Westall shrugged, put his phone down.
“If he took a tumble of some kind, it was in this country, he has not used any British airport for four months, and don’t ask me how I know that either. It’s all we’ve got in the way of new information—some kind of injury to the Hon. Charles. Might be relevant?”
Mortlake moved fragments of bacon around his plate, making patterns of grease and congealing egg yolk. Westall, not for the first time, had no idea what his sometime ally was thinking. Like many police officers, Westall did not feel comfortable around intellectuals and academics. But he had to respect Mortlake’s ability to piece together bits of evidence to make a case. Albeit one that could never stand up in court.
“Assume that they have been—hunting,” Mortlake said finally. “It is possible that Belmont was injured. Suppose they attacked sheep, say, and a farmer shot at him.”
“I like that idea,” Westall said. “Hope he got barrels, right up the arse.”
Mortlake smiled and laid down his fork, leaned back in what Westall thought of as “tutorial mode”.
“The point is that the injury would, according to all the folk tales, still exist. That would explain the limp. Lycanthropes can be injured. They are real, material beings. But all the accounts we have say they are immensely hard to kill thanks to unnatural strength and resilience.”
Westall guessed what Mortlake wanted him to say next.
“What about silver bullets, then?” he asked.
The professor smiled and made a little gun shape with his fingers.
“I’d like to believe they work,” he said. “Pew pew, dead werewolves. Problem is, killing them would still be murder. What jury would believe otherwise? I leave a trail of dead, naked aristocrats and claim I was killing monsters—I dread to think what the Provost of St. Ananias would say. And that’s assuming I could obtain a gun legally, make the bullets and, oh, learn to shoot in the first place…”
“I could put you in touch with some very competent snipers,” Westall mused. “But it’s the murdering part you’re against, isn’t it? Very noble. While we’re being ethical and sticking to the rules—more or less—those arrogant bastards could be munching their way through an orphanage.”
***
“Science is about making systematic observations, forming rational hypotheses, testing these new ideas to destruction,” Tara stated firmly. “When a new idea survives, it means we can tentatively frame a better picture of how the universe works. But it’s more fun than it sounds, and we have some great parties in the lab.”
There was a pause around the dining table.
“Well,” Tara said, “that’s my definition of science. It’s about acquiring knowledge. Understanding. You’re talking about technology, Angela. The atom bomb or genetic engineering, those things are the work of engineers applying science. There’s a difference between theory and practice.”
Her dad’s long-term girlfriend, Angela, looked baffled, but then, she usually did. Tara had tried to like her, and she was kind of sweet. But Angela was the sort of person who found long words hard. Plus, she was seven months pregnant, which was all kinds of troublesome.
Then there was Jim, Angela’s brother, who was a pastor. Tara found him irritating, not so much because of his religion but because he always managed to drag God into any conversation. As she had said to her friend Anita, if he sneezed, Jim would look into his handkerchief and see God’s handiwork in the boogers.
“I note,” Jim said, “that you talk about the universe working, like a mechanism which implies a designer. If we see a complex machine, like an automobile, we don’t assume it just sprang into existence. We quite sensibly conclude it was designed.”
“Yeah,” Tara said, “but we already know it was designed and built, by people. The universe may have a designer, and if so, it’s a being who stepped back after setting things in motion and is just watching things play out. Over in Europe, most educated Christians seem happy with that view of God, as far as I can tell.”
She had lost her faith in religion during her teens, after her folks split up. It had not been a reaction against faith so much as an acceptance that prayer didn’t help her, in particular, but talking with her friends did. Friendship, science, and just having fun while she was young seemed to fill her life pretty well.
“Yes,” Jim had said when she’d pointed this out, “you say that now, but what about later? What about when you have children, will you raise them without God?”
Tara always bridled at being told by anyone—especially a man—that she would someday have children. She simply didn’t want to have any and might never change her mind. And she shouldn’t have to tell anyone that it was her right, a right a lot of good people had fought and suffered for. But it was an argument she didn’t want to have on New Year’s Eve.
