Inspector Mallow gave a sharp intake of breath, and Urban-Smith muttered darkly. A hollow feeling crept into my chest, and invisible fingers closed about my throat. A drop of sweat ran from my face and fell to the dusty floor.
Adam Upstart’s face was contorted into a death mask of terror. His glazed eyes were wide, and his mouth twisted into a silent shriek of atrocity. He looked for all the world as if he had collapsed from fright.
“Now I understand our young constable’s consternation,” said Dr Steinway. He poked at the doughy flesh of Upstart’s back, then raised the corpse’s left arm and let it fall to the floor. “Livor mortis is fixed, but rigor mortis has worn off. He has been dead for more than twenty-four hours, perhaps nearer thirty-six. Looking at the pattern of hypostasis, I would say that he died in this position. Perhaps he was startled while practising handstands. Ha, ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha, ha.” Our nervous laughter echoed from the cellar walls.
Dr Steinway rose. “I see no significant injuries aside from some minor abrasions here and there. I need to take swabs from the rectum and check his rectal temperature, then the body can be moved to the mortuary. Did you know,” he said, turning his attention to the Inspector, “that semen can be identified in the rectum of a corpse for several weeks?”
“It would be most unfortunate for Mr Upstart to have succeeded in summoning the spirit of Tripod Jack, only to have it immediately Roger him to death,” observed Inspector Mallow.
“Very true, very true,” murmured Dr Steinway peering at his watch. “According to my wristwatch, the ambient temperature is eighteen point five celsius.”
“That’s very clever,” I said. “Does it do rectal temperature too?”
“Pray you never find out, Rupert.”
“When will the autopsy be, Doctor?” asked DI Mallow.
“I shall be examining him later this afternoon. Do you wish to assist me, Rupert?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Righto. I’ll finish up, then drive us back to the Linctus if your colleagues can spare you.”
“Sir.” PC Worthy’s voice rang out from the top of the stairway. “Forensics have arrived.”
“We’d best clear out,” said Inspector Mallow. “Let’s go and speak to the deceased’s brother, Cain.”
“Excellent plan, Inspector.”
*
The three of us followed PC Worthy to the living room, where Cain Upstart prowled restlessly to and fro, turning to glower at us as we entered. He was of average height, about five feet and ten, but had evidently spent much time flexing and lifting, for his pectorals and biceps bulged beneath his T-shirt, and his thick neck had a circumference almost equal to my waist…. well, Urban-Smith’s waist perhaps. His eyes were pale blue, and his light brown hair was short and forced into position with hair gel, the tufts standing regimented like the Queen’s guards on parade. This was evidently a man who wanted to be looked at, though judging by his scowl, only from a distance.
“Cain,” said PC Worthy, “this is Inspector Mallow. He’s leading the investigation.”
Cain Upstart warily accepted the Inspector’s outstretched hand.
Urban-Smith and I introduced ourselves. Again the wary handshake.
“I’ve heard of you,” said Cain Upstart, tipping his chin towards Urban-Smith. “Are you a fan of The Wolves?”
“Can’t say I’ve heard any of their compositions, I’m afraid.”
“Mr Upstart,” interjected the Inspector. “We’re all sorry for your loss, but we need to ask a few questions. Could you tell us where you were last night?”
“I spent the night over at a mate’s house.”
“A Darren Forshaw,” said PC Worthy, flipping open her notebook. “Drummer in the victim’s band.”
“And what time did you return home?” asked Mallow.
“I got back this morning and went to bed. I woke up at lunchtime and went to find Adam to see if he was okay. I banged on the door, but there was no answer. That’s when I phoned you lot.” Cain Upstart flopped down onto the settee. “I’ve already been through this.” He indicated for us to sit, and each of us did so, except PC Worthy, who lurked by the door with her notebook.
“What exactly was your brother doing down in the basement?”
“Dunno,” was the tepid response. “Nobody was ever allowed down there.”
“Did your brother receive any visitors last night?”
“Dunno. I weren’t here.”
