It was ten o’clock, and Urban-Smith and I were sitting side by side on the back seat of Ulysses’ Volvo estate, each of us clad in yellow stockings and Wellingtons, encased in light-yellow foam cubes, and topped off with triangular, yellow foam hats.
The pair of us did look extremely cheese-like, but the costumes were bulky and most definitely for show rather than stealth.
“Let us go through the plan again,” suggested Fairfax. “Ulysses, you will drop us at the west side of the estate and help us with the step ladders. Once Rupert and I are over the railings, return to the car and wait with the engine and lights off. If we have not returned within the hour, you are to assume our discovery and detention, and make yourself scarce. If we end up in police custody, we will contact you at the cottage. Is that all clear?”
“Yes thank you, Fairfax.”
“Rupert.”
“Yes, my cheesy friend.”
“Ha ha. We shall proceed to west side of the mansion house. During our meeting yesterday, I observed a sash window with a mildly warped frame which I believe will yield to our persuasion. From there, we shall proceed through the house and down to the basement, there surely to discover what Professor de Wolfmann is so keen for us not to.”
“Here we are then,” announced Ulysses cheerfully. He pulled the car to the side of the road and unsheathed the step ladders from the roof rack while Fairfax and I extricated ourselves from the back seat.
We snuck to the perimeter and erected the first set of steps. Ulysses ascended, and lowered the second set into position on the other side of the railings. “Okay, you chaps,” said he, “It’s five past ten now. Be at the car within the hour, or it’s a long slog home dressed as a pair of giant hors d’ouevres.”
Despite our cumbersome costumery, we traversed the railings swiftly and snuck cheddarlike across the lawn to the selected window. Urban-Smith pressed his face to the window for a moment, withdrew a flashlight and jemmy from the recesses of his outfit, and then set upon the lower sash.
Although it was but the work of a moment to open the window, by the time we had squeezed our bulky, fromagic frames through the aperture, we had wasted several precious minutes of quality burgling time. Eventually, we found ourselves in the same drawing room in which we had been entertained the previous afternoon.
“I almost forgot,” whispered Urban-Smith. “We must add one more layer of camouflage.” He opened the bottle of Stilton extract and proceeded to splash it beneath his arms and about his neck. The stench was ghastly.
“Your turn, Rupert.”
“Must I?”
“Yes.”
And so, stinking like a squaddie’s Y-fronts after a ten-mile run, we crept from the drawing room and tiptoed down the corridor, searching for a door to the cellar. Our search did not take long, for Professor de Wolfmann had left the door to the basement half open and was singing tunelessly to himself.
“Quiet as you can please, Rupert.”
I returned a thumbs up and gently pulled the basement door open. There was a soft squeak from the hinges, but the professor’s warbling did not waver as we scuttled down the stairs. I will admit to a feeling of extreme anxiety, waltzing straight in front of de Wolfmann’s nose. Fortunately for us, his fromagic inattention was truly profound, and he had no clue whatsoever to our presence. As the professor stomped about his work area, checking computer readouts and shuffling paper, Urban-Smith and I followed behind him, examining the basement and its contents.
The basement was sizeable, I would estimate thirty metres by twenty. There were several computer terminals, and various devices and equipment that I recognised not, though I assumed it was necessary for the generation of the magnetic fields, ultrasound and microwave radiation that the professor had spoken of the previous day.
Dominating the centre of the room was a glass booth, about two-metres square, and overlooked by a video camera on a tripod. Inside, there sat a simple wooden chair, above which there loomed a large metal funnel suspended from a thick bundle of cables. To either side of the booth stood two great curved steel magnets, each one as tall as a man. The whole apparatus thrummed and whined with power, causing the hairs on my neck to stand on end as I approached.
Urban-Smith wandered freely and without trepidation, peering over the professor’s shoulder as he wrote in his journal. De Wolfmann completed his entry and stomped carefully over to the glass chamber, resting his walking stick against it whilst he adjusted the camera. He set the camera to record and, retrieving his stick, positioned himself to speak directly into the lens.
