Rederring had last seen Adam Upstart a few days previously when the band had met for rehearsals. He had not noticed any change in Upstart’s demeanour or appearance.
“What is your impression of Cain Upstart?” asked Urban-Smith.
“He’s got this bad reputation and all,” said Rederring, “But he’s okay once you get to know him.” He shrugged. “I’ve no problem with him. We don’t hang out or anything.”
“Do you know anyone who may have held a grudge against Adam?”
“Not personally, but with his habits it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d upset a few people.” He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “I thought Adam died from his diabetes. Why are you asking if anyone had a grudge?”
“Just routine questions in a case like this.” Urban-Smith beamed reassuringly. “When you speak of Adam’s habits, what precisely do you mean?”
“He drank, snorted coke, smoked weed, and he was trying to shag his way through the phone book.”
“I reckon he was at it with that manager, Rosie,” said Sheree, smoothing down her skirt again. “She was always mooning around after him.”
“Nah,” said Rederring dismissively. “Rosie’s all business. Once we find another frontman, she’ll forget about Adam, just so long as she’s getting her fifteen percent.”
Beyond this, the interview yielded nothing of significance, and after a half hour or so, we bade our farewells and accompanied PC Worthy back to Scragnell Police Station where Inspector Mallow awaited us in his office with disturbing news.
“We found the other victim,” Mallow reported gravely. “A Mr Juan Morebody failed to attend for work on Saturday morning. When the same happened yesterday, his work colleagues became concerned. They couldn’t raise him on the telephone or at the door, so we were contacted. None of the neighbours recalled seeing him over the weekend, but one of the neighbours had a key. When our officer gained entry, she found his bed unslept in.
“It seems that he was a keen brocktologist and spent much of his spare time in the woods. They found him not twenty yards from his hide.”
“How bad was it?” I asked.
“Dreadful. Both of his legs were taken and his internal organs are missing. He’s in the mortuary now.”
“Are you going to sit in on the autopsy, Rupert?” Urban-Smith asked.
“I don’t see any purpose. He has evidently suffered the same fate as Mr Timone and Mrs Clearing.”
“Do you not wish to see for yourself?”
I stood up and paced to the window. “This is different, Fairfax; I heard him die. I saw the beast, and I heard the screams and the anguish. I don’t know if I can bear to witness the aftermath.”
There was movement behind me, and Urban-Smith laid his hand upon my shoulder. “I understand, Rupert. It is best if you sit this one out.”
I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths to steady my nerves. “It is ungodly, Fairfax. It crawls upon the Earth, yet it is not of it. Never have I seen such a scabrous and demonic presence.”
“Fear not, Rupert. With the might of the Cambridgeshire constabulary at our backs, we shall prevail. I give you my word.”
Once I had regained my composure, we sat with Inspector Mallow at his desk, reviewing the features of the case thus far.
“In the case of Adam Upstart, we have no evidence of foul play,” said Mallow. “Dr Steinway has received the toxicology report. There are significant levels of cannabis and alcohol in the blood, but he does not believe that they have contributed to Upstart’s death. He has given a diagnosis of death due to diabetes.”
“The circumstances are peculiar.” Urban-Smith withdrew his notepad and began to doodle distractedly. “Why, with all his insulin and equipment about him, did Upstart take no steps to remedy the situation? How did he come to be dragged across the room and deposited in the corner? Why did his face display such a strange and heinous contortion?” He shook his head. “No, Inspector. There is foul play here, but we have yet to find it.”
“What would you recommend, Mr Urban-Smith?”
“This is a tangled web, Inspector,” replied Urban-Smith, returning his notepad to his pocket and rising from his chair, “I should be most surprised if we don’t soon chance upon a spider. Until then, farewell. We shall be in touch.”
◆◆◆
16. Amongst the Amphibians
From Scragnell Police Station, we hailed a taxicab back to Ulysses’ cottage. Ulysses had chosen to work from home, preparing lectures and the like, and consented to prepare us a light lunch. Fairfax and I parked ourselves at the kitchen table while Ulysses sliced some bread and fixed a platter of cold meats and cheeses.