The Reverend Jim, though, was a tenacious type who had to have the last word.
“But what about evil, Tara? How do you explain evil? Or good, for that matter, if we’re all just the product of random collisions of atoms?”
“You may be the product of random atomic collisions, Jim, but I like to think I’m descended from a bunch of real cute monkeys,” Tara said sweetly as his face froze into a fixed smile. “As for evil—I don’t believe in the Devil, some poor schmuck who has to go around encouraging people to do cruel things. Bad stuff just happens to good people sometimes, no mystery about that.”
“But I thought…” Angela began, then stopped.
Tara had caught a warning look from her father.
“So, you guys,” Tara said, “what about baby names? I have many strong opinions, please ask me!”
After they’d pretty much exhausted the safe topic of the baby, conversation turned to Europe. How Tara found London, her friends, the differences between England and the States. Nobody mentioned Josh. Tara had made it clear before she arrived that she didn’t want to talk about it. But she half-expected somebody to try. Jim’s presence kept her on edge.
The reverend finally made his move when she went out onto the porch to look at snow falling just a few minutes before midnight. She wanted to be alone, so he joined her. The sky was overcast, and she regretted not being able to see the stars, though the snow was pretty. When the door opened, she knew it was going to be the one person she didn’t want to talk to. He stood at her shoulder, just a little too close. It was one of the many little privileges he accorded himself, that intrusion into personal space.
“Aren’t you going to join the company for ‘Auld Lang Syne’?” he asked.
“There’s this old British custom called first footing,” she said. “It means the first person entering the house in the New Year brings luck with them. If they’re lucky, the household is lucky. If not, then not.”
“Yes,” Jim said. “But from what I recall, it should be a dark-haired man. A red-headed woman would be deeply unlucky.”
She was surprised and looked up at him, his face lit from above by the porch light. He was handsome in a bland kind of way, in the same way Angela was conventionally attractive. Tara had once remarked to Tommy that Angela and Jim looked like they’d been recruited from some kind of casting agency that specialized in nice white Americans. “Nah,” Tommy had countered. “I think it was a committee at Pixar.”
“My family’s Scottish on my mom’s side,” Jim explained. “First footing was a thing with Grandma. It’s a nice custom—we could all do with more good fortune.”
Tara hugged herself against the cold and knew she should go inside. But now she couldn’t because Jim wanted her to. So, she stood in silence as more flakes fell, landing on her face, making her lick the melting droplets from around her lips.
“Your father told Angela, who told me—what you said originally,” Jim said. “About wild beasts. And then your denial, the dog attack story. The young man missing—his poor family. You must have been through the wringer. I just wanted to say, if you’d like to talk, I’m not here to convert you. I pray for you, yes,
but I do that for everyone I care about.”
He turned to go back inside as a thick flurry of snow covered his shoulders and dark hair with glistening points of light.
“If there is some kind of evil force in the world,” she said quietly, “we should fight it, right? Not just run away.”
He paused, hand on the door handle, and nodded.
“Fight the good fight, yes—but we should also pick our battles. I hope you’ll pick yours carefully and never fight alone. From what I’ve heard—and don’t blame anyone for telling me, whatever their motives—you seem to attract… let’s call it strangeness. That can end badly.”
He stepped inside and held the door for her. She went back inside just in time for the countdown.
***
“Well, that’s another year gone,” said Mortlake.
He was slumped on Monty Carrington’s couch in front of his friend’s ancient TV set.
“If we’re rating fireworks,” he went on, “I think Sydney had the edge on Paris this year. London, disappointing, not as good as Berlin. But it’s quite hard to tell—your color contrast has gone a bit wonky.”