“My experiments are entering a critical phase,” he intoned sombrely. “I have learned that the most impressive reactions are attained by rapidly alternating the magnetic poles and pulsing the ultrasound. This has allowed me to minimise the microwave levels.” He sniggered. “I don’t want to end up as a ready meal.”
I was unable to help myself; so ghastly was his joke, that I took an involuntary step backwards, catching a workbench with the edge of my cheese costume and sending a pen pot clattering to the floor.
Professor de Wolfmann whirled about and staggered sideways, slamming into the front of the glass booth. “Who’s there?” he shouted angrily, pulling himself upright and stomping across the floor, swaying to and fro like a drunkard. “Who’s there, I say? I can neither see, hear, nor smell you.” He lurched over to the telephone on his workbench and thumbed a large red button marked, ‘Bricker.’
“I think it is time for us to exit stage left,” I whispered into Urban-Smith’s ear, but he merely raised a finger to indicate that he required a moment longer. Taking care not to cross the path of the professor, who was wheeling about the laboratory ranting and waving his stick in the air, Urban-Smith crossed to the workbench and surreptitiously tucked the professor’s journal inside his cheese costume.
“Bricker! Bricker!” shouted Professor de Wolfmann. “Confound it. Where is the man?”
Having claimed our prize, Urban-Smith and I ascended the stairs to make good our escape when our progress was halted by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.
“In here,” I hissed, indicating a room to our right. We ducked in and closed the door quietly behind us. Sadly, it proved to be a poor choice, the room in question being a library, and devoid of windows. Three of the walls were completely obliterated by crammed bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling, and the rest of the room lay bare but for a leather chair and reading desk. We could see plainly enough, the light of the full moon splashing upon us through the skylights that peppered the ceiling, but as an escape route, it was woefully deficient.
“There is nowhere to hide,” I whispered.
“You may hide in my pocket, Rupert.”
“Oh, knock it off, Fairfax.”
There came to our ears the sound of spirited conversation from without.
“Bricker,” lamented de Wolfmann, “where have you been?”
“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Sir. It is inopportune that when you rang, one was making a deposit at the porcelain bank.”
“Never mind that, Bricker. There is something peculiar going on in my vicinity.”
Bricker gave a loud exploratory sniff. “I must say, Sir; there is a most obtrusive aroma of pressed milk curds in the air. If Sir has no objection, I would like to investigate the circumstances further.”
“Be judicious, Bricker,” counselled the professor. “I suspect foul play.”
“Very good, Sir. I have taken the liberty of bringing your father’s Walther PPK.”
“Good grief,” said I. “I’m going to be shot with a pistol in the library whilst dressed as a giant cheese. It is like a surreal version of Cluedo.”
Before I could protest further, the library door was pushed open, and Bricker, clad in his nightshirt and cap, reached in and flicked the light on.
The professor was at his shoulder gazing about the room. “There’s nobody here,” he said, quite perplexed.
Bricker waved the pistol at
us. “Gentlemen. Would you please remove your costumes?”
Urban-Smith and I looked at one another, but we had no option. With heavy hearts, we removed our triangular yellow hats and shuffled free from our yellow foam bodysuits.
“You charlatans!” roared the professor. “You scoundrels!” He snatched the gun from Bricker and stomped into the room.
“Allow us to explain….” began Urban-Smith, but de Wolfmann was not amenable to reason.
“There is no explanation necessary, you blaggart,” the professor bellowed. “You have come to steal my research. Look.” He waved the gun in the direction of our discarded costumes. “There, among the jetsam of your deceit; my journal.”
An eerie calm descended upon Professor Iam de Wolfmann, and his lips parted in a mocking grin. “You want to see what I have done? You wish to witness what I have achieved?”
Urban-Smith and I shook our heads vigorously.
“No, no,” I said. “Not at all.”
“The thought never once crossed our minds,” added Urban-Smith.
“Please, gentlemen.” De Wolfmann smiled serenely. “You have gone to so much trouble already. The least that I can do is oblige your….. curiosity.” He stepped aside and motioned with the gun. “You know your way, gentlemen.”