“Did your brother ever express an interest in black magic or Satanism?” asked Urban-Smith.
“Hah! Did he ever? He was completely obsessed with ghouls and werewolves and rubbish like that, ever since he was a nipper; especially that Tripod Jack. That’s why he called the band, ‘The Werewolves of Wottenham Wood.’” Cain Upstart shook his head, mystified. “I couldn’t believe it when they kicked the door in; those circles and candles and that funny robe. What’s that all about?”
“We believe,” said Urban-Smith, “that he was attempting to summon the spirit of Tripod Jack.”
“There weren’t no Tripod Jack down there with him, nor anyone else for that matter. The only spirit you’ll find down there is the bottle of vodka he summoned out of my bedroom last week.” Cain Upstart jutted his chin at me. “You’re a doctor, ain’tcha? What did he die from? And what was he doing sliding about on the floor?”
“It’s too soon to say,” I explained.
Upstart curled his lip and rolled his eyes. “I can tell you’re a doctor; bleedin’ useless.”
I clenched my jaw and tried to remain conciliatory. “Did your brother keep his diabetes well controlled?”
“Dunno.”
“Did he have a girlfriend?” asked Inspector Mallow.
“He had loads of girlfriends.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Particular was one thing he weren’t. Anything with a pulse would do.”
“Did Adam ever talk about his friends or hobbies?”
“Not to me.”
It had readily become clear that if Cain Upstart harboured any knowledge of his brother’s activities, he had no intention of imparting it to us.
“With your brother’s death,” said Urban-smith, “all this becomes yours.” He motioned about his head. “The house, the grounds, the furniture. All of it.”
“S’pose.” Upstart fixed Urban-Smith with a cold stare. “What are you saying? That I had something to do with it?”
Urban-Smith shrugged. “Dunno.”
Cain Upstart shifted his weight forward and clenched his fists. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. “How the bleedin’ hell could I have something to do with it. That cellar’s like Fort bleedin’ Knox. It took two blokes with axes ten minutes to get through the door. Who do you think I am; Harry bleedin’ Houdini?” He flopped back against the back of the sofa. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask Daz. I was there all night. Ask him!”
“One more question, Mr Upstart,” said Urban Smith. “What do you know of naaldlooshii akee be-ki-asz-jole?”
“Dunno. Does it come with rice or chips?”
Thus terminated the interview.
Dr Steinway was still probing Adam Upstart’s hidden depths, and the crime scene officers were still crawling about the cellar, so we made our way outside to inspect the cottage’s exterior.
There were three external doors, the front door, a patio door from the dining room, and a door leading from the kitchen into the garden. The gardens were mostly laid to lawn, punctuated with great oaks and beeches, and giving way on three sides to the woods themselves, several acres of which had been owned by the deceased and would now pass to his brother.
We inspected the ground-floor windows and found no signs of forced entry. The basement was mostly below ground level except for the east wall, which was exposed from the outside by virtue of the steep slope of the facing lawn.
“There are tracks here,” observed Urban-Smith, “but the rain has made it impossible to determine w
hether from man or beast. All we can know is that there has been some activity here within the last forty-eight hours, but none since the rain eased up this morning.”
He began fondling and stroking the brickwork, throwing himself down onto the muddy ground and crawling hither and thither. Inspector Mallow and I watched with incredulity for some minutes, for these bizarre displays never become tiresome.
Eventually Urban-Smith straightened up, muddy and perplexed. ;Someone or something has been scrabbling at the brickwork here.” He indicated for us. “Moreover, there is a definite change in the colour of the mortar around this brick here. Also see here; two holes drilled into the brickwork here and here.”
“What can you deduce from that?” I asked, but he ignored my question and wandered off to inspect further afield. The Inspector and I made a closer examination of the wall, but to my eye, it seemed most unremarkable; a wall and nothing more. Certainly nothing that would yield to any earthly beast smaller than a rhinoceros.
At this juncture, Dr Steinway presented himself. “Are you ready?” he called.
