“Yes,” Lawrence said. “Tell me, have you caught the beast?”
This bold counter was intended to throw Aberline off his game, and Lawrence saw the inspector flicker for only the tiniest second.
“I’m afraid not,” said Aberline.
“What have you accomplished?”
Aberline looked around the room. “Mr. Talbot, I would very much appreciate if we could speak candidly and confidentially.” He gestured to the door to the hall. “In your portrait gallery perhaps? Just outside. Would you mind?”
“I damn well would,” snapped Sir John.
Lawrence waved him off. “Father, if this will help then it’s all right. I won’t let him bully me.” He said this with a smile but the look he gave Aberline was challenging. The inspector bowed.
LAWRENCE LEANED ON his walking stick even though he felt he no longer needed it. With every second the weakness was fading, but even so his instinct told him to play this role until the end of the act. Aberline offered his arm, but Lawrence declined with a gracious smile. As they entered the spacious portrait gallery the inspector closed the sitting room door and spent a moment or two staring up at the long rows of handsome Talbot men and women.
“I’m grateful that Scotland Yard has taken the case,” said Lawrence.
Aberline smiled thinly. “A series of vicious murders tends to pique our interest,” the inspector said dryly. “Mr. Talbot, I’m told you suffered a savage attack. I must say you seem quite well.”
Lawrence saw the trap and had no intention of putting a foot in it. “I have been very fortunate.”
“Indeed. Did you get a good look at your assailant?”
A thousand answers fanned out before Lawrence’s mind like playing cards. Which to pick? He could deny the truth and construct a believable lie. He knew he could pull that off so easily because the truth was so unbelievable. A werewolf? Lawrence had barely allowed himself to think of that word let alone let the creature fill his mind. He could also play amnesia convincingly. He had relied on that over the last two days rather than tell his father and Gwen that a supernatural monster had killed Ben. His father had committed him to an asylum once—a story like that would have Sir John calling for the men with the straight waistcoats and the black carriage. No thanks.
Trauma was the easiest role to play, and since waking from his coma he had to give that version of the truth at least a nod because the story was so fantastic. Monsters belong in fairy stories and penny dreadfuls. Lawrence was only slightly more than half convinced that his memories were, in fact, memories and not the lingering ghosts of fevered dreams. The Gypsies’ dancing bear could well have slashed him up and everything beyond that attack could be a sideshow of phantasms.
All of this flashed through Lawrence’s mind in an instant.
“It was some sort of beast,” he said flatly. “I . . . don’t know what kind. It was dark.”
Aberline frowned. “You’re certain it was an animal?”
“Oh yes,” said Lawrence. “A large one.”
“Hmm. A great mystery it is, given that there are no natural predators on the moors capable of inflicting such horrific injuries.” The inspector clasped his hands behind his back and pursed his mouth judiciously.
“There are no bears on the moors, either,” said Lawrence, “and yet one travels with the Gypsies. It doesn’t take a great deal of wit to imagine how almost any kind of animal could be here, Inspector.”
“There have been no other reports—”
“There were other witnesses,” Lawrence cut in. “No doubt they had as good a look as me. Better, perhaps. Did you ask the Gypsies?”
“They are a suspicious lot. They talk only of devils and demons,” Aberline said. “What I wonder is, is it possible that in fact you were attacked by a man? The savagery of the attack would suggest the action of an animal . . . compounded by the darkness . . .”
“No.” Lawrence’s answer was flat and hard. “What attacked us that night was in no way a man.”
“Not just any man. A lunatic perhaps? Someone with a history of mental disturbance, who had spent time in an asylum? And who may have suffered injuries at the hands of his own victims? . . .”
That hung in the air between them, and with sinking horror Lawrence realized that Aberline had to know of his own incarceration in an asylum.
“What are you suggesting, Inspector?”
“I find it strange that all the murders, including your estranged brother’s, occurred near your ancestral home. And while you were in England with your acting company.”
