“Exhaustion,” Mortlake said, laying a finger on a paragraph of Gothic print. “Greeks and Romans believed it could be cured by simply wearing down the person in question. Presumably walking them up and down, keeping them awake—that’s actually classed as torture nowadays, but they were a rough lot back then.”
Tara closed the book in front of her and raised a small cloud of dust.
“Anyway, Alfred Gotobed will be here in about ten minutes, so I vote we’re through. You got a ton of wolfsbane in your place, right?”
“Not exactly,” the professor admitted. “My herbal friends were a little short. I tried to contact a local witch—a good one, of course—but she’s on a skiing holiday in Austria.”
Tara was appalled and amused in about equal portions. Seeing her reaction, Mortlake tried to reassure her.
“Don’t worry, I have taken some precautions. And, in the final analysis, we simply can’t turn away someone who asks for our help. I know that will always involve an element of risk. It’s something I’ve come to accept. I don’t get a kick out of it, believe me.”
He paused, seeing her troubled expression.
“Put simply, Tara, we’re the good guys—and that always comes with major penalties, I’m afraid. In the movies, you can kick in the door of the baddies’ lair and shoot the lot of ’em, and still be one of the good guys. In those gunfights or car chases or whatever, they never simply kill an innocent bystander, do they? In real life, try to simply do what’s morally right, and you’re blocked and hamstrung on all sides. We have to keep our eyes on our aim—to rescue that poor girl. The sooner, the better. Then, ideally, we can try and cure the people she has been made to infect.”
Tara thought it was a big ask. She followed Mortlake out of the library and back through the college to the quadrangle. By the main gate, a familiar figure was waiting, looking uncomfortable and out of place. Alfred Gotobed recognized Tara and gave a little wave, as if this was a social occasion.
“He doesn’t look dangerous,” Mortlake observed. “But appearances can be deceptive. Let’s find out what he has to say.”
They walked over, and Mortlake shook hands while Gotobed thanked him profusely for the meeting. As arranged, Tara took a good look at Gotobed’s right hand. The angry red mark she had made on his flesh the week earlier had faded. Mortlake gave her a significant nod as they walked back to the inner entrance of the college. He had noticed it, too. Another data point in their research.
***
Tara noticed changes in Mortlake’s sitting room. There was the presence of alcohol: a tray bearing some glasses, a bottle of Scotch, some soda water. There was also the general increase in tidiness, as if some books had actually been put away. The third difference was less apparent until Alfred Gotobed sat down. Something shot out from behind the sofa and hurtled out of the apartment like a black furry missile.
“I’d quite forgotten Bigglesworth was lurking around,” Mortlake remarked, closing the door. “Are you a cat person, Mr. Gotobed?”
“They—they’ve started to avoid me,” the little man said. “I quite like cats, but lately they dislike me quite a lot. Dogs bark and snarl, too—they don’t like my smell, I think, though I keep showering and use plenty of cologne. Dogs want to attack me, cats hiss and run. It’s become quite noticeable.”
Mortlake gestured to Tara, who sat opposite Gotobed. Mortlake perched on the arm of the sofa, looking languid and amiable. Tara had to admire his insouciant attitude, like he was chatting with a rather awkward student. Gotobed, for his part, looked sweatier than ever, the nervous sheen making his face glisten more.
Tara had to remind herself that this man was a killer. That he had signed up for killing, that he had made a choice that went way beyond everyday badness. But seeing the dirty collar of his shirt, the way his pants were still baggy, the little chains on his shoes, she could not hate him. Anger turned to pity. The businessman, stammering out fragments of his life story in his high-pitched voice, seemed to epitomize every weak man who got into something and had no idea how to get out.
“All very interesting,” said Mortlake, cutting into Gotobed’s monologue. “But I need to know details. You wanted to be part of Gonfallon’s secret society, club, whatever. You heard about it through the grapevine?”
