by Darrell Pitt
‘That’s got quite a ring to it. Your friend, Mr Beethoven, might be able to turn it into a song.’
‘Sometimes I want to hit you.’
Mr Doyle intervened before violence could ensue. ‘We should first find accommodation,’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s almost midday. We’ll eat and then unravel this mystery one thread at a time. Werewolves or no werewolves.’
Jack and Scarlet were pleased to see Mr Doyle had recovered some of his good humour. They booked a room in a hotel called The Belvedere, eating a meal of steak-and-kidney pies while Mr Doyle engaged the waitress in idle conversation. Around twenty, the young woman was slim, reminding Jack of a greyhound, and she was more than happy to respond to queries about the town.
‘A few businesses have closed,’ she explained. ‘These seaside places have a boom and bust economy. It’s spring now and we’re doing all right, but it’s quite slow in winter.’
‘I am in need of a watchmaker,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘Is there one nearby?’
‘There was one, but he closed years ago.’
‘There’s no-one who can do repair work?’
She thought for a moment. ‘A group of people have moved into the old Westlake House on the south road. I think they’re some kind of engineers.’
‘Really?’
She leaned close. ‘Lots of equipment gets delivered to the home. A box got broken at the station and some gear spilled out. One of the men was furious.’
Mr Doyle rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. He confirmed the address and thanked the waitress. She left them to finish their meal.
‘Did you see that?’ Jack asked Scarlet. ‘That girl was so much like a waitress that she was too much like a waitress. What do you think, Mr Doyle?’
The detective produced a lump of cheese from his pocket. He had the strangest eating habits of anyone Jack knew.
‘She is behaving very much like a waitress,’ he said, ‘because she is a waitress. Her parents own the establishment and she is getting married next year. Which will be nice because the cat she owned for seven years recently died.’
Jack and Scarlet looked at each other and laughed.
After leaving the pub, Mr Doyle hailed a steamcab, directing the driver to a large property surrounded by a high stone wall and overhanging trees. Foliage hid the house beyond. When Mr Doyle paid the driver they all climbed out of the cab.
‘There has been some movement here, but not in the last week.’ Mr Doyle pointed at the driveway. ‘Recent tyre tracks.’
He went to climb over the gate when Scarlet asked, ‘Isn’t that trespassing?’
‘Not at all. We’ve simply lost our way.’
The metal gate had spikes running across the top. Jack and Mr Doyle navigated them without difficulty, but Scarlet was momentarily ensnared by her dress. At the end of the driveway was a two-storey Georgian home with a well-maintained garden. Mr Doyle knocked at the front door. No-one answered.
‘Should we break in?’ Jack asked.
Mr Doyle gave a gentle laugh. ‘Breaking and entering is a crime,’ he reminded his young assistant. ‘And we never break in.’
‘Sorry?’
‘But we do occasionally enable an entry point. Let’s look around.’
They found an empty sunroom at the back. The windows were dusty and locked. Mr Doyle knocked again, but there was still no answer. Scarlet glanced through another window.
‘That’s the kitchen,’ she said. ‘There are tables and chairs, but no pots or pans.’
‘Really?’ Mr Doyle said. ‘That’s odd.’ He peered in. ‘Hmm. No plates. No dishes. No sign of habitation. You know what that means?’
‘What?’
‘That the time has come to enable an entry point.’ He raised his elbow and knocked it against the glass, smashing it out of the pane. Reaching inside, he undid the latch.
‘What will we say if someone is inside?’ Scarlet asked.
‘We’ll tell them we’re lost,’ Mr Doyle said, ‘and seeking the road to Edinburgh.’
‘I’ll go,’ Jack offered, starting to push the window open. But Mr Doyle suddenly threw himself at him.
‘Watch out!’
CHAPTER THREE
They hit the ground and rolled as the window shattered, spraying glass and timber everywhere.
After a long moment of stunned silence, Mr Doyle calmly rose to his feet and inspected the opening. ‘A rifle has been set as a booby trap. I saw it at the last moment.’
Jack stood, his legs shaking. He tried to speak, but his throat was still blocked with fear. He would have been killed if Mr Doyle hadn’t pushed him out of the way.
‘Are you all right, my boy?’ Mr Doyle asked, gripping his shoulder.
‘Fine,’ Jack said, his voice an octave higher.
‘At least we have an answer to one question: no-one else is here. They would have come running by now.’
Scarlet nodded. ‘I should have realised that window was too normal.’
Jack wondered if there could really be something to her Normal Strangeness theory. ‘Shame the house wasn’t gloomy and mysterious,’ he said. ‘It might have been safer.’
Mr Doyle eased open the shattered window. Jack peered inside and saw that a rifle had been harnessed to a series of pulleys and levers, ready to fire when the window was opened.