Lawrence could feel the inference jab him in the stomach but he would be damned if he let it show on his face. Damn the arrogance of this fool.
“Inspector Aberline,” he said with care, “you are clearly aware of my personal history, as I believe I am aware of yours.”
“Oh?”
“Weren’t you in charge of the Ripper case a couple of years back?”
Aberline’s face became wooden. “Yes. A sorry business that.”
“I should say. So . . . is this a demotion, or have you come all the way out here because you have something to prove?”
The inspector’s face underwent a process of change. His air of affability dropped from his face like a discarded veil and the face Lawrence now saw was harder, humorless and devoid of compassion. “Very well. You are a direct man, so I will be equally direct with you. I’m not your enemy, Mr. Talbot. But I’ve seen your Hamlet, Macbeth, Richard the Third . . . all in that same face. When you step on stage you become a different person. Every movement, every personal tic, every aspect of your personality undergo a disturbingly genuine transformation. A prudent man would ask who else might be living inside that head of yours. I’m sure you understand.”
“What I understand now,” Lawrence said bitterly, “is why you never caught the Ripper. I would have hoped for more from Scotland Yard. In America the Yard is legendary, but I suppose that’s the nature of reviews. You can never trust them for accuracy.”
He stood up and Aberline rose more slowly, his eyes as cold as a cobra’s.
“But hear me on this, Aberline,” said Lawrence. “My brother was killed by that thing. I was in London. I can act the part of other men, but I can’t separate myself into separate bodies that can be in two places at one time.”
“Yes. That does seem to be the case.” Aberline did not appear to be defeated by Lawrence’s reply. “So you won’t mind if I establish your whereabouts during all of your performances in London . . . and since.”
“You would be doing your own case a disservice,” Lawrence said. “But considering how the Ripper case was mishandled I can infer that this is the way you like to proceed. While you’re at it you might want to establish my whereabouts on September twenty-eight of this year. Perhaps Herman Melville’s death was no accident. Could have been me. Oh, and I was in Toronto in early June when the Canadian Prime Minister died. Better check to make sure he hadn’t been savaged by an actor.”
“This is hardly the time for jokes, Mr. Talbot.”
“No, it isn’t . . . nor is it the time for absurd accusations. If you want people to believe that you are an inspector worthy of that title, then I would suggest that you devote your time looking for whatever thing committed these atrocities rather than squandering your resources by harassing the victims.” Lawrence’s voice had steadily risen to a shout and the gallery door opened sharply as Sir John stepped in looking fierce.
“That’s enough of this nonsense,” snarled the old man. “My son has answered your questions and he’s been too accommodating by half.”
“Sir John, I—”
“Get out,” said Sir John in a voice that brooked no discussion and no refusal.
Aberline bowed stiffly and left, with Singh dogging him all the way to the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Lawrence spent the rest of the afternoon in the portrait gallery. Singh brought him food, but he had no appetite. He pulled on a brocade
dressing gown and slippers, secured his cane from the urn, and walked out into the garden, then took the path that led to the lake. The sun was high and bright and it sparkled like jewels on the gently rippling water. The refracted light was intense, hard to look at, but Lawrence stared at it for as long as he could bear, imagining on some deep level that there were answers there if he could only discern them.
“Lawrence!”
He turned to see Gwen Conliffe hurrying toward him down the path.
“I looked for you and couldn’t find you,” she said.
“Has something happened?”
“No,” she said, and almost blushed. “I . . . just wanted to talk with you.” She stopped near him, the sunlight turning the blue of her eyes to a crystal paleness. “What did Inspector Aberline have to say? You both seemed so angry.”
Lawrence was a long time deciding how to answer her question. He turned and began walking along the edge of the lake and she took his arm and strolled with him. “He’s of no help,” he said.
She nodded, then said, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? For what?”
Gwen shook his head. “I . . . can’t help feeling responsible for what’s happened to you. If I hadn’t sent that letter . . .”