“Ah yes,” said Monty from the depths of his armchair. “I like Australians! No nonsense about them. They really know how to throw a party. Did I mention I went there as a youngster? Worked on a rusty old cargo ship like some character in Conrad. Nowadays, they call it a gap year and have a lot more sex, so I’m told.”
“The young always seem to be having more sex than one’s own generation,” said Mortlake, pouring himself a glass of Scotch. “A refill? No? Oh well, cheers. Make this the last one, eh? And I daresay fifty thousand years ago there were cavemen complaining about the young people of the Neolithic age, and how they were bonking like squirrels and not chipping their flint arrowheads properly.”
Monty chuckled at that. Bigglesworth, who had been puddled on his lap since teatime, looked up and gave a querulous mew. The old man stroked the cat until it settled again.
“Talking of the young,” Monty said, “why did you come back to Cambridge rather than spend more time with your offspring? You hardly ever see them these days.”
Mortlake took a swig of whiskey, rattled the last shards of ice in his glass.
“A few days at Christmas and the odd birthday bash is quite enough for them—and for me,” he said. “Besides, I’m deeply anti-social, you know that.”
Monty made a skeptical sound.
“You didn’t want me to be alone,” he said. “But you’d rather I didn’t thank you for your kindness. Well, I won’t. In fact, I may tell you to sod off shortly.”
“Quite right,” Mortlake said. “No more of that Christmas cheer, let’s get back to the grim realities of life.”
Monty paused in stroking the cat’s sleek fur.
“Some realities are grimmer than others. Your young friend, are you sure she’s—all right?”
Mortlake frowned, genuinely puzzled.
“Well, she’s in America, if that counts.”
Monty shook his head and resumed stroking Bigglesworth.
“I don’t mean is she at risk—I’m asking, is she a potential threat? Because I sensed something about her. Just for an instant, before I was carried back to that awful day. Yes, she seems genuine enough, but there was a glimpse of something odd, from her childhood perhaps. You’ve become… entangled with dangerous ladies before. Well, one.”
Mortlake felt a slight chill, despite the blazing log fire in the grate.
“Cassandra was a one-off, I was younger then and a lot less careful,” he said. “Tara is what she seems, an innocent bystander.”
Monty scratched Bigglesworth between the ears.
“I hope so,” he said. “Tara certainly seems like a nice girl. But appearances can be deceptive, and you nearly died because of Cassandra…”
“I really must get some shuteye,” Mortlake said firmly, standing up and reaching out a hand. “Happy New Year, old friend.”
Chapter 8
“Alfred what?”
Tara thought she had misheard Anita. She was exhausted after the return flight to London, and the moment she had staggered into the hallway, Anita had been ready with snacks, tea, and gossip. The latter had included news of a visitor who had asked for Tara the day before she got back.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” Anita said impatiently, scrabbling in her huge shoulder bag. “This thing’s like the bloody Tardis, it just gets bigger and bigger on the inside. He was a little chap, slightly lost-looking—very nice motor, though. Mercedes, silver-gray. Aha! Here it is!”
She took out a small, white card and handed it to Tara.
“Okay, this is the second time a strange guy has sent me one of these.”
“You’re a card magnet, babe,” Anita remarked. “See the name, though? Alfred Gotobed.”
Tara read the name, looked more closely just to make sure, then checked out the other details. The card was fancier than Mortlake’s. Alfred Gotobed had, apparently, something to do with GTB Finance. Perhaps he was GTB finance. There was only the guy’s name, the company name, plus phone and email. She turned the card over and read a message written in a slightly childish rounded hand.
“Please get in touch.”
“Well, at least it’s not a threat—more of a come-on, in fact,” Anita remarked and sipped her glass of green tea. “So, which sugar daddy website did you use? And can I be a bridesmaid?”
Tara faked some outrage and tried to assault Anita with a cushion, but she wasn’t really in a joking mood. Alfred Gotobed knew where she lived. If he wasn’t linked to Gonfallon, what possible reason could a rich Englishman have for seeking her out? Finding her would have been easy, she could think of several ways herself. She decided to call Mortlake straight away and find out what he knew.