“Yes, from Charles Belmont—he’s into property in a big way. He said that if I had a million to pay the membership, I could enjoy… I could…”
Gotobed took out a fine silk handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Mortlake offered him a drink. The little man accepted a Scotch and soda. Tara wondered if there was some ulterior motive, and tensed up when Gotobed gulped down a mouthful of the whiskey. But it had no obvious effect, other than to make his pasty white features flush a little.
“Thank you,” he said. “When I met Rupert, he said he could offer me something better than drugs, better than sex. Better than things I’ve tried and not enjoyed, not really. It’s like this stuff, you see…”
He held up his glass, frowned at the amber fluid.
“It can take away some of the self-consciousness, the doubt, the anxiety—but you know it’s just fake and only temporary. What Rupert offered was the perfect thrill, where you lose yourself completely. You become utterly ruthless, living in the moment, all your senses heightened…”
He looked up at Tara, then looked down at the worn rug at his feet.
“It was beautiful, in a way. That was what he promised. Freedom of a kind—for me, at least. The others, they loved the idea of breaking the rules, of getting away with it. And the killing. That really mattered to them, that sense of power from taking a life. But I thought… I thought it would be just animals, so it wouldn’t be bad. After all, we would eat them. And it was wonderful. Suddenly to be chasing the deer, smelling their fear, seeing them darting away into the trees, being one of the pack. Being strong and wild in the darkness. And then…”
Silence filled the room, which no longer seemed like a cozy oasis, a refuge from the world’s madness and violence.
Tara spoke quietly.
“And then you killed Josh. Tore him apart. And would have killed me, right? If it hadn’t been for the wolfsbane.”
Gotobed made a small noise, somewhere between a sob and a wail. Mortlake started to reach out, perhaps to pat the man on his shoulder, then pulled back. Tara twisted the bulky ring on her finger, the one she had borrowed from Anita. The silver ring that had marked the little man at the Meeting Place.
“Alfred,” said Mortlake quietly. “You didn’t come here just to confess. You want us to help you. And believe me, we do want to help. But we need facts. For starters, how did you contract lycanthropy?”
Gotobed looked puzzled, and Tara clarified the point.
“How did you get to be a werewolf?”
The businessman described how the girl in the cellar had been tranquilized by Gonfallon’s heavies so that she was slow, clumsy but not unconscious. She had been brought out in shackles on her neck and limbs and then provoked.
“What do you mean, provoked?” demanded Tara. “You mean tortured?”
“She… they… It was a combination of threats, mockery, and some prodding with sticks,” Gotobed said. “Bullying, you might say. That makes them change. The combination of fear and anger.”
“Fight or flight,” Mortlake mused. “That makes sense. So, you saw the change?”
Gotobed took another gulp of whiskey, set the glass down with a clatter. He nodded.
“I hadn’t really believed it, until that moment. And when I saw it—saw her turn, I didn’t want to go on. But Rupert grabbed my arm and pushed my hand towards her. Just close enough for her to lash out.”
He held out his left hand.
“There’s a tiny mark, just above the wrist. You can’t see it from there? No? And yet, that’s all it took. I felt sick, heaved up my breakfast on that filthy floor. They put her back in her cage and took me upstairs. And then, when I felt better, Rupert explained how we would—how we’d do
it that evening.”
Mortlake was leaning forward, fascinated. Tara was appalled, imagining the terror of the captive, surrounded by strange men tormenting her, mocking her, treating her like an animal so that she would become one for their sporting pleasure. She wanted to storm out, curse at the top of her voice, or just throw something. She forced herself to remain quiet, watching their visitor, wondering if she would help him even if she could.
“Fight or flight,” repeated Mortlake. “How does that work, though? Surely Gonfallon’s henchmen didn’t chain you up and poke you with sticks?”
Gotobed shook his head, covered his face with his hands. His voice, muffled, seemed to break.
“We have to reach down inside ourselves,” he explained. “All our fear, hatred, resentment. Everything negative, all the unfairness and injustice—anything that’s ever made us angry. We visualize it, you see?”
He took his hands away, stared up at the professor.
“And then what happened?” Tara demanded. “That was when you killed Josh, right? And you remember doing it, but you couldn’t stop yourself?”
