“Well?” Cross said.
“He didn’t leave via the front main door,” Julian said. “I would have noticed.”
Cross nodded. “His belongings are all here, and his bed not slept in. However he left, he left last night. I heard him playing the violin.” He opened the wardrobe. “Not here.”
Julian scanned the room. “Or here.” He stopped. Leaning against the wall were the two canvases Scott had removed from Dawson’s studio. He’d almost forgotten about them entirely.
“I thought it odd that he chose to play so late at night,” Cross remarked.
Julian nodded. “He said something about buying some time. I thought that was why.”
“Buying time?”
“He was vague.” Julian briefly reported the conversation. “What do you think a well-brought up young gentleman would do in these circumstances?”
Cross rubbed his temples. “I don’t know about well-brought up young gentlemen, but you should stick to Dawson.”
Did Cross no longer believe Julian capable of being a gentleman? Or was his command a reflection of their peculiar circumstances? Julian opened his mouth to ask, but his education was curtailed by Dawson’s return.
“He’s not in the apartment. He must have gone through the door,” Dawson announced. “I’m going to ask the staff if they’ve seen him.”
“Give Julian and I few moments and we’ll accompany you,” Cross said.
“Why do we need a few moments?”
Cross pushed Julian towards his bedroom door. “Association with your father has taught me that people respond better to strange questions when the person asking them is impeccably attired.”
Impeccably attired meant his grey suit, paired with a navy tie that Julian felt conveyed the sort of authority necessary for investigating a vanished tutor. As he stepped out of his bedroom, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Scott’s bedroom door had pulled shut.
Julian opened the door. The room was as empty as it had been a few moments ago, the wardrobe door swaying slightly. The breeze? He scented the air, but he couldn’t detect anything besides the faint smell of horse manure drifting in from the street outside. As he turned to leave the room, his eye fell on the horseshoe, lying on the floor where it had fallen. After a moment’s thought, Julian replaced it above the door.
“Ready? Let’s go.” Dawson started out the door, making his way down the stairs. “The doorman must know who came in and out last night.”
When they descended it was to find the doorman already the subject of an enquiry. The manager postulated with him, waving his arms as he let forth a rapid stream of French. The doorman met the wave sullenly, repeating a sentence at intervals. From the looks of things, they’d been at this some time. The staff members hurrying through the room barely gave either of the men a second glance, preoccupied with their own tasks.
Julian looked after a maid hurrying out with a bucket of dry leaves. The scent tugged at his nose. For a moment, he stood in the overgrown garden with the boy.
“Excuse me,” Cross said, after a moment’s pause to allow the manager to recognise them. “Would this man have been on duty last night?”
“For all the good he did.” The manager glared at the watchman. “I could have employed a turnip with the same result!”
“Do you mind if we ask him a few questions?” Cross continued.
The manager sniffed. “Be my guest. But do not expect any sense from him. I have not got a single piece of useful information from him yet.”
“My job is to watch the door and only let guests into the hotel,” the man protested. “No one said anything about watching who went out.”
Dawson stepped forward. “And who went out?”
“Half of Paris according to him!” the manager’s voice had a distinctly hysteric tinge.
Julian winced. He backed away from the manager. Anger put his other self on edge.
“People.” The doorman spoke with a defeated tone. “I couldn’t describe them. These were people like I’ve never seen before.”
“Drunk,” the manager started. “After seven years on the job, to fall victim to the bottle—”
Cross held up a hand. “If you don’t mind.” He turned to the doorman. “How were they different?”
The man shook his head. “I cannot describe it, monsieur. They were lovely and at the same time, dangerous.”
“And this did not alarm you at the time? Why didn’t you alert someone?”
He licked his lips. His skin was queasy shade of white and smelled of cold sweat. “I thought I was asleep. Such people don’t exist in reality.”
“Was there a man with them? A man in a brown suit. Scott. Maybe you remember him?” Dawson’s fingers were clutched into fists.
“I do not remember him, monsieur. Only the people going out.”
“And you did not ask their names or where they were going?” Dawson’s enquiry had a note of desperation.
“I had no reason to ask. If they were coming in, now that’s a different matter entirely. But who was I to prevent them going out? Besides which, there was something about them… You would not want to cross them.”
“Of all the preposterous—” the manager started.
Cross spoke over him. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.” He nodded to Dawson and jerked his head towards the corner where Julian stood. “We’ve learned as much as we can.”
Dawson peered at the doorman. “The manager seems to think he hasn’t told us all.”
“He doesn’t know what we do.” Cross stroked his beard. “I propose that we return to our suite to consider the implications of this.”
“What implications—” Before Julian could finish his question, a stout woman entered the room, making a beeline for the manager. “Excuse me, monsieur, I have a complaint to make.”
“The sounds?” He grimaced, bowing low. “I assure you, madame, that was a one-time occurrence and will not be repeated.”
Had the entire hotel experienced their midnight visitors? Julian followed Cross and Dawson upstairs with foreboding. Wherever Scott was, he was in serious trouble.
14
Cross scattered flour across the floor of Scott’s bedroom with the air of one performing a serious experiment. “I learned this from your father, Julian. It is a technique adopted by spiritualists investigating psychic phenomena.”
