Box Set: The Wolf of Dorian Gray Series: Books 1-3

by Brian Ference

  The immense claws seized onto the bloody mass of meat with disturbingly strong hands. The canines of the great beast sank into the flesh with a surprising delicateness. It lifted its kill from the bloody floor and moved towards the shattered window. With a final piercing look, the towering creature leapt away using its powerful hindquarters. It sailed through the broken window and crashed into the soft garden below.

  Dorian collapsed to the floor in relief. He strained his brain as he thought quickly. Sage had left the house at eleven and dismissed the valet. No one had seen him come in again. As far as anyone knew, Sage was on her way to Paris. She would be gone for six months or a year before suspicions would be roused. All of the evidence could be cleaned up and destroyed long before then.

  The servants were surprised to find their master hard at work as they arrived. He was shoveling fresh mulch and moving debris in the garden in a most vigorous manner. It was not unusual for their master to quickly change his fancies and this week it was apparently gardening. They were quite used to his eccentrics by now and could only smile and agree as he began giving orders.

  “Ah, quickly now! Help me move away that brush from the old rose bushes. I’ve decided the garden is quite overdue for a renovation, you see. And naturally, this must include removing that small, old window that overlooks the garden. It will be replaced with a new large-pane, machine-polished glass. They are quite fashionable. I’m afraid I got quite carried away in starting the demolition myself and have done just a horrid job. Send for someone from the James Powell & Sons glassworks at once to finish the job.”

  Dorian made a point to speak to his valet in front of the other servants. “I came home so late on the evening before you began your holiday. Tell me, did anyone call?”

  “Lady Holdsworth the artist, sir. She stayed until eleven, then went off to catch her train.”

  “Oh! I am sorry I didn’t see her. Did she leave any message?”

  “No, sir. Except that she would write to you from Paris.”

  “That will do, thank you.”

  CHAPTER 19.

  T

  HE DOCKS

  An icy rain fell as Dorian rode in a second-rate hansom that moved briskly along the banks of the swelling River Thames. He was dressed commonly with the rough clothes of a laborer and a muffler wrapped about his throat. He wore a shabby bowler hat, pulled down to cover his forehead. The street lamps blurred in the dripping mist, as downtrodden men and demoralized women left the now closing public-houses along the route. As the streets drew closer together, all sorts of ruffians could be seen. They clustered together in groups, forming wicked plans to enrich their fortunes. In one crumbling bar with the sign of a rearing stallion out front, drunkards brawled and a straggled scream shattered the quiet of the night.

  The engorged moon hung full and low in the sky like a yellow skull. Misshapen clouds stretched across the floating orb with elongated hands and bony fingers grasping. As they neared the docks, the gas lamps grew fewer and the streets gloomier. The cobblestones blackened as they passed the deserted brickfields. Bottle-shaped kilns spat their outrage with orange tongues of fire into the cooling air. Mangy dogs snarled in hunger and wandering sea-gulls screamed their displeasure at the hansom’s passage.

  The windows lining the rough-paved streets were mostly dark now. The driver turned down a dim lane with low roofs and jagged chimney-stacks. The black masts of the ships could be seen as a backdrop to the rooftops. Wreaths of white mist clung like ghosts to their yards.

  Dorian called out to the driver in an altered voice. “This will do.” The driver answered by slowly bringing the hansom to a halt. He exited and paid the man hastily with a handful of coins before turning to walk briskly towards the quay. As he walked down the empty street he was sure to glance back occasionally, careful to see if he was being followed.

  Eventually he reached a ramshackle house. It was wedged between two tall factories and served as an opium den and pub—of sorts. He gave a peculiar knock at the door and heard the heavy chain clank as it was unhooked from within. A shadowy figure admitted him and he passed by into a dimly light hallway. The end of the passage was barred by a green curtain that had certainly seen better days. Dragging the tattered cloth aside, he entered what was once a third-rate dancing-saloon. The floor was covered with trampled sawdust and mud mixed with the dark stains of spilled liquor. A sailor was sprawled over an uneven table in the corner and two haggard looking women clung to the rusted bar. The odor of opium hung heavy in the air. An aging staircase at the end of the room led to an obscure, darkened chamber. Standing by the staircase was a disheveled young man with a head of thick blonde hair. He nodded a greeting to Dorian over his thin pipe.

