The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood

by Rupert Harker

  She reached down beside the sofa and presented me with her copy of ‘Plump and Stuffingham’s Cadaverous Conversion Course.’ I had a quick thumb through and saw that Nell had begun underlining certain paragraphs and making notes in the margins.

  “Heavens,” I said. “There’s an awful lot to it.”

  “I know. The course takes two years, but it’s a vocation for life. Mum says she never wants to retire. She just wants to keep working until she collapses into one of her own coffins.”

  “Cut out the middle-man, eh?”

  Our taximan soon arrived, a burly East European gentleman whose eyes doubled in size when he spied Nell.

  “Przez ‘eck lass,” he muttered, eyeing her from poll to pastern, “jesteś zdrów jak pies rzeźnika.” [By ‘eck, lass. You’re as fit as a butcher’s dog.]

  Our cabman spent most of the journey ogling Nell in the rear-view mirror, so much so that I almost suggested driving in reverse gear so as to watch both Nell and the traffic concurrently. Amazingly, we arrived at our destination both promptly and in working order, and were delighted to learn that the first Thursday of every month is passive-aggressive night at The Melting Lotus.

  The maître d ignored us for several minutes and refused to show us to our table. “I’m busy,” he said, studying his fingernails. “You’d find it yourselves if you cared enough.”

  We selected a table, and after several minutes, a sullen waitress dressed as a penguin came to stand glowering at us.

  “Erm… do you want us to order?” I asked, a little puzzled.

  “Ooh, yes please,” she cooed. “I’m on tenterhooks.” She proceeded to plug in a set of headphones and hummed tunelessly until Nell punched her on the wing to attract her attention. While we waited for our food, which we had to ask after several times to keep in the spirit of things, I probed Nell further about her work at The Blue Belvoir.

  “It’s very tiring,” she said, “dancing under those hot lights, but everyone has been so helpful, especially Clara. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

  I wanted to suggest that she might care to lavish a little less attention upon Clara, and a little more upon her doting boyfriend, but I thought of Gibson Steinway’s counsel and held my tongue.

  “I understand that Clara offers patrons more than dance and conversation,” I said. “That must be a lucrative sideline.”

  “I suppose it must,” she replied with a shrug.

  “Is that an avenue that you have considered pursuing?” I asked nonchalantly.

  She flushed, and for a moment looked as if she would strike, but suddenly she relaxed and a gentle laugh trickled from her throat. “Oh, Rupert,” she giggled. “You are a tease.” She kicked me gently in the shin. “You’re good at this passive-aggressive thing, aren’t you?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Perhaps we should try some role-playing; I bet you’d be good at that too.”

  Before I could clarify her intentions, our surly waitress returned, deposited before us the wrong meals, and disappeared without a word. Fortunately, both meals were more than passable, and as we ate, Nell continued to wax lyrical about the intricacies of pole-dancing, Clara’s apparent flexibility and stamina, and the joys of cremation.

  “Do you know” she asked between mouthfuls, “that there are over five hundred commercially available coffin designs in the UK alone?” As she listed several of the most popular examples, I found my mind wandering back to Clara and the curious fascination that she held over Nell, but soon I became aware of a distinct change in the conversational tone.

  “Rupert, is something the matter? Is all this talk of coffins upsetting you?”

  “No, no,” I shook my head. “It’s nothing, really.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared. “Rupert,” she said sternly. “Don’t make me drag it out of you.”

  “Well, it’s just…. it’s something that Fairfax said.”

  “What did he say?”

  I chose my words carefully. “He suggested that you may not be a fan of monogamy.”

  “Mum says that pine is easier to work with.”

  “Monogamy. Not mahogany. The conversation has moved on from coffins.”

  “Do I detect a touch of frost?” A waiter had sidled up unnoticed and was eavesdropping on our conversation.

  “Do you mind?” I snapped, and he scooted away with an, “oooooh!”

  I must admit that the temperature at our table seemed to have dropped several degrees. Nell leaned back in her chair and pursed her lips.

  “Do you really think you’re in a position to question me about this, Rupert? Can you name three girls at the Blue Belvoir that you haven’t had sex with?”