Julian watched from the doorway, conscious of Dawson standing behind him. “Father investigating psychic phenomena?” Another of Cross’s dry jests? “That doesn’t seem gentlemanly.”
Cross backed towards the door, scattering flour as he did. “Any behaviour is gentlemanly, providing the doer is motivated by sound moral principles and can perform the action without sacrificing propriety or dignity.” He stepped out of the room and turned to face his companions, dusting his hands on his handkerchief. “You saw me lock the doors and tested for yourself that the window was closed. We are all in agreement that, once I lock this door, there is no way in or out of this room by normal means?”
Dawson tugged at his necktie. “What exactly are you driving at?”
Cross laid a hand on his shoulder. “Keep your nerves up, Mr Dawson. We are as yet in the dark, but I hope that this experiment will make things clearer.” He turned to shut the door.
Julian got one last glimpse of the room, empty of its inhabitant, but with the paintings propped against the wall. “Should we return the paintings to the studio?”
“Better to leave everything as we found it.” Cross turned the key in the lock. “Neither of you object if I keep the key for the time being?”
“It is a matter of indifference to me,” Dawson snapped. “Scott is not in his room. We are merely wasting time. A search must be made for him, the sooner the better.”
“You are more than welcome to consult the gendarme,” Cross said. “I shall write you a few words of introduction. My name is not unknown, even in Paris.”
Dawson nodded stiffly. “That is very go
od of you.”
Cross paused in the doorway to his bedroom. “I won’t be a moment. Julian, wait for me in your bedroom. We will search for Scott amongst your father’s books.”
Dawson followed Julian to his room, glancing at the books Scott had laid out for him to read. “What do you suppose Lord Cross means by that?”
Julian shrugged, sitting down at the table. “Lord Cross is often a mystery.” One without a solution.
Dawson flicked through the topmost book on the pile that Scott had set himself and put it down. “I thought Mr Leighton had the reputation for strange fancies.”
Julian cocked his head. “Father?”
“Phillip Leighton? Author of A Practical Working Theory of Psychic Phenomena in Rural England?”
Julian stared at him. “You must be mistaken.”
“Scott recommended it to me, saying that he knew the author well.”
Julian said nothing. Dawson wasn’t making any sense. Was this a joke?
Dawson tugged his moustache. Usually crisp, it now resembled the business end of a broom, and a well-used broom at that. Not a man who was in a joking mood. Perhaps the jest had been on Scott’s side?
Cross entered the room. “The letter. You should have no problems finding someone to assist you.”
Dawson tucked the letter into his jacket with trembling hands. “Thank you. I shall return once I have some news.”
“Do. Until Mr Scott is found, consider our hotel rooms your own, Mr Dawson.” Cross leaned his hands on the back of a chair. “Mr Scott intended to find a solution to your singular situation. In his absence, I regard it as my duty to offer you the support he would, both as an Englishman, and as a friend of my son’s.”
Dawson’s eyes rested on Julian. For the first time that morning, they lightened. “I do not find it easy to express my gratitude, but I am sensible of your kindness. I’ll return once I have talked to the police.”
“I do not like to let him walk Paris alone,” Cross said as soon as the door closed behind Dawson. “Bother, Pip! Of all the times to get sick!”
Julian peered at him. It almost sounded as if Cross was human, with normal human frustrations and uncertainties. “Dawson said Father wrote a treatise on psychic investigations.”
Cross pinched the bridge of his nose. “A Practical Working Theory of Psychic Phenomena in Rural England.”
Julian tightened his grip on the table. He didn’t like this.
“It was somewhat well received as the work of an enthusiastic and well-informed amateur and garnered him some attention from those corners of society where an interest is taken in the unknown. Other parts of society were rather less kind.” Cross pulled out the chair that Scott usually occupied and sat. “Pip took the criticism personally. It was around that time that we found you.”
Julian’s shoulders sank. Thinking of when Pip and Cross found him meant remembering the time before Pip and Cross found him. A whine threatened deep within his throat.
“You don’t need me to remind you how serious the situation was. The only chance for you to live freely was for you to be able to pass as any other young boy.” Cross’s voice softened. “As with everything he puts his heart into, Pip devoted himself to teaching you the rudiments of society. It was not long before he realised that if he was to act as a proper role model for you, he must put aside his passion for phasmatology. Since that day, he has done his best to curb his former enthusiasm for all things paranormal and restrict himself to taking a merely academic interest in the occult.”
“Are you telling me that Father—” Julian hesitated.
“Does not always conduct himself as a well-brought up gentleman should?” Cross raised a stern eyebrow. “In my opinion, he has only ever acted in the best interests of those around him, which is far more important than behaving as society dictates. But he wants only the best for you.”
“And that is behaving as a gentleman?”
Cross sighed. “Your father and I do not often disagree, but we differed on the manner of your upbringing. However, where you are concerned, Pip’s decision is final. I agreed to say nothing of his previous career. Our intention was to give you as normal an upbringing as possible. Lately I have been wondering if in our desire to bring you up properly, we were not neglecting your other half. After all, you are only human some of the time.”