Clad in our yellow tights, thermal underwear and Wellington boots, we filed from the library and back down to the basement, the professor dogging our every step, gun in hand, and the man, Bricker, bringing up the rear.
“There is some rope in that cabinet over there, Dr Harker. Please would you fetch it?”
I did as instructed, and we were ushered towards the glass booth.
“Take a seat, Mr Urban-Smith." De Wolfmann brandished his pistol. "Dr Harker; please would you secure Mr Urban-Smith to the chair with that rope?”
“Now look here….”
There was a thundercrack and the smell of cordite. A thin trail of smoke issued from the muzzle of the Walther PPK.
“The next one goes between your testicles, Dr Harker.”
I protested no more. “Sorry, old bean,” I mumbled as I lashed Urban-Smith’s wrists to the arms of the chair. Once completed, I shuffled dejectedly from the booth.”
“Why so forlorn, Doctor?” taunted de Wolfmann. “You and I have front row seats for this show. The camera please, Bricker.”
The butler removed the camera from its tripod and began filming.
“Tonight,” announced Professor de Wolfmann, “the legendary detective, paranormal investigator and burglar, Mr Fairfax Urban-Smith, has volunteered to take part in a brief experiment to discover what truly lies beneath.”
A bead of sweat had appeared on Urban-Smith’s forehead and I detected a slight tremble of the upper lip. Never before had I seen him display such profound perturbation, and it unsettled me greatly.
“Is this really necessary, Professor?” asked Urban-Smith as casually as he was able.
“Progress is always necessary. Here, Bricker; take the pistol while I set the parameters. If they try to escape, shoot them in the brain.” And with a dry, mirthless laugh, he stomped to his equipment and began making the necessary adjustments. “I think I shall increase the intensity to fifteen megaKeanus,” he shouted over his shoulder, raising his voice to compete with the humming whine that spilt from the magnets at either side of the booth.
"Sir?" Bricker was pale and stricken. "Any chain reaction could destabilise the matrix."
But de Wolfmann paid him no heed. "Excellent!" he muttered to himself as he jabbed and prodded at the control panel. "Most excellent!"
“Rupert,” shouted Urban-Smith.
“Yes, Fairfax?”
“You are aware that only piercing the heart with silver can kill a lycanthrope.”
“Yes. I saw it on the telly.”
“You will notice that I am wearing my Eton tie.” He said.
“Yes, Fairfax. It is very fetching.”
“Once I am transformed, should I break free of my bonds and attempt to go rogue, you must wrestle my silver tie pin from me and plunge it deep into my heart.”
I peered at him over my spectacles. “Can I not just kick you in the unmentionables?”
“No, Rupert. Silver tiepin into the heart. There is no other way.”
Professor de Wolfmann had completed his tinkerings, and returned to my side. “Are you ready to witness history, Doctor?”
As I stared down the barrel of Bricker's pistol, it seemed that I had little choice. The whine of the equipment rose further, and further, and further still, and the basement lights flickered and buzzed as they competed for electricity with the professor’s monstrous apparatus.
“Behold!” hissed de Wolfmann. “It begins.”
I stared at Urban-Smith with morbid fascination as a bizarre change came upon him. His head of fine dark-brown hair had begun to lighten, becoming mousy, then progressing to a light beige. His eyebrows followed suit, and a fine network of freckles sprouted upon his cheeks.
The equipment’s screech reached a crescendo, and Urban-Smith strained against his bonds, but to no avail. His tendons stood proud from his arms as he thrashed this way and that until, without preamble, the roaring drone of the magnets faded and the room fell silent. Within a few seconds, Urban-Smith’s hair and skin had returned to their usual colour and sheen.
Professor de Wolfmann threw his arms to the heavens and issued a shriek of demented laughter.
“It works!" he cried. "I have triumphed! Ha, ha, ha, ha, haaaaaaa!” He rounded upon me with spittle to his jowls and madness in his eyes. “Did you see? I have made a mockery of all those that have come before. I have flouted Mendel’s laws of inheritance. I have challenged the gods to defy me, and they have been rendered impotent.”
He fell silent and stared at me, panting and wide eyed.
“Is that it?” I asked.