“No,” he said firmly. “It was right that I came back.”
They stopped by a stand of bulrushes. Lawrence leaned his cane against a shrub, bent to pick up a stone, hefted it for a moment, and then skipped it across the lake. It caught the tips of half a dozen wavelets before sinking. He smiled and bent for a handful of stones, making thoughtful selections.
“So,” Gwen said, “tell me about New York. I’ve often imagined what it’s like.”
He handed her a stone and watched her throw. It sank as soon as it hit the water.
“You must come and visit me there someday and see for yourself.”
He gave her another rock.
“Anything is possible,” she said and threw the stone. This time it hit, skipped, hit and skittered deep into the lake.
Lawrence began to laugh, then froze, his head cocked to listen. He turned and scanned the fields, the paths, the forest.
“Did you hear that?” he said.
“Hear what?”
He held up a finger and strained to hear, and there it was. Horses on the road. Still miles away, but coming toward the Hall. It was a wonder he’d heard them at all.
“Go tell my father we have company,” he said as he bent to retrieve his sword cane.
“What’s happening?”
“Go now,” Lawrence urged.
She hesitated for just a moment, then hurried off.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lawrence walked along the path that circled the house and entered the front yard just as a line of men on horses cantered up to the front steps. The riders saw him and their faces hardened and they angled their horses toward him. Fear bit into Lawrence as he saw the angry determination written on the features of each man. He recognized some of them. Pastor Fisk was at the front, leading the others in a grim congregation; Squire Strickland was on his left flank and Colonel Montford on his right. Dr. Lloyd, looking nervous and ashamed, hung to the back of the group. The rest of the men were strangers, but Lawrence knew that he had no friends here. He stopped and his fingers traced the silver collar of the walking stick. If this got nasty he could at least draw the rapier within. The sight of the blade might bring these fools to their senses.
Or it might encourage them to shoot him down.
“Hello, Doctor,” Lawrence said, forcing faux good humor into his voice. “I thought my checkup wasn’t till Friday.”
Squire Strickland gave Lawrence a haughty look. “Come with us, Talbot.”
Lawrence smiled. “Where are we going?”
Strickland began to speak but Pastor Fisk blurted, “It’s nearly the full moon!”
“Yes,” Lawrence drawled. “And what of it?”
The vicar pointed an accusing finger at him. “You were bitten by the beast. Don’t deny it! You bear his mark now.”
Lawrence burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. Of all the stupid rural foolishness he had ever heard, this was the most absurd. Even if he could believe his own memories that it had been a monster that had attacked him, it was the height of nonsense to think that he was a damned creature. He’d fought the creature, chased it, nearly been killed by it. But these men must have believed the vicar’s nonsense. At least a few had the good sense to look embarrassed to be here. Dr. Lloyd looked thoroughly ashamed and he could not meet Lawrence’s eye.
But Colonel Montford pitched his voice above the laughter.
“Come, Talbot . . . show us your wound.”
“What for?”
“Because,” fired back Pastor Fisk, his face alight with righteous anger, “we are told that it heals in an unnatural way.”
Lawrence looked at Dr. Lloyd, who lowered his head to study the grain of his saddle horn.
Montford nudged his horse with his knee, urging it forward to crowd and intimidate Lawrence. The horse was a heavy-shouldered brute that stood at least three hands taller than the others, but when it was four feet from Lawrence the horse suddenly whinnied and shied back, shaking its big head side to side despite Montford’s strong hand on the taut reins.
The moment seemed to freeze around Lawrence. The horse had been spooked, but by what? He half smiled. It almost seemed as if the horse had been frightened by Lawrence . . . but that was absurd.
None of the riders were smiling, and even Dr. Lloyd was attentive now. Every eye was on Lawrence. Montford nodded darkly and snapped his fingers. Three bull-shouldered men slid from their saddles and closed on Lawrence. The moment was so bizarre that by the time Lawrence realized what they were actually preparing to do he had lost his advantage. The cane was torn from his grasp before he could twist the handle to release the sword, and rough hands grabbed his arms.