“Want me to leave?” Anita asked after Tara shared her thoughts.
“No,” she said. “No, I trust you. And you need to know if there’s danger. It might be best if I moved out, come to think of it. Shit, I like it here.”
Anita said nothing but gave Tara a hug. As always, Anita clinked and jingled with jewelry, a sound that had become comforting, familiar. It gave Tara an idea, perhaps a silly one, but she filed it away for future reference. Then she called Mortlake. They had exchanged messages over the holidays, but he had had no news for her. Now she had an update for him.
***
“Gotobed?”
Westall didn’t need to check his list.
“Yeah, he’s been seen with Gonfallon a few times—definitively traveled down to his country place. And you say he’s been in touch with Tara?”
Mortlake was taking his morning walk, heading out of St. Ananias College. It was cold, the grass of the quadrangle stiff with January frost, and only a handful of students were about. He nodded to the porter as he left the college bounds and paused outside the gate.
“Did he issue anything that might be interpreted as a threat, especially by a friendly judge?” Westall asked. “That could be useful.”
“No, he just left contact details, asked her to get in touch,” Mortlake said. “But she is thinking of changing her lodgings.”
Westall agreed that was a good idea, and that any further contact might be interpreted as harassment. That could give him a pretext to investigate, albeit discreetly. Rich men, as he had said many times, have the best lawyers. Mortlake asked if any odd disappearances had been reported, but the detective had drawn a blank.
“Maybe they have given up,” Mortlake said. “But I doubt it. And this direct approach is worrying.”
“Have you noticed anything dodgy going on?” Westall asked. “Anyone watching you, the same vehicle parked outside your gaff, that kind of thing?”
Mortlake had not, but then he had not been looking for signs of surveillance. Now, inevitably, he started to look suspiciously around him. But Cambridge, early on a winter morning, was almost deserted. He passed King’s College Chapel, where a couple of early tourists were taking
pictures. Everyone else he could see was delivering stuff, hauling away garbage, or preparing to open their businesses.
“I’ll be more careful,” he said, pausing to gaze up at the chapel, which had a light dusting of frost on its stone pinnacles. “It’s been a while since I was in immediate danger. I may be getting a little rusty. I’ll call Tara and tell her she’s right to worry. Anyway, thanks for the info.”
One of the tourists—a middle-aged lady with a fur hat and an accent he couldn’t place—asked him to take their picture. He obliged, doing his best to get them properly centered beneath the chapel. Predictably, someone walked past behind the couple just as he was taking the picture. He signaled them to wait, snapped another one. Then he handed the camera back and was thanked profusely.
Mortlake took out his phone again and was already calling Tara when he glimpsed the woman who had walked into the shot, disappearing around the corner. There was something about the way she walked, the great mane of lustrous, dark hair, that stirred a memory. If only he’d caught a glimpse of her face, but she had been looking up at the building. Most tourists admired the chapel, there was nothing odd about her turning her face away from him…
Tara answered, and he forgot the intrusive woman.
“Crap,” Tara said. “I mean, I can’t stay here and put everyone else at risk. That gamekeeper guy was killed in the middle of London, right? I’ll have to find somewhere else to stay. Not easy. Renting is a total nightmare.”
“I might be able to help,” Mortlake said. “There are some fairly basic student rooms here in the college. I could pull some strings, if commuting to London is an option?”
“If you’re paying me it is,” she replied quickly. “We never did get that sorted out.”
Mortlake sighed. He hated paperwork, finances, and everything pertaining to business.
“Very well,” he said. “You’re hired, I’ll draw up a contract—no, you do it, and settle on a reasonable wage, and I’ll agree unless it would actually reduce me to beggary.”
Wolfsbane: Supernatural Suspense with Scary & Horrifying Monsters (Mortlake Series Book 1) Page 10