  Dorian’s voice was low and deep. “That you, Robert? I thought you had left England.”

  The man sighed heavily as if bearing the weight of the world upon his back. “Nowhere else to go. None of the chaps will speak to me now. I don’t really care. As long as I have this stuff, I don’t need any friends.”

  Dorian winced in response and gazed at the other twisted shapes that lay on patched, moldy mattresses in the surrounding rooms. The gaping mouths and listless eyes gave the observer no clue as to what hells or joys they were seeing. Suddenly, he felt the need to be away from this place and particularly away from any other who knew him.

  Dorian took one more look at the room before coming to a decision. “I am going on to the other place.”

  “On the wharf?”

  “Yes. The stuff is better there. Come, join me for a drink at the bar before I go.”

  Robert wearily followed Dorian over to an uneven set of uncomfortable, patchwork-leather stools. The two ordered their drinks from an ugly bartender. He was squat-shaped and bedraggled. His clothes stunk of cheap liquor and piss and he had a long cut over his left eye. The man merely grunted in response and reached behind him, where depressingly dusty bottles waited in a small group. They shared a bottle of French brandy in the stained tumblers the bartender set out on the bar.

  The two women sidled up and began demonstrating their wares. When neither of the men showed any interest, the taller one cracked a crooked smile and sneered. “Too proud tonight?”

  Dorian’s voice was dangerous and threatening. “Don’t speak to me. What do you want? Money? Here—now be silent.” He slammed coins down on the counter. The woman’s eyes flashed for a moment with some hidden retort, before she tossed her unwashed hair and raked the heavy coins from the counter with greedy fingers.

  “Good night Robert. Write to me if you need anything.”

  “Good night then.”

  As Dorian exited the room and drew the curtain aside, a hideous laugh escaped the painted lips of the woman who had taken his money. She coughed and spoke in a hoarse voice that dripped with venom. “There goes the devil’s bargain.”

  “I told you not to speak!” He glared at the woman and then quickly turned to leave.

  Her voice followed his retreat. “Prince Charming indeed. ‘Tis what you like to be called, ain’t it?”

  At those words, the drowsy sailor leapt to his feet as if stung and looked around wildly. He rushed out of the room, hot in pursuit of Dorian.

  Dorian moved quickly down the quay, his route was erratic and dictated by any cover that might shield him from the fat drops of rain that fell continuously from the weeping sky. At last he reached a narrow alley that had served him well as a short cut to the next opium den.

  As he entered, he was grabbed from behind and slammed brutally against the cold wall. His shoulder stung from the impact. A strong hand that smelled of whiskey and sweat clamped over his mouth to prevent any outcry. Dorian heard the audible click of a revolver, which silenced the yell Dorian was preparing in the back of his throat. The barrel of the handgun was pointed straight at his head. The other side of the weapon was held by a stocky, muscular man. His face was obscured by shadow and a heavy, wool-grey pea jacket.

  “Keep quiet,” said the man as he re
moved his meaty palm from Dorian’s face. “If you move, I’ll shoot you right here on the street.”

  Dorian gasped as he again inhaled clean air. “Take my wallet—whatever you want.”

  “I don’t want your money. You destroyed the life of my sister, Sibyl Vane. However she died, it was your doing. As soon as I heard the news, I swore an oath to end your life myself. For years I have been tracking you down with nothing but the name she used to call you. You were her Prince Charming. I heard it tonight by happenstance and knew at once that it must be you. At long last, James Vane can take vengeance for his sister. Make your peace with God, Sibyl will be avenged tonight.”

  Dorian felt the blood drain from him and his fear rose as an ominous storm in the night. His voice sputtered like the rain. “I-I-I d-don’t know who you are talking about. You are insane. You have me confused with someone else.”