Gotobed nodded, face reddening again, staring down at his small shoes.
“And since then?” Mortlake said. “How many more?”
The little man shook his head, jumped up suddenly.
“I don’t want to remember!” he cried. “God, I couldn’t say no! If I’d refused, I’d have been next, they’d have found a way! You do see that? I came here for help, and all you do is blame me!”
The weakest one of the pack, Tara thought, forced to hunt with the others. So, he had killed again, knowingly, aware that the prey was human.
“We do want to help, Alfred,” said Mortlake. “But we need to know as much as possible. It took courage to come here, we appreciate that.”
Tara wanted to say something useful but was choked by rage rising up. It was monstrous that someone as good as Josh should have died for some stupid, decadent blood sport. It was one thing to know that as a theory, quite another to have one of the killers confirm it.
Gotobed caught her eye and looked away.
“I, I feel a little unwell, I downed that Scotch too fast—could I use your facilities…?”
Mortlake gestured. Gotobed scuttled into the bathroom.
“Pathetic little bastard,” Tara said under her breath. “He’s full of self-pity.”
Mortlake went to his desk and took something out of a drawer. It looked to Tara like bug spray, in a gray, unmarked can. He shook it absentmindedly, peering at the bathroom door. There was a sound of water running.
“That your secret weapon?” Tara asked.
“Let’s hope so.”
Mortlake hefted the can in one hand, put it in a pocket of his ancient tweed jacket. He looked at her appraisingly.
“If this is too hard for you, you can go,” he said quietly.
“No!” she hissed. “I want to help. I guess I won’t hate him forever. He’s such a pathetic little man—no matter how much power and money he has, he’s always the outsider, always a loser.”
Mortlake’s eyes widened and he made a shushing gesture.
“What?” she asked, lowering her voice again. “He can’t hear me…”
Then it occurred to her that, if a man’s odor could change so much that dogs and cats react to it, maybe some other things could have changed, too. He might, for instance, have sharper hearing. She recalled how Gotobed had flinched when the station announcement had blared out last weekend. She’d put it down to nervousness but what if it wasn’t?
“Sorry,” she said.
They stared at the bathroom door. Then Mortlake moved over to it and rapped gently with his knuckles.
“Alfred? You all right, old chap?”
There was a low noise that Tara tried to tell herself was the rumble of ancient university plumbing. But it grew and became a chilling snarl, dog-like, but far louder and deeper. Cloth ripped and with it came a howl, high-pitched and piercing. Mortlake jumped back from the door just as the wood panels jumped with a tremendous impact. Then came a scrabbling and scratching, the sound of splintering wood.
“I think you were speaking a little too loudly,” Mortlake said, not sounding too alarmed. “But maybe he’ll calm down before…”
One of the wooden panels burst out, shards of pale wood flying across the room. A great paw appeared rending at the edges of the hole. Mortlake stood staring for a moment, then took out the can and sprayed colorless vapor at the paw. It pulled back with a yelp and for a moment, Tara wondered if somehow Gotobed had been knocked out. Or killed.
Then the door shook again, and the snarling grew far louder.
“You pissed him off!” she shouted.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We don’t want to be trapped in here with it.”
They had just made it outside when the creature burst through into the living room, hesitated for a split-second, then bounded straight at them. Tara felt blind panic at the sight of golden-yellow eyes, fangs, and the low-slung, hulking form. The ragged remnants of a shirt fluttered across its back. Mortlake sprayed the beast, and it acted just like a dog bothered by a fly—snapping at the air, raising one paw, and batting at the vapor. Mortlake pulled the outer door closed. It shook and jumped on its hinges a second later.
“Silver iodide,” he said, shaking the spray again. “Thought it might be a bit more effective.”
“Okay, what’s Plan B?” Tara asked.
“Exhaustion,” he said. “Wear the bugger down a bit.”
She stared at him. “You don’t have any more weapons?”