“Off you pop, Rupert,” shouted Urban-Smith from deep within the undergrowth to my left. “I’ll meet you back at the cottage later, and we can compare notes.”
◆◆◆
11. Modus Operandi
With Steinway’s confident driving, we were at the mortuary some time before the deceased, and spent a while preparing and labelling the swabs, and exchanging banter.
Although unusual to perform an autopsy on a Sunday, all were agreed that it was imperative to determine whether Adam Upstart had died from natural or unnatural causes. While Steinway fired up the MRI scanner, I prepared coffee, which we nurtured as we examined the MRI images. There appeared to be no significant injuries to the bones or organs, and no internal haemorrhaging. The external examination revealed a number of superficial abrasions and lacerations, which we photographed and carefully documented, but nothing that would hasten his demise.
“Insulin overdose, perhaps?” I suggested, inserting a hollow needle into Adam Upstart’s eye and withdrawing a millilitre of opaque fluid. “How long will it take for the biochemistry to come back?”
“We should be able to get the glucose, ketones and electrolytes today, but the toxicology and the insulin and c-peptide levels take forty-eight hours.”
The autopsy did not take long. Adam Upstart was a young man, and his body as yet unravaged by his poor lifestyle. I daresay the picture would have looked very different in a few years, had he survived.
Steinway and I examined sections of the organs beneath a microscope, and saw little to explain the man’s death. It seemed that the answer to the riddle was contained within the various samples and specimens that were to be sent to the laboratory for further analysis. Until then, we would be none the wiser.
Dr Steinway dropped me back at Ulysses’ cottage at five o'clock, but declined to come in for a beverage, as he was eager to get home to Mrs Steinway’s fish supper.
Fairfax was at the kitchen table, scribbling in his pad. “Rupert!” he cried at my approach. “Pull up a pew. Any news?”
“Not really,” I said, selecting a mug from the draining board and filling the kettle. “Cuppa?”
“No thank you, Rupert.”
“Nor for me, thank you,” shouted Ulysses from the living room.
I brewed my tea and joined Fairfax at the table. “The autopsy didn’t show much,” I said, “just abrasions and bruising, compatible with having been dragged along a concrete floor. No broken bones, no heart attacks, no strokes. Nothing really.”
“For pity’s sake,” huffed Fairfax. “The poor fellow must have died from something.”
“Blood and various other samples have been sent for analysis,” I explained. “If he died from his diabetes, I should know tomorrow. If not, we’ll have to wait for the toxicology. That could take several days.” I nodded toward Fairfax’s scribbled notes. “What do you make of it all?”
“I have made a list of what I consider to be relevant physical evidence at the scene. Shall we go through it together?”
“Of course.”
“Let us first look at the cellar,” said Fairfax. “There is one door in and out, made of stout oak and heavily bolted from within. The hinges appear intact and there is no other access to the cellar. There are no windows and no opening in the floor or any wall. These are the observations. What is your interpretation, Rupert?”
“Well,” I said, “my interpretation is that Adam Upstart was alone in that cellar at the time of his death.”
“And your conclusion?” he prompted.
“That the death was accidental, suicide or of natural causes.”
“Ha,” Fairfax snorted. “You reject my hypothesis that he has been smited by the spirit of Tripod Jack?”
“Perhaps I should say that I see no convincing evidence to support the hypothesis thus far.”
“Fair enough. Moving to the next item on the list; contents of the cellar. Etched into the floor are a pair of summoning circles surrounded by black candles. Amongst the paraphernalia is an incantation designed to summon the spirit of Tripod Jack. There are food supplies, bathroom facilities and insulin, as well as cigarettes and marijuana. Your interpretation?”
“My interpretation,” said I, “is that Mr Upstart had some very peculiar beliefs and hobbies, and did not wish to be disturbed whilst indulging them. I would also say that he was in the habit of remaining locked in his cellar for considerable periods. If he were to meet with some misfortune, it could be some considerable time before his discovery, which on this occasion may have proved the difference between life and death.”