  A powerful arm violently pushed Dorian down to the soggy ground. “On your knees and confess your crime! I’ll give you one minute to pray, then it all comes to an end.”

  Dorian panicked, but the gears in his mind began to twirl and spin until he settled on a desperate gambit. “Wait. How long has it been since your sister’s death? How many years?”

  The man thought for a moment. “Eighteen years. My God has it been that long? But it seems as if only yesterday when I last said goodbye to her. Why does it matter?”

  Dorian’s forced laugh rang with triumph. “Eighteen years. Look at my face under the lamp.”

  James paused, then dragged Dorian out and into the street. The light was dim and wavering from the frozen wind and cascading rain, but still it revealed the boyish face of a youth—far too young to belong to the man whom he had sought for all these years. Why, the man he saw before him was nearly the same age as his sister at the time of her death. He had made a terrible mistake. This could not be the same man who had destroyed his sister’s life.

  James released Dorian and drew back. “My God, I would have murdered you. Forgive me, sir.” Aghast at what he had almost done, he turned away quickly and stowed his revolver inside his coat. He moved off, repeating his apologies and asking for forgiveness. Dorian rose slowly to his feet. He trembled as he watched the shadow that had almost ended his life recede into the darkness.

  James returned to the place where he had first seen Dorian, immediately ordering and downing two shots of single malt whisky with a shaking hand. The haggard woman who had taken Dorian’s money hissed. “Why didn’t ya kill him? Ya lummox, he’s filthy wi’ money an’ as vile as they come. Ya wo’ have done eve’yone a favor by endin’ his miserable life.”

  “He wasn’t who I thought he was. The man I am looking for must be in his forties by now. That one was only a boy.”

  The woman laughed bitterly. “A bo’ ya say? Why, it’s been neigh eighteen years sin’ Prince Charming turned me ‘to what I am.”

  James growled. “Liar!”

  “May God strike me dead here an’ now if’n I’m ly’in. He’s t’a most vile person I have ever met. They say he sold his soul to the devil, in order to freeze tha’ pretty face o’ his in time. He has hardly changed in the eighteen years sin’ I’ve met him.”

  “You swear this?”

  “I swear! His real name is Dorian Gray. But ya didn’t hear tha’ here fro’ me. Just keep me away from him. Pe’haps ya could use some company t’night?”

  With a disgusted look, he pushed his way free and rushed out into the night. But Dorian Gray had long since disappeared.

  CHAPTER 20.

  C

  OUNTRY ESTATE

  A week later, Dorian was sitting in the conservatory of the country estate of the Duke of Manhound. He had grown paranoid as of late and decided that a change of scenery would be the best thing to rid him of the nagging feeling of being followed. Wherever he went he imagined seeing the haunting face of James Vane in random windows or doorways.

  Lady Helena was describing some philosophical treaty, as well as politics and the state of the Stock Exchange. Dorian had difficulty concentrating upon what she was saying. The tea was served with a selection of moist sandwiches and fruity cakes. His thoughts were drawn again to the window and the forest surrounding the estate. Despite the absurdity of it all, he was quite certain that he had seen a shape hiding behind a large oak tree in the distance. A gardener of some sort, certainly. It was only his imagination that Sibyl Vane’s brother had followed him out to the country and was now stalking around the trees, waiting for the opportunity to kill him.

  In his distracted state he had to be prompted multiple times to respond when the Duke invited Dorian to join his shooting party. They would be hunting for quail. Dorian thought it would make a good distraction and it certainly couldn’t hurt to be armed with a gun and cartridges. Shortly thereafter, the two men were afield and striding through the undergrowth engaged in conversation.

  Dorian was quite familiar with the Duke and he thought it proper to address him by his first name. “Herbert, how do you find the sport this year?”