  I became aware that my mouth was opening and closing noiselessly like a goldfish in a bowl, and also that I was indeed unable to name three of the club’s dancers with whom I had not reached a pecuniary agreement at some point in the last six months.

  Nell stood up. “I’m going home, Rupert.”

  “Now wait,” I protested. “Please, Nell….”

  But she was not to be dissuaded, and all I could do was watch her leave. There was a voice at my shoulder, causing me to spill my G&T into my lap.

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting your bill,” sighed the waiter. He wandered off, shaking his head. “Goodness knows what she ever saw in you.”

  ◆◆◆

  5. Edna Clearing

  Friday, 5th January 2007

  There seemed little purpose in remaining in London overnight, so I caught the ten thirty from King’s Cross, arriving at Cambridge station just after midnight. I fell asleep on Ulysses’ sofa with Ajax curled against my feet, and did not rise until after daybreak, by which time Ulysses was away to Crumble College and Fairfax was in the kitchen, poring over the early edition of The Scrump.

  “Ah, Rupert,” he cried as I entered the room, “feast your eyes on today’s front page.” He held The Scrump aloft for my perusal.

  “Holey Ghost!” was the headline. “UK on terrorist alert as another football ground is destroyed.” He handed me the newspaper so that I might read the article’s remainder.

  ‘Speculation is rife this morning after an incident at Wottenham Town in Cambridgeshire left the local football ground at the bottom of a giant sinkhole. Anti-terrorist officers from the London Metropolitan Police were stationed around the ground as The Scrump went to press, but official sources are playing down rumours that this incident is the work of Al Queada terrorist cells operating in the Midlands.

  Continued on page 7.’

  As promised, coverage continued on pages seven through ten, including aerial photography of the stricken football stadium. Notably, witnesses reported not only the usual infestation of spectres and phantasms, but also a number of helicopters in the vicinity. Otherwise, the article was the usual mixture of sound-bites, speculation, scare-mongering and calls for urgent public inquiries.

  I returned the newspaper to its rightful owner and set about the urgent business of preparing toast and marmalade. As I sat chomping merrily, there came a ringing from Fairfax’s mobile telephone.

  “Hello. Fairfax Urban-Smith. Good morning, Inspector Mallow. WHAT? When? Yes, we’ll be waiting.” He turned to me, wide eyed and stricken. “Rupert,” he groaned. “It is Edna Clearing.”

  At his words, my blood rang cold. “What of her, Fairfax? What has happened?”

  “They have found her head in a clearing.”

  *

  Inspector Mallow sent a car to collect us, and soon we found ourselves a few minutes’ walk from the edge of the Fernley Road, standing in the heath where Edna Clearing so regularly walked her dog, Gonzáles. Edna Clearing’s severed head lay upon its side in the grass, her eyes opaque and shrivelled in their sockets. The neck wound was ragged, not incised or chopped. There was much blood and tissue scattered about, but of the majority of her remains, there was no trace. As with Vic Timone, there were the footprints of a large three-legged animal, walking with a wide, stomping gai
t, leaning heavily upon a walking stick, and dragging its heavy tail behind it. The prints led to the brook and no further.

  The forensic team and Dr Steinway were already in attendance. We left them to their work and liaised with Inspector Mallow.

  “What can you tell us, Inspector?”

  “We were contacted by the neighbour….” He paused to check his notebook, “a Mrs Margaret Twitch, last night at around eight o’clock. A little after teatime, she had been disturbed by the sound of Mrs Clearing’s dog whining outside the cottage door. She went to investigate and was unable to get a response from Mrs Clearing. Mrs Twitch has a key, so she let herself into the cottage, but could find no sign of Mrs Clearing. She waited a couple of hours, but when there was still no sign, she contacted us. A pair of constables searched down the Fernley road, but it was too dark, so they decided to leave it until this morning.”

  “I daresay that Gonzáles could have led them to the spot,” mused Urban-Smith.

  Mallow looked perplexed. “Gonzáles?”