“Let go of me, you bastards!” He struggled as hard as he could, but these men were brutes, their hands like iron.
“Open his shirt,” ordered Montford.
Panic flared in Lawrence as the men began pawing at the folds of his robe and the sleeping shirt beneath. He yelled and kicked at them, trying to break free.
“You see?” demanded Pastor Fisk. “He tries to conceal it!”
Lawrence kneed one man in the crotch, but one of the others cuffed him above the ear and another punched him in the mouth. Lawrence’s lip burst against his teeth and hot blood poured over his chin as iron fingers tore at his clothing.
“He will turn with the moon,” shrieked Fisk, completely caught up in the passion of his belief. “Will you let him murder your wives and children?”
“Hold him, dammit,” Montford growled as he slid smoothly from the saddle. He snatched the rope from one of the mounted riders and handed it to the men holding Lawrence. They immediately began looping it around him.
There was a deafening blast and the head of a garden statue exploded, showering Montford with jagged marble shards. The colonel reeled back, clutching the side of his face as bright blood ran freely from between his fingers. His eyes bled tears of blood from the stinging stone dust.
Everyone turned to see Sir John Talbot walking across the lawn. He looked composed, even calm as he broke open his big elephant gun and thumbed in a fresh cartridge. The rifle closed with a solid thunk and Sir John aimed the heavy weapon from the hip.
Montford stared at him in rage and disbelief, his face a mask of blood. “Talbot—damn you . . . my eyes!”
The other men began reaching for their weapons, but Sir John brought his rifle up to his shoulder.
“Sorry, Colonel,” Sir John said with a small genial smile. “It was your brainpan I was aiming for. He pointed his rifle past Montford at Strickland, who was white-faced with shock. “Seems I’m not the marksman I used to be.”
Lawrence was the first to recover from the shock and he tried to pull away from the men, but they held fast. Dr. Lloyd scrambl
ed down from his horse and hurried toward Montford, who was bleeding badly.
“Leave him,” snapped Sir John in a voice that brooked no argument. Dr. Lloyd stopped in his tracks. “Untie my son.”
“He’s cursed,” said Pastor Fisk with such fervor that spit flecked his chin. “God has forsaken him.”
Sir John sneered. “Well he can join the club then, can’t he?”
“You know what he means,” growled Strickland. “John . . . I know this is hard for you, but let us deal with him.”
“Perhaps I am being unclear,” said Sir John softly. “Untie my son or I’ll kill you.”
“You can’t be serious,” Strickland said. “You have two bullets. We have—”
“My Sikh manservant is on the roof above us, and you well know that he’s a crack shot with a Martini-Henry. He’ll kill the next five of you before he has to reload.”
The lynch mob looked up at the sprawling mansion. They saw nothing but even the densest of them could tell that there were a dozen places a sniper could hide. They looked to Strickland, who in turned looked to Fisk. The vicar licked his lips as he weighed the moment in his mind. He gave the men a single curt nod.
It was Dr. Lloyd who finally stepped forward, removed the ropes, and gave Lawrence a weak conciliatory smile. Lawrence wanted to knock his teeth down his throat, but he was afraid that if he started hitting the fool he wouldn’t be able to stop. Rage had become a feral thing in his chest and his knotted fists trembled with the desire to kill every single man among them. He kept his mouth clamped shut for fear that anything he would say would be a roar of uncontrollable fury.
Sir John walked over to Montford and studied the colonel’s gory face. He smiled.
“Now get off my land,” he said quietly. “And the next time any of you trespass this way I won’t be so civil.”
With that Sir John lowered his rifle and took Lawrence by the arm to help him. Gwen Conliffe came running from the house and took Lawrence’s other arm. None of them looked back at the mob, but before they had even closed the garden doors there was the sound of hooves on the road.
The Wolfman Page 13