  “Scarce at best, Dorian. The game is quite sparse this year and I am not sure why. Perhaps the quail have all gone off to the open fields or moved to new ground on the other side of the forest.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Surely you have heard of the attacks occurring in the area? It is likely some feral pack of Bulldogs or some sort, but they have frightened away most of the animals. The Duchess has halted her daily rides. She is quite convinced that her prize mare will be set upon and devoured. The servants and gardeners all avoid the woods at night.”

  Suddenly there was a terrified yell and a single shot rang out from deep within the woods. The trees were suddenly filled with snarling and all manner of disturbing sounds. The head-keeper began shouting and organized the beaters into a group.

  The men entered the woods together to search for the source of the commotion. Everyone else in the party was ordered to stay back. After an age, the men emerged dragging a bloody, savaged body between them.

  A crowd formed with Sir Beamish at the head. They could see the question on his face as he approached. “What on earth could have killed this man in such a way? If it was a Bulldog he might have hit it. Surely, that shot didn’t come from anyone in our line.”

  Dorian looked on in horror. The head-keeper called a halt to the day’s hunt and a groundskeeper ran to notify the local constable. Some poor peasant had met their end in the most gruesome of fashions. The scene filled Dorian with a sense of dread and he decided to pack his things at once. He would take the night-express back into town. He could not spend another night in this accursed place.

  Back in his room, Dorian was lying down when a knock came at the door. His valet answered and announced that it was the head-keeper who wished to see him. Dorian frowned. “Please do come in Henderson. Have you come about the terrible accident this morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dorian picked up his leathered checkbook and jeweled writing pen. “Tell me, was the poor fellow married or had he any dependents? I feel terrible and should like to pay for any necessary arrangements.”

  “That’s the worrisome bit, sir. We don’t righ’ly know who he is. T’is why I came to you.”

  “Whatever do you mean? He isn’t one of your men?”

  “No, sir. Never seen his face a’fore. Looks ta’me like some sorta’ sailor.”

  The pen dropped from Dorian’s hand. “A sailor? Did you say a sailor?”

  “Yessir. With both arms tattooed, real rough-like and that sort.”

  “Was there anything else on him that would give you his name?”

  “No sir. He was only carryin’ so’ money an’ a five-shot revolver.”

  “You must take me to the body at once!”

  “Yes sir, if’n you like. He’s in an empty stable roun’ back. I’ll take your Lordship there.”

  Dorian struggled to mask his apprehension as they walked towards the stables. Upon reaching the door he held
up a hand indicating that he would go in alone. The stables were darkened and damp, with a window in the corner providing light enough to see by. The body was wrapped in some sacking in the corner of the stall. Dorian came closer to inspect it. The coarse shirt and blue trousers of the man were ripped to shreds and covered with blood and dirt. Dorian shuddered and looked away from the exposed organs and ragged flesh. Flies buzzed around the corpse and the smell of the voided bowels was nearly unbearable. Determined, Dorian clutched his lace handkerchief to his mouth and pulled away the fabric covering the victim’s face. He staggered with relief and a great release of tension rushed from his shoulders. The body was that of James Vane. Tears brimmed in his eyes as he exited the stables, for he knew he was once again safe. The men waiting outside no doubt misinterpreted his crying as tears of sorrow.

  CHAPTER 21.

  T

  HE SOUL

  “Oh, Lady Helena there you are.”

  “My dear Mr. Gray, you really mustn’t shut yourself away like this.”

  “Tell me what is going on in town? I have not been to the club for ages.”

  “Everyone is still debating the mysterious disappearance of poor Sage. It is the talk of the town.”

  “Shouldn’t they be tired of that topic by now? They usually tire of such things so quickly.”

  “Unfortunately, the British public seems quite fascinated with the fate of famous artists and they continue to focus on it. Despite other such news such as Beatrice Ashford’s suicide and my own divorce case, they are quite fascinated with Sage’s mysterious exodus. Scotland Yard insists she boarded the train to Dover at midnight, the ferry at Calais, and the train to Paris. The French police are adamant that she never even arrived in Paris. Some people have made claims to have seen her leading an artistic revival in San Francisco.”