From deep within Fairfax’s trousers emanated a long drawn out wolf-howl, identical to that which had assailed our ears in both pub and woodland.
“Good grief!” I spluttered. “What on Earth is that?”
“I downloaded The Wolves’ official ring-tone. I thought it might cheer you up.” He withdrew his mobile telephone from the recesses of his pocket and clasped it to his ear. “Yes? Who is this?”
After a few seconds, the caller terminated the call, and Fairfax examined his telephone with a frown.
“Who was it, Fairfax?”
“They did not say. Merely that they had valuable information for my ears only, and that they wished to meet me at the south Euston Road entrance to St Pancras station in two hours’ time.” He rose. “Come, Rupert. We have little time to dawdle.”
“I thought the information was for your ears only,” I observed.
“I know not what threat this stranger may represent, only that I would sooner face it with my faithful Rupert at my side. Ulysses, do you possess a revolver?”
“No, Fairfax.”
“A Tazer or stun gun?”
“Neither, I’m afraid.”
“A stout walking stick, or steel-tipped cane?”
Ulysses shook his head apologetically. “Sorry, Fairfax.”
“Mace or pepper-spray?”
“Again, no.”
Fairfax shrugged resignedly. “If the situation becomes truly perilous, then I shall have to use Rupert as a cosh or bludgeon.”
“I think I am a little large for a bludgeon,” I protested.
“As you say, Rupert. Would you be so kind as to drop us at the railway station please, Ulysses?”
“Ready when you are, Fairfax.”
*
The train was too crowded to discuss the details of the case, so we whiled the journey away with Fairfax teaching me some elementary Yandric sequences.
Yandra, as you may recall, is the practice of tantric hand yoga, the origins of which can be traced back to the eight century in India. Yandra is based upon the principle that the hands are the keys to unlocking the inner self, and to free the hands from the constraints of their traditional orientation is to free the spirit.
Urban-Smith could boast amongst his achievements the attainment of fourth-level practitioner status, and once my hands had fatigued, he dazzled his fellow passengers with a brief display of his skills, twisting and contorting his fingers and wrists into positions so bizarre and unnatural that several ladies became swoonful, and one gentleman even had cause to remove his hat.
I had seen the inner calm that the practice of Yandra bestowed upon Urban-Smith in times of perturbation, but Yandra has a more practical function. When we had been bound and menaced by agents of The Fervent Fist a mere two months earlier, it was only the practised ease with which Urban-Smith had freed himself from handcuffs that spared us from certain death.
Our train experienced no delays, and we arrived at our designated rendezvous with several minutes to spare. Urban-Smith’s telephone howled again, and I leaned in to listen.
“Mr Urban-Smith?”
“The same.”
“Are you at the station entrance?”
“We are.”
“We? You were to come alone.”
“My friend and confidant, Dr Rupert Harker, is accompanying
me. The matter is not open to discussion.”
There was a pregnant pause. “Very well. There is a taxicab awaiting you at the rank. You will find a black handkerchief tied to the rear bumper. Present it to the driver, who will bring you to my current location.”
The man’s voice was confident and clear, with a slight Germanic accent, barely noticeable compared to Anders de Wolfmann’s comedy Bavarian accent.
“How will we recognise you?” asked Urban-Smith.
“I shall be waiting with my ancestors. The handkerchief will lead you to me.”
The caller disconnected, and Urban-Smith and I proceeded to the taxi rank. A blue Ford with a black kerchief tied to the bumper was present and correct. We peered through the window, but were unable to confirm or refute the presence of a driver through the dense tobacco fog within. Having retrieved the handkerchief from the vehicles rear, Urban-Smith tapped upon the window to conjure the vehicle’s occupant. The window descended with a whir, releasing a great white plume of smoke followed by a pale face with a bushy, black beard.
“Perhaps a new pope has been selected,” I spluttered as I desperately flapped my arms about my head to clear the smog.
“Nie kładź córkę na scenie, Pani Worthington [don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs Worthington],” suggested the taximan with a sly wink. Urban-Smith dangled the handkerchief, and understanding bloomed upon the driver’s face. He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder.