Before he could reply, the door split open from the top, and the creature lunged out. Tara ran for it, heading for the end of the corridor with the stained-glass window. Mortlake followed, squirting more of his silver spray after him. A staircase to the right was marked “Roof Access Only”. The stairway down and the elevator, she realized, was the other way, past the door that the werewolf was now demolishing.
“Upwards, safer for others,” Mortlake said.
Tara sprinted up the stairs, the Englishman following at a lumbering pace. She looked down to see the beast bounding past, a hurtling patch of darkness that skidded on the ancient stone floor.
Claws and paws, she thought, colliding with a door and praying it was open. Skittering like a dog in a hallway.
The door was open. The beast regained control and took the narrow stairway in a few bounds. Tara and Mortlake stood to either side of the exit, and again, the professor sprayed a cloud of silver compound into the path of the beast. It sneezed this time, shaking its head again, but quickly recovered and turned to face Tara. It was dark, but the college was a historic building, well-lit from below. Half in shadow, the creature advanced a couple of paces, sniffing the air. She saw in the shape of the skull, the cast of the jaw, a hint of the pathetic man it had been. She could almost understand why Alfred Gotobed might seek to escape from himself this way.
Almost.
“Alfred,” she said loudly, remembering another fragment of folklore.
The creature seemed to hesitate, head shaking, startlingly like a dog responding to a familiar human’s call. Then it bared its fangs again, hunched its shoulders, and gathered itself to spring. She backed up, felt the cold stone of the parapet behind her.
“Alfred!” shouted Mortlake and clapped his hands sharply.
The sound did not distract the beast at all. It launched itself at her. Tara, too, had prepared for a leap and flung herself to one side. The lycanthrope struck the parapet, yelped, and skittered on the stone slabs. But it was lightning-fast and it had Tara cornered. She glanced down and saw a sloping roof, gray overlapping slates. The gradient was shallow but still risky.
She threw herself over the parapet as the beast sprang again. Something bumped her on the sole of one runner as she half-rolled onto the tiles. She started to slide and scrabbled, breaking nails, whimpering in pain and panic now. But the plan—simple, improvised, better than nothing—req
uired her to lure the beast. She stood, her rubber soles keeping her steady.
“Alfred!” she shouted, then put her fingers in her mouth and whistled.
The third repetition of his name did not cure Gotobed’s affliction, but the beast could not ignore the piercing sound. It looked down at her, ears back, slavering. She whistled again, waved her arms.
“Come and get me, you hairy bastard!”
For a moment, she doubted, wondered if the monster would simply turn and go for Mortlake, who was out of sight now. But then it leaped again, eyes glaring, focused on its prey. She crouched, arms out, as it landed on the roof and tried to run at her. Its legs worked frantically, but it was built for a chase in a forest or on grass. Instead of hurtling at her in a straight line, it slid diagonally, and she saw the rage of the hunter give way to confusion, the great eyes wide. A whine came from the great throat, then a howl as it scrabbled at the guttering, tore it free, and tumbled into the quadrangle.
“Crap,” she said.
Her blood was pounding loudly in her ears, but she could still hear shouts from below. She made her way carefully back up to the parapet, where Mortlake was waiting to help her. They made their way downstairs and arrived in time to find a growing throng of students gathered around a pale body on the ground.
Alfred Gotobed looked even more pathetic naked on the frost-covered grass. Someone had already called an ambulance, though it was clear it would not need to hurry. Tara looked up at the roof. About fifty feet, she guessed. Maybe a little less.
“Yes,” said Mortlake quietly, following her gaze. “Another data point. It seems they can die in the same way we do.”
Chapter 10
They were questioned separately in adjacent tutorial rooms.
The Cambridge police went easy on Tara when they found out she had been traumatized by the loss of her boyfriend. They were less inclined to go easy on Mortlake. Tara got the feeling that he had generated a lot of publicity for the college and the town, not all of it welcome. But in the end, they had to accept the facts—that Alfred Gotobed had been visiting Mortlake, had sought advice over what he believed to be some kind of paranormal problem, and had then become homicidal.
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