Jack shuddered. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘You saved my life.’
‘My pleasure.’
They searched the house. Grey curtains with a peacock design hung in each room, swathing them in dull light. The carpets were threadbare. Bald patches discoloured the walls where paintings had once been displayed. A nursery, brightly clad in royal blue wallpaper, was empty except for a solitary child’s alphabet block in a corner. The house contained nothing of a personal nature. No pictures of family members. No crockery or cutlery. No papers or clothing.
Downstairs, other traps had been set under every window, as well as the front and back doors.
‘This is possibly taking security a little too seriously.’ Mr Doyle chewed on some cheese as he examined the front door. ‘There is a piece of string here that deactivates the trap.’
Reaching a room lined with bookshelves without books, Mr Doyle nodded in satisfaction. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘This is fortunate.’
‘I already feel fortunate,’ Jack said, ‘to not have a hole in me.’
The detective pointed to the floor. ‘You see how the dust has been disturbed. There was equipment in this room. I believe it was only recently removed.’
‘So whoever sent the watch has left,’ Scarlet said, ‘and removed everything of importance?’
‘I think so.’ Mr Doyle inhaled deeply. ‘There is a strange smell in the air.’
Jack and Scarlet breathed in. ‘Could it be cleaning fluid?’ Scarlet asked.
‘I suspect they were doing more than engineering here.’
The next room was a windowless sitting room, containing a couple of chairs, a small side table and lamp. It was a murky chamber, the only light entering th
rough the doorway.
Mr Doyle activated the gaslight and the interior brightened. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small bust of Napoleon. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I was wondering where that went.’ Returning the bust, he dragged out his goggles and scanned the room. ‘This is very odd. Why would someone construct such a dark, dingy room? It looks like it was once part of the library.’
Jack crouched. ‘There’s a line running across here,’ he said. ‘Actually, it looks like—’
But that was as far as he got as the trapdoor gave way and Jack found himself falling through the air.
Thud!
Landing in a heap on the floor, he heard Scarlet and Mr Doyle cry out just as the trapdoor sprang back into place.
‘Bazookas,’ Jack groaned, rubbing his rump. ‘Wasn’t expecting that.’
He had landed in a wine cellar, an enormous chamber packed with dozens of long racks. Two aisles ran across the middle, with gaps at each end where the racks did not touch the edges. Light cut like shards of broken crystal from tiny windows set high in the walls. Cobwebs stretched across the ceiling, a startled spider racing away. Jack doubted anyone had been down here in years.
He wrinkled his nose. There was a strange smell about. A bad smell. What was it? Rotting meat?
Thudding came from above, and Scarlet and Mr Doyle’s voices reverberated through the timber. Jack was about to shout back when something clattered on the far side of the cellar.
Something else is down here.
‘Hello?’ Jack asked. ‘Is anyone there?’
Jack crossed the cellar, scanning for movement. Surely no-one lived down here. Unless they were a prisoner. Maybe the owner was keeping someone captive?
More movement at the far end of the aisle.
‘Hello?’ Jack ventured.
He was halfway down the aisle when the figure moved into a shaft of light. Jack gasped. It wasn’t a person at all. It was a bull, twice its normal size. Three sharp horns protruded from its forehead, and below these a huge jaw lined with fangs.
Jack froze. How is this possible?
The creature must be an illegal biological experiment. Were the Darwinist League responsible? They worked at the cutting edge of natural science, and much of their work was revered. They had created oak trees that grew in the shape of planks of wood, fish that lived on land and domesticated elephants the size of house cats. They were even engineering whales that could carry humans like submarines.
The creation of modified animals was strictly controlled, but some scientists carried out illegal experiments. This deformed bull appeared to be such a creature. The scientist who had created it had been far from successful: it had no eyes. Jack relaxed slightly. The beast was enormous, but Jack would be all right as long as he was quiet.
Taking a step backwards, Jack’s feet scraped against the stonework. The bull lifted its head, sniffed the air and started down the aisle. Jack turned to run, but in his panic tripped and fell.
Move, a voice in his head screamed. Move!
Jack scrambled to his feet and dived into the next aisle. The bull ploughed past. How can such an enormous beast run so fast? Jack tore down the aisle, darting sideways again as it thundered by.
He could hear it sniffing and snorting, and then the bull emitted a roar like a deranged lion. Jack’s blood ran cold. He scanned the gloom for an exit. Nothing. The walls were bare. There was no door.
But there has to be a way out of here!
He made for a break in the shelves halfway down the aisle as the beast made another pass, closer this time. It had slowed to a trot, roaring in frustration. With those teeth, it had to be a carnivore. Maybe it hadn’t been fed in days. Or weeks…
I don’t want to be its next meal.