  “The dog.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, apparently they thought of that, but the dog was in such an agitated state that they thought it best to leave it. Anyway, about six this morning, another dog walker, Mr Charles King, came across the remains.”

  “Have you found the rest of her, Inspector?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “No. It looks like the body was dragged into the brook and away. Tell me Mr Urban-Smith; what kind of kangaroo attacks its prey on land, then drags them away into the water?”

  “A cunning one, Inspector. Cunning and dangerous.” Urban-Smith was agitated. His hands writhed and convulsed in an involuntary display of Yandric dexterity, a habit he seemed to exhibit at times of great mental distress. Something about Edna Clearing’s demise had plainly struck a chord.

  I left Urban-Smith and Inspector Mallow deep in conversation and went to speak to Dr Steinway. I trod carefully across the heath, not wishing to disturb any tracks or evidence that may prove pertinent to the investigation. Dr Steinway was squatting upon his haunches, gingerly prodding at the sticky stump of Edna Clearing’s neck with a charcoal swab.

  “What-ho, Gibson.”

  “Rupert!” he cried, springing to his feet and almost losing his balance. “Oops.”

  “Steady on. Are you alright?”

  “Grand, Rupert, grand. Isn’t this jolly? A complete decapitation. I’ll have to show a few slides to the medical students next time I’m lecturing. They’ll be so pleased.”

  “Mind if I have a gander?”

  “Help yourself. There’s a box of gloves over there.”

  I gloved up and leaned over to squint at Mrs Clearing’s severed head. Steinway leant in beside me, hoisted the head up by one ear and handed it to me.

  “Have a proper look. We were about to ship her off now, anyway.”

  I rotated the head this way and that. Unlike Vic Timone’s head, Mrs Clearing’s cranium was surprisingly intact, other than the fact that it had been detached and abandoned.

  “I would say that her head has been removed from beneath,” I said, indicating the uneven neck wound. “It looks like there have been two or three bites. I suspect that our predator has been hard at work on Mrs Clearing’s chest, and the head just happened to come off during its gnawings.”

  “I agree,” said Steinway. “I’ve collected quite a few bone fragments and some are definitely rib. Here, take a gander. This is the largest one I found.” He passed me a plastic evidence bag with what could only be just under half of a human rib within. Pieces of muscle and skin hung upon it, and the broken end was splintered. Ribs are pretty sturdy, designed as they are to protect vital organs from injury, and I shuddered at the thought of jaws powerful enough to pulverise a ribcage.

  “What do you have there?” I was startled by the sound of Urban-Smith’s voice at my ear and dropped the evidence bag into a puddle. I cursed as I stopped to retrieve it.

  “Ah,” said Steinway. “You must be Mr Urban-Smith.” He extended a hand. “I’m Gibson Steinway. Grand to meet you.”

  “Please, call me Fairfax.” He indicated the severed head. “What can you tell me Dr Steinway?”

  “Gibson.”

  “Of course. What can you tell me, Gibson?”

  Steinway outlined his findings, pointing out the lack of substantive injuries to Mrs Clearing’s cranium, and the features of the neck wound that indicated multiple bites.

  “Could a human do this?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then I fear that I have nothing of value to add. I shall ask Inspector Mallow if he is able to have us deposited back at Ulysses’ cottage.”

  “Before you go, Rupert,” said Steinway, “have you anything to report on that other after that we discussed?”

  It took a few seconds for realisation to dawn. “Oh, yes. Nell you mean?”

  “Good grief,” said Urban-Smith. “I am sorry, Rupert. I was so preoccupied with our immediate situation that I forgot to enquire about your date last night.”

  “Last night?” Steinway eyed me appraisingly. “If you had a date last night, should you not be at home, nursing a hangover or an erection, or both?”

  “I’m afraid,” I replied, with not a little embarrassment, “that I neglected to follow your advice, Gibson. I fear that I may have come on a little strong.”

  “Oh dear,” Steinway tutted, reaching for Mrs Clearing’s severed cranium. “Perhaps you should keep hold of this; it is likely the only head you’ll be offered this side of Easter.”