“Mi kocham cię długo [me love you long time].”
We hopped into the back of the taxi, and with an anguished squeal of rubber, we were away down the Euston Road before you could say, “dear God, we’re all going to die!”
Despite the dense London traffic, we made impressive progress westwards, our cabman seemingly possessed of an uncanny knack for fitting his taxi into spaces several orders of magnitude smaller than the vehicle itself, combined with an impressive disregard for his own safety or that of others. He cursed and swore in Polish while pedestrians fled in terror, and Urban-Smith and I cowered in the backseat.
I was dimly aware of hurtling past the Imperial College, a mere stone’s throw from the safety of Chuffnell Mews, and we banked left down the Old Marylebone Road, thence onwards at Mach 3 down Sussex Gardens before a handbrake turn sent us sharply left. From there, we screeched left again, then right, rocketing down West Carriage Drive and moving south, the twin emerald swathes of Hyde Park to our left and Kensington Gardens upon our right flashing past in a blur.
Our cab slowed briefly as the driver negotiated the tricky chicane onto the Serpentine bridge, enabling me to admire the lush greenery (so out of place in the dead centre of this bustling metropolis), before slamming the car into low gear and stamping his foot to the floor once more. Urban-Smith and I were thrown back against the seat, and for a few seconds I feared that I may lose my consciousness, reason or continence, until another handbrake turn sent us scooting onto the Cromwell Road.
The cab ground to a halt outside the Natural History Museum, and Urban-Smith and I staggered from the backseat onto the kerb. The cabman leaned from the window and extended a hand.
“Pocałuj mnie na dobranoc, Sergeant Major [kiss me goodnight, Sergeant Major]!”
I paid our driver, tipping him a groat for his trouble, and he roared away into the oncoming traffic with a smile and a song upon his lips.
Urban-Smith and I stood at the museum entrance and basked in the building’s magnificence, its twin towers standing sentry either side of the terracotta archway façade, and its great wings swooping out to either side, stretching fully two-hundred feet to both east and west. We climbed the steps and crossed the threshold, pausing to consult the floor plan just through the double doors that led into the central hall.
“He said that he would be waiting with his ancestors,” I observed. “Hominids and primates are in the Green Zone, to the right,”
“We shall find our man in the Blue Zone over yonder,” stated Urban-Smith. “He will be amongst the amphibians.”
“Do you not think,” I asked, “that you may be following his family tree back just a little too far?”
“Not at all, Rupert. The German word, ‘schwarzkröte’ translates into, ‘black toad,’ hence the black kerchief and choice of zone.”
“Schwarzkröte?” I gasped. “Saxon Schwarzkröte is here?”
“Perhaps.” A pensive look came to Urban-Smith’s eye. “Perhaps not.” The look dissipated swiftly, and he fixed me with a determined stare. “Shall we?”
As Urban-Smith had stated, Schwarzkröte was in the amphibian section, admiring a model of a giant salamander in a glass case. He wore black shirt and trousers, with a black raincoat folded over his left arm and a walking stick in his right hand. From his stooped posture, skin texture and the sparsity of his grey hair, I estimated his age to be somewhere around eighty, perhaps a little more.
Urban-Smith sidled up to him. “Herr Schwarzkröte?”
The old man smiled, but continued to stare at the glass. “Mr Fairfax Urban-Smith; detective, author and paranormal researcher and investigator. It pleases me that you accepted my invitation.”
Urban-Smith was clearly in no mood for small talk. “I am given to understand that you have information for us.”
“Indeed I have, Mr Urban-Smith.” Schwarzkröte turned to face us, and I recognised him as one of the two gentlemen from the disc that Urban-Smith had received. Despite his advanced years, his eyes burned with a deep intellect and energy. “I would be very grateful if we could find somewhere to sit. My arthritis troubles me, and I am unable to stand for prolonged periods.”
We filed out of the reptile and amphibian room, past marine invertebrates, and took the next right into large mammals. A full-scale model of the world’s largest animal, the blue whale, dominated the room, its elephant and giraffe neighbours cowering in its shadow while dozens of tourists flocked around it, cooing and pointing and taking photographs.