The professor’s arms fell to his side and his jaw dropped open. “Is that it? What did you expect? That he should grow wings and fly to Timbuktu?”
“I think that I would have been less surprised if he had.”
Professor de Wolfmann placed his hands on his hips and drew himself to his full height. “I suppose that you could do better.”
I shrugged. “I could have achieved the same results with a bottle of hair dye and an orange felt-tip pen.”
"What? How dare you?" De Wolfmann flushed scarlet and bared his teeth. “Philistine! Get out of my house this instant.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I ran to release Urban-Smith from his bonds, and Bricker led us to the library, where we reclaimed our discarded cheese costumes, and then through the house and across the threshold.
“Have a pleasant journey home, gentlemen,” said Bricker, courteous as ever as he ejected us from the premises.
Urban-Smith checked the display on his mobile telephone. “It is five minutes shy of eleven o’clock. Ulysses will be waiting for us.”
As we trudged down the long driveway towards the front gate, there was a distant crack of thunder and the rain started to fall.
◆◆◆
7. The Beast Lives
There were clean towels and dry clothing in the boot of Ulysses car, and so by eleven thirty, Fairfax and I were in action once more, tramping around the vicinity of the Fernley Road, brandishing our torches and whistles as the rain beat down upon us. Despite my waterproofs and Wellingtons, I was as sodden as a kipper’s bathing suit and pining for Nell’s warm embrace.
“Could this not have waited for tomorrow, Fairfax?” I lamented. “The forecast was more favourable.”
“I’m sorry, Rupert, but the moon is entering the waning gibbous, and there will be no further opportunity until the next cycle.”
“You realise, of course,” said I damply, “that there is no such thing as a werekangeroo, or a wereanything else for that matter?”
“Surely you concede that we have both witnessed a perfectly plausible explanation as to how a human may express different forms.”
“Your hair changed colour, Fairfax. It was hardly, ‘The Devil Bursts Forth.’”
"Ha," he laughed. "Ha ha. Your face was a picture. You cannot deny that, for a moment, you expected me to sprout fang and claw and rent the assembled unto tatters.”
There he had me. “That speech about despatching you with your silver tiepin was an inspired touch.”
“Thank you, Rupert.” He peered at me intently through the rain. “You seem lacklustre, my friend.”
“What do you expect?” I asked indignantly. “This week’s events have been shocking, even to a seasoned forensic pathologist such as I. Trudging about the great Grimpen Mire looking for mythical creatures is doing little to improve matters.”
We trekked onwards into the woods until almost one o'clock, staying to the paths for fear of slipping. The rain was torrential, and the wind plucked at our sodden clothing and hair with icy fingers. I was profoundly unimpressed.
“Fairfax,” I protested. “I have to say that this really is the most…….”
The words froze upon my lips as there came to our ears the most chilling animalistic howl, drifting through the trees from our south.
“The wolf’s cry!” shouted Urban-Smith triumphantly, and without further ado, he set off at a sprint through the trees.
I removed my glasses and shook the water from them in a vain attempt to clear my vision, when from behind me, there came a rustling and crackling of thicket. I whirled around with surprise, losing my footing as I did so. The flashlight fell from my grasp, bouncing heavily upon the damp ground and plunging me into near darkness. As I scrabbled in the moonlight to locate the torch, there came another sound to my left, a low, rumbling growl. My breath caught in my chest, for I knew that no such sound could ever escape human lips. I looked up, and by the faint light of the full moon, I glimpsed a great shape squatting by the path. At my sudden movement, it withdrew, leaving me with the briefest image of matted, brown fur, dull green eyes and jagged, uneven teeth.
I was paralysed with terror, hunched upon the path, my heart pounding at my breast and a roaring at my temples. With every beat of my stricken heart, there was a dull flash in the periphery of my vision as the blood surged through my retinas, and I gawped unblinking into the dark night. I know not for how long I remained thus before scrambling to my feet and fumbling about my neck for the whistle that hung upon its chain. Again and again I blew, the shrill shriek slashing through the lashing rain, bringing Urban-Smith racing back through the trees to find me.
The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood Page 6