  *

  I sulked all the way back to Ulysses’ cottage, much to Urban-Smith’s amusement. While I skulked about the place like a sullen teenager, Urban-Smith busied himself at the kitchen table, searching for any connection between the three stricken football grounds, A.F.C Waspinghuff, Wafflebridge Town and West Tuppence F.C. After an hour or so, he summoned me.

  “Rupert. I have made some notes on each of our three football clubs. Prepare us some coffee and I shall enlighten you.”

  I prepared coffee, black with three sugars for me, white with none for Urban-Smith. I joined him at the kitchen table, and he read to me from his laptop.

  “Firstly,” he said, “we have Wafflebridge Town Football Club in Cornwall. They play in the South-West Peninsula League, and their nickname is, ‘The Blue Wafflers,’ due to the colour of their away kits. Established in 1905, they moved to their current ground, Wafflebridge Park in 1948.”

  “Where did they play before that?” I asked.

  “I am afraid that Wikipedia does not elucidate on that point. The only other useful information is that Wafflebridge Park stadium has, or rather, had a capacity of fifteen-hundred, and that the club’s best FA Cup performance was the third qualifying round in 1972.”

  I sipped my coffee. “Okay. Who’s next?”

  “Next up,” said Urban-Smith “is A.F.C Waspinghuff, known locally as, ‘The Stingers.’ The club was formed in 1992 by the merger of Waspinghuff Town and Waspinghuff United. They are based in Wiltshire, and play in the Western League; quite badly, I am given to understand. Waspinghuff Country Park is the site of the old Waspinghuff Town football ground. They moved from there in 1975 to the club’s current ground, Clapper Street stadium, which has a capacity of two thousand. They were joined there in 1992 by the smaller Waspinghuff United, who moved from their ground in Dripton Street. Their best FA Cup performance was the second round qualifying replay in 1998.”

  “And West Tuppence?” I asked.

  “West Tuppence F.C, nicknamed, ‘The Clams,’ are located in Cheshire and play in the Northern Premier League. Originally formed in 1927, they played under the name Swinburne Grove, until the name was changed in 1953 to West Tuppence F.C. Apparently, by this time, the Swinburne Grove area of town had established a somewhat unsavoury reputation.

  “West Tuppence F.C moved to a new two-and-a-half-thousand capacity ground at Grimlet Park in 1962, where they continue to play to this day. Their best FA Cup perfo
rmance was in 2002, when they made it to the second round, before losing thirteen-nil to Fulham. So there you have it, Rupert. What say you?”

  “I fail to see any connection,” said I, “other than the obvious.”

  “Which is?”

  “W. Wafflebridge, Waspinghuff and West Tuppence.W.”

  Urban-Smith furnished me with a pitying stare and I shrugged.

  “It’s a little tenuous,” I conceded. “Have you any better suggestions.”

  “Nary a one, Rupert.” His shoulders dropped. “It pains me to admit it, but in the matter of The Fourth Atman, we seem to be no further forward. For now, we should concentrate our efforts on the apprehension of Tripod Jack. Perhaps we will learn more tonight when we return to de Wolfmann estate. I take it that you are not averse to the idea of a little breaking and entering.”

  “Have you a plan, Fairfax?”

  “Rupert, I always have a plan.”

  *

  I spent the remainder of the afternoon contemplating several volumes of applied reproductive physiology. Although the text was in German, the illustrations were most stimulating and informative.

  Ulysses returned to the cottage at around six o’clock, and Fairfax was upon him in a flash.

  “Ulysses?”

  “Yes, Fairfax?”

  “I am after a few bits and bobs.”

  “Name them, and they shall be yours.”

  “Excellent. I shall be needing a stout crowbar, two torches, two sets of step ladders, two full-body cheese costumes, one large and one small-to-medium, and a bottle of cheddar essence.”

  Ulysses scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Would a bottle of Stilton extract suffice?”

  “Any strong cheese should be satisfactory.”

  “Then you are in luck, Fairfax.”

  “Splendid. Tonight then, Rupert and I shall enter the belly of the beast and discover the truth of what lurks beneath the lair of de Wolfmann.”

  ◆◆◆

  6. Flouting Mendel