Jack watched the bull reach the end of the aisle, before tiptoeing towards the far wall, praying he’d find a door in one of the murky corners. He quietly edged along, peering into the shadows.
Nothing.
The bull was silent and unmoving—for the moment. Jack glimpsed something hanging from the ceiling about twenty feet away. A thick strand of cobweb. No, he thought. It’s a length of rope.
Could it be a handle for a set of pull-down stairs?
Jack crossed another aisle…
…and fetid breath snorted directly into his face.
A piece of advice from Mr Doyle floated into his mind like a bubble rising to the surface of a lake.
Your assumptions can kill you.
The great detective was correct. What on earth had made Jack think there was only one bull in the cellar?
The second bull grunted. It could smell him. Like its brother, it had no eyes, but would be on Jack in a flash if he made the slightest sound. The monster’s head weaved about in the air. Jack’s scent was clearly driving it wild.
A sound came from the opposite end of the cellar. The other bull was getting closer. Jack imagined their reaction when they found him sandwiched between them.
Hello food!
Jack had to think fast.
Edging a hand into his pocket, he took out a coin and, clenching it tightly, raised his shaking arm. The bull sucked in another deep breath, and its three horns moved dangerously close to Jack’s face.
Jack tossed the coin over the bull’s head. It seemed to take an eternity to arc across the aisle before it hit the floor and bounced away. The beasts roared, charging after it. Jack ran towards the rope and, as if by magic, stairs folded down from the ceiling.
What the—?
Mr Doyle came down the steps.
‘No!’ Jack screamed. ‘Run!’
He flew towards the stairs as something thudded behind him. A bull was only a few feet away. Jack charged up the steps and past the detective as the creature started clambering up.
‘Good heavens!’ Scarlet cried.
Mr Doyle still held the lamp in his hand. He threw it down at the monster’s head, spreading flame and oil across its face.
‘Go!’ Mr Doyle yelled. ‘Go!’
He pushed Jack and Scarlet out of the room, pulling the door shut just as the beast’s horns smashed through the timber.
Then Jack was outside. Free! But even as Mr Doyle pulled the front door closed Jack could still hear the roar of the beasts—a rabid bellow, and the crash of falling objects as they charged from room to room.
‘I think the building’s on fire,’ Mr Doyle said.
‘I don’t care if the whole world’s on fire!’ Jack said, still shaking. ‘Just as long as we’re away from those… things.’
Within minutes smoke was seeping from the eaves. They started towards town with the sound of breaking glass echoing after them. Jack looked back to see a column of smoke rising into the clear sky.
‘Have you ever noticed how many buildings burn to the ground when we’re around?’ Mr Doyle asked.
‘That happens to Brinkie all the time,’ Scarlet replied. ‘In The Adventure of the Singing Book, she is caught in a burning church, house, barn, rollerskating rink, opera house and f
actory that produces xylophones.’
‘That makes me feel rather better, my dear,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘One might even say it’s music to my ears.’
Jack and Scarlet groaned.
‘How is that possible?’ Jack asked Scarlet. ‘No-one can have such bad luck.’
‘Luck had nothing to do with it,’ Scarlet said. ‘It turned out that Brinkie’s cousin, Abernathy Buckeridge, was a pyromaniac. He loved setting fires.’
‘I love fires too—as long as they’re in a fireplace.’
Another enormous crash came from the distant house. Part of the roof had collapsed. More smoke and burning embers flew up as a fire engine trundled over a distant hill, siren blaring.
‘At least we can be certain of one thing,’ Mr Doyle said. ‘We’re on the right track.’
By now it was late in the day. They returned to their hotel, packed their belongings and were shortly on a train travelling back to London. It seemed to Jack that weeks had passed since they left Bee Street.
Settling back into his seat, he leafed through the book that Scarlet had given him, opening to a section about Mozart.
‘Now this is interesting,’ he said.
‘What is?’ Scarlet asked.
‘It says here that Mozart died at the age of thirty-five. Foul play was suspected. It looks like someone didn’t like his music.’
‘That seems most unlikely,’ Scarlet objected.
‘He’s wearing a very funny wig in this picture,’ Jack said. ‘Maybe someone didn’t like his hair.’
‘That’s hardly a reason for murder!’
Mr Doyle spoke up. ‘Actually, people have been murdered for many strange reasons. Lovers’ tiffs. Smallminded prejudices. Quarrels. I investigated a crime where a killer targeted women with messy hair.’
‘Really?’ Scarlet said, tidying her locks. ‘Imagine that.’
Jack fell asleep, dreaming of bulls and roaring monsters. He woke just as they pulled into Liverpool Street Station. The streets were dark, lit only by gaslamps. A fog had moved in, enveloping the streets.