Julian sat very still. The thudding of his heart pounded at the back of his head.
Cross’s hand rested on his shoulder. “Don’t look so serious, lad. I only mean to say that your difference comes with certain advantages—advantages that could be very useful in finding Mr Scott.”
Julian swallowed. He did not think this was a test, but Cross could not possibly mean what he said. Was this perhaps a dream? Or the hallucination of an over-wrought mind? “I don’t know any more than you do about what’s happened to Mr Scott.”
“No?” Cross waited.
Julian frowned. “Well…” he said slowly. “He was behaving somewhat strangely last night. When he borrowed the horseshoe from me, he told me that if anything happens, I should stick to Frank like glue. That he couldn’t be sure they wouldn’t try to get at him.”
Cross’s brow narrowed. “Who are ‘they’?”
Julian grimaced. “All he said was that I had everything I needed to work it out should it come to that.”
“High praise,” Cross said. “I have no doubt that Mr Scott’s faith in you is justified.”
Julian sank even lower. “I don’t know what he meant. I don’t even know what you want me to do.”
“Stop worrying so much about what a well-brought up young gentleman would do and start doing what you think you should do.” Cross walked over to stand beside Julian, placing his hands on either shoulder. “You have sound instincts, a keen eye, and most importantly, a good heart. All you need is to combine the three.”
Julian sucked in a breath. Should he confess he had no idea how to do that?
“I’ll leave you to your reading. If I make haste, I can join Dawson at the police station.” Cross snatched up a couple of volumes from the table.
Julian stood with dismay. “You’re going?”
“Scott’s words indicate that Dawson is in danger. One of us should accompany him at all times. You will remain here.”
“To do what?”
Cross motioned to the books on the table. “Look for anything that resembles what is happening to Mr Dawson, or Mr Scott’s disappearance.”
Julian looked down at the books. “But fairy tales are for children.”
Cross picked up the top book and lightly tapped Julian on the head with it. “Time to stop thinking like a gentleman.” He placed the book in Julian’s hands and walked out of the room.
Julian stared after him. Perhaps he should look for any stories resembling the inexplicable transformation of Lord Cross. He looked down at the book he held. Concerning the Ancient Beliefs and Not So Ancient Beliefs of Upper Wrangleford.
15
Being alone in the hotel suite with the locked room felt very wrong. No matter where Julian went, he was conscious of it. Cross’s room, thick with the smell of his beard oil, didn’t silence the uneasy feeling. Neither did Pip’s room, the faint scent of his father mingling with Dawson’s tobacco. Eventually, Julian sat on the floor, his back against the locked door and the book on his lap. No sounds from within, but if anything stirred, he would hear it immediately.
He turned another page. The vicar’s style was meticulous and chatty. In other circumstances, Julian might have enjoyed it. Now, with his mind still digesting the conversation he’d had with Cross, Julian struggled to make any sense of it.
His other self was many things—a dire secret, an embarrassment, a danger. Never an advantage. For Cross to suggest such a thing was a sign that something was seriously wrong. Could the situation have gotten to his nerves?
Julian chewed his lip. Cross did not have nerves. Yet for him to make the suggestion… If only Father were there! Pip was one of
the few people alive who could interpret Cross’s moods. And yet, Pip’s absence was entirely done to Julian’s other self… His mouth tightened. No. They would solve Dawson’s dilemma and find Scott without any help from his other half.
He made another attempt to direct his attention to the vicar’s writing.
I have, as most of you know, a fondness for place names, especially those recorded not in painstaking geographic surveys and regional maps, but those of what is termed ‘folklore.’ More often than not, a hill with a peculiar name, such as Seven Sisters, near the village of Brightwater, has a corresponding tale. One of the first things I did, when learning that a striking outcrop in the forest near my parish was known as the Giant’s Table, was to enquire after the giant.
“Giant’s Table,” Julian murmured. Why did that sound familiar?
Of course! The painting left behind in Dawson’s studio, the one that he’d tackled, Cross had said it reminded him of a hill of that name in Wrangleford.
Julian turned to the back of the book, hoping to find the Vicar’s biography. Instead, he was rewarded with a map. He ran his finger over the map until he found the Giant’s Table, located near the village of Upper Wrangleford, in Kent.
He stared down at the map. Coincidence? No—Scott had given him the book, intending Julian should read it. Was this a connection he’d been intended to make? Julian paged back through the book. This would have been a lot easier if Scott had decided not to make his disappearance an educational exercise. Were all tutors so exasperating? Julian found his page and continued to read.
To my great disappointment, I discovered that no giant was known to ever have inhabited these parts. My parishioners, so otherwise obliging in every respect, were curiously close-mouthed on the subject of the hill and the woods surrounding it and as my enquiries were fruitless, I let the matter drop.
It was not until I had been vicar of Upper Wrangleford for around five years that I heard anything concerning the woods. Our warden, an honest chap with a decade of service behind him, was the first to broach the subject, intimating that the occupants of the forest did not like to be talked about, and that it was generally held that if you must talk about them, better to do it inside a house with the door locked and the windows closed tight.
The Worst Behaved Werewolf Page 8