“Ah,” said Fairfax, wagging his finger. “This is highly significant. Those close to the deceased would be aware of that fact, and may have chosen to exploit it.”
“Exploit it how?”
“I know not, Rupert, but it is my habit to assume foul play until proven otherwise. I am of a suspicious disposition. Let us move on to the victim himself. He was found lying against the wall with his feet raised against the wall. He bears no marks of significant injury, yet we know that he was dependent on insulin, and was in the habit of drinking alcohol and smoking marijuana. There is evidence that he has been dragged feet first towards the wall and raised a small distance up it. These are the facts. Your interpretation please, Rupert.”
I thought long and hard. “I don’t know, Fairfax. Cannabis use can precipitate psychosis in susceptible individuals. Could he have flung himself against the wall whilst suffering a psychotic breakdown?”
“How did he achieve the drag marks upon the floor?”
I shrugged. “There you have me, Fairfax.”
He sighed deeply. “Yes. That is where I also become rather lost. There is something fundamental that I am overlooking. Blast! If only I had my easel and canvases. Painting unlocks neural pathways and releases neurotransmitters which facilitate deductive reasoning. I may have to schedule a visit to a local art shop in the morning.” He turned to me sharply. “But, Rupert, are you not obligated to return to St Clifford’s first thing?”
“Surely you cannot expect me to leave when we are knee deep in it?” I cried. “I shall contact Beefy first thing and ask for extended leave. I’m sure he’ll be fine about it; you know what a sport he is.”
“And an old Etonian to boot,” Fairfax reminded me. “Do you know the Eton school motto, Rupert?”
“Indeed I do, Fairfax. Vestri ‘ a rosea toothbrush, sum caeruleum toothbrush.”
[You’re a pink toothbrush, I’m a blue toothbrush.]
*
That evening, Fairfax, Ulysses and I dined at The Cock on Percy Lane. The Cock was full to bursting, and we had to stand at the bar for some time to receive attention. As we did so, it became quite apparent that news of Adam Upstart’s death had spread far and wide. I was able to catch snatches of conversation here and there, all of it on this particular topic.
“It seems The Cock is atwitch with gossip this ev
ening,” I shouted over the hubbub.
As Fairfax opened his mouth to respond, there came to our ears that which we least expected; the long plaintive howl of a wolf, braying over and over.
My mouth became as dry as cheap sherry, and my heart pounded strong at my breast. My breath came in ragged gasps as I swivelled to and fro attempting to locate the source of my malady, and then I saw it. A swarthy gentleman at the far side of the pub reached into the pocket of his black leather jacket and withdrew his mobile telephone. The sound increased in volume until he tapped at the keypad, bringing the howling to an abrupt end.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and I leapt straight upwards in what I fancy was a perfect entrechat.
“Rupert,” said Fairfax, attempting to keep my head from striking the ceiling. “Are you alright?”
“I-I-I-I-I-I,” I gibbered. “I’m fine. Fine. Fine, fine, fine.”
“It was an outstanding facsimile of the wolf’s cry, was it not?” He patted me on the back sympathetically. “Let us furnish you with a strong restorative.”
Fairfax ordered me a double vodka with orange, which I downed in one gulp.
“Another, please.”
While Ulysses paid for the drinks, Fairfax pushed his way through the assorted throng to speak to the young gentleman whose telephone had caused me such consternation. There was a brief exchange, and he made his way back to us.
“Apparently that howling is the official Werewolves of Wottenham Wood werewolf howl, and can be downloaded for a small fee from the band’s website.”
I had by now finished my second double vodka, and my nerves were much improved. I ordered another, and it appeared simultaneously with our waitress, who coaxed us down the full length of The Cock to our table at the rear.
“Soup of the day is banana and Stilton,” said she, depositing our menus and departing.
Fairfax apprised Ulysses of the day’s tragic events while I nursed my drink.
“Can particle physics furnish a rational explanation as to how someone could be dragged along the floor and halfway up a wall whilst alone in a locked room?” Fairfax asked.
The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood Page 10
