estate tonight,” he mused, “but this time, we must eschew an invitation.”

  “No can do, I’m afraid, Fairfax. Nell has responded affirmatively to my texts, and we are to spend the evening together. Once you are safely deposited at Ulysses’ cottage, I shall instruct our cabman to make Godspeed to Cambridge train station so that I may catch the five-fifteen to King’s Cross, not to return until the morrow.”

  “So be it, Rupert.”

  *

  The train journey was a little over an hour, with Baker Street a mere three stops on the Metropolitan line, and from there it was but a hop, skip and a jump to Chuffnell Mews. By seven o’clock, I was back in a taxicab, on my way to collect Nell from her flat on the fifth floor of Saville Towers, a shabby monstrosity squatting a few minutes’ walk from Ealing Common (Saville Towers that is, not Nell herself who was as far from a monstrosity as one could ever wish to meet).

  I had arranged for us to dine at our favourite Japanese Surrealist restaurant, The Melting Lotus, and then onwards to Harry Monk’s jazz club to hear blind, bald and legless Lucky Goldstein and his quartet.

  Nell greeted me with an enthusiastic kiss and gave a twirl to show off her new frock; tight, dark-blue cotton, with a black jacket, black hosiery and footwear. Nell had been dancing at The Blue Belvoir for almost six weeks, and I was heartened to observe that her gaskins and gambrels had firmed up most satisfactorily.

  To oil the wheels, I had bought her a gift, a diamond brooch in the shape of a gravestone with matching tombstone earrings. I pinned the brooch cautiously to her chest, and she scurried off to change her earrings. In her absence, I called for a taxicab.

  “When do you begin your studies?” I enquired as the two of us perched upon her pink sofa to await our ride.

  “I should have enough money to pay my fees by the end of February. I’ll start in March. I’m so excited.” She bounced up and down in her seat. “I can’t wait to do my first embalming. I’ve already started to read about it. Here.”