The three of us retreated to the room’s south-west corner and seated ourselves on one of the polished plastic benches that had been anchored to the floor at various points about the whale’s perimeter. Urban-Smith sat at Schwarzkröte’s left side, and I on his right.
“It would appear that rumours of Sebastian Schwarzkröte’s death have been greatly exaggerated,” said Urban-Smith.
“Not at all. I can attest to my brother’s death. I sat by his side and held his hand as he surrendered himself to his fate.”
“Your brother?” I gasped.
“Yes, Dr Harker. Sebastian was my elder brother. My name is Konrad Schwarzkröte. My brother and I were engineers during the war. We worked for Dr Mengele at Auschwitz, redesigning the gaskammern…. I mean gas chambers. That is where I met Anders and Franz von Grünefrosch. It was Anders who contacted me and explained that you were looking for the Fourth Atman.”
“You have it?”
“No, Mr Urban-Smith. I do not. But I know of it. It is a long story.”
“We are in no hurry, Herr Schwarzkröte.”
Konrad Schwarzkröte placed his coat and umbrella carefully on the floor in front of his feet and began his tale.
*
“I was born in Frankfurt in 1924, the youngest of five siblings; four boys and one girl. When war broke out, my brothers Franz and Thomas joined the Luftwaffe. I was only fifteen, and my eldest brother Sebastian was unfit for service, having lost one eye and two fingers from his right hand in a childhood accident. Sebastian had trained as an engineer at The Technische Universität in Berlin before being recruited by the aircraft engine manufacturer, Argus Motoren. He was very gifted, and was assigned to Project Fernfeuer (remote fire), which eventually led to the development of the V1 flying bomb.
“I had the greatest respect for my brother, and wanted to follow in his footsteps. I left home to live with him in Berlin, where I studied engineering. I worked hard and accompanied him to his work whenever I could. When I turned eighteen, I was taken on as an apprentice by Argus and privileged to w
ork under my brother’s supervision.
“Franz and Thomas were highly accomplished pilots, and their achievements, along with Sebastian’s contribution to Fernfeuer, led to the Schwarzkröte name coming to the attention of Reich Marshal Hermann Göring, Supreme Commander of the Luftwaffe.
“I remember it well; on the third day of February 1944, the Reich Marshall visited the Argus Motoren in Berlin and asked for my brother and I by name. He wanted our assistance with an important engineering project, and demanded our immediate transfer to a military facility in Southern Poland.”
*
“Auschwitz.”
“Yes, Dr Harker. Auschwitz. I understand that Anders explained to you about the Führer’s desire to harvest the souls of the Reichsfeinde.”
“Reichsfeinde?” I was unfamiliar with the term.
“Enemies of the Reich.”
We indicated our understanding, and Schwarzkröte continued.
“The endeavour was not going well. Despite the processing of several hundred-thousand untermenschen…. erm, undesirables, not a single soul had been isolated. Commandant Höss had ordered a radical redesign of the gas chambers, and so a team of the finest engineers was assembled and brought together under his direct supervision. My brother and I were part of that team.”
“Good God, man,” I spat. “Had you no idea of what you were doing?”
Schwarzkröte sneered at me, unrepentant. “I shall not pretend that I was naïve, Doctor, but we were at war, both within our borders and without. Reich Marshal Göring, the second most powerful man in Europe, had come to ask us personally for our assistance. It was a great honour.”
“And now?” asked Urban-Smith. “Have you no remorse?”
Schwarzkröte’s face creased into a mirthless smile. “The Fourth Atman.” He shook his head, and the smile faltered. “Once the first three were lost, it was locked in a secure room in the Apple of Eden. Every night, a group of us, myself, my brother, der von Grünefroschen and several others, would go down just to hold it; to watch it flicker and ebb. We would pass it around and study it through a magnifying glass. It was strictly against the commandant’s orders, but we couldn’t help ourselves. We bribed the guards and crept down in the dead of night.
The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood Page 14
