“Still, womanish fears or not, the fair sex must be humoured,” the man went on. “I am certainly willing to give you free run of the place, Mr. Holmes, and offer you all the assistance you might need, including lodgings, if you so wish.”
The invitation, generous as it was, was offered with a certain ill-grace.
“That won’t be necessary,” Holmes said. “We passed an inn back in Hexham — The Plough, I believe — which we will make our base of operations.”
As he was speaking, Sir Percival spilt brandy on his shirtfront. He set the glass aside with a mild execration.
“I understand, sir, that you are in the hat-making trade,” Holmes said.
“In years past, yes. Others look after the business for me now.”
“I’ve always been fascinated by the process of making felt. Purely a scientific curiosity, you understand: chemistry is a hobby of mine.”
“I see.” Our host dabbed absently at his damp shirtfront.
“The basic problem, as I understand it, is in softening the stiff animal hairs to render them sufficiently pliable for shaping felt.”
I glanced again at Holmes, wondering where in the devil this particular tack could be leading.
“I recall reading,” Holmes continued, “that the Turks of old solved this problem by the application of camel urine.”
“We have come a long way from those primitive methods,” Sir Percival replied.
Miss Selkirk entered the salon. She looked in our direction, smiled a trifle wanly, and took a seat. She was evidently much worried about her fiancé, and seemed to be at pains to maintain her self-command.
“No doubt your own process is much more modern,” Holmes said. “I should be curious to hear its application.”
“I wish I could satisfy you on that score, Mr. Holmes, but it remains a trade secret.”
“I see.” Holmes shrugged. “Well, it is of no great consequence.”
At this point there was a commotion in the hall. A moment later, a young man in full hunting dress appeared in the doorway. This was clearly Sir Percival’s son, and — with his determined features, his military bearing, and the heavy rifle slung over one shoulder — he cut a fine figure indeed. Immediately, Miss Selkirk rose and, with a cry of relief, flew to him.
“Oh, Edwin,” she said. “Edwin, I beg of you — let this time be the last.”
“Vicky,” the young man said, gently but firmly, “the beast must be found and destroyed. We cannot allow another outrage to occur.”
Sir Percival rose as well and introduced Holmes and myself. My friend, however, interrupted these civilities with some impatience in order to question the new arrival.
“I take it,” he said, “that this afternoon’s foray was unsuccessful.”
“It was,” Edwin Aspern replied with a rueful smile.
“And where, may I ask, did you undertake your stalk?”
“In the western woods, beyond the bog.”
“But was nothing discovered? Tracks? Scat? Perhaps a den?”
Young Aspern shook his head. “I saw no sign.”
“This is a very devious, clever wolf,” Sir Percival said. “Even dogs are hopeless to track it.”
“A deep business,” Holmes murmured. “A deep business indeed.”
Holmes declined an invitation to supper, and after a brief survey of the grounds we rode the wagonette back into Hexham, where we took rooms at The Plough. After breakfast the following morning, we made application to the local police force, which, it turned out, comprised a single individual, one Constable Frazier. We found the constable at his desk, employed in jotting industriously into a small notebook. From my earlier adventures with Holmes, I had not formed a particularly high opinion of local constabulary. And at first sight, Constable Frazier — with his dark olive dustcoat and leather leggings — seemed to bear out my suspicions. He had heard of Holmes, however, and as he began to respond to the enquiries of my friend, I realized that we had before us — if not necessarily a personage of superior intellect — at the least a dedicated and competent officer with, it seemed, a laudable doggedness of approach.
The wolf’s first victim, he explained, had been an odd, vaguely sinister individual, a shabbily-dressed and wild-haired man of advanced years. He had shown up abruptly in Hexham some weeks before his death, skulking about and frightening women and children with inarticulate ravings. He did not stay at the inn, seemingly being without ready funds, and after a day or two the constable was called in by concerned citizens to learn the nameless man’s business. After a search, the constable discovered the man staying in an abandoned wood-cutter’s hut within the borders of Kielder Forest. The man refused to answer the constable’s enquiries or to explain himself in any way.
“Inarticulate ravings?” Holmes repeated. “If you could be more precise?”
“He spoke to himself a great deal, gesturing frantically, quite a lot of nonsense, really. Something about all the wrongs that had been done him. Amongst other rot.”
“Rot, you say. Such as?”
“Mere fragments. How he had been betrayed. Persecuted. How cold he was. How he would go to law and get a judgement.”
“Anything else?” Holmes pressed.
“No,” replied the constable. “Oh yes — one other very odd thing. He often mentioned carrots.”
“Carrots?”
Constable Frazier nodded.
“Was he hungry? Did he mention any other foods?”
“No. Just carrots.”
“And you say he mentioned carrots not once, but many times?”
“The word seemed to come up again and again. But as I said, Mr. Holmes, it was all a jumble. None of it meant anything.”
This line of questioning struck me as a useless diversion. To dwell on the ravings of a madman seemed folly, and I could see no connection to his tragic end at the jaws of a wolf. I sensed that Constable Frazier felt as I did, for he took to looking at Holmes with a certain speculative expression.
“Tell me more about the man’s appearance,” Holmes said. “Everything that you can remember. Pray spare no details.”
“He was singularly unkempt, his clothes mere rags, his hair uncombed. His eyes were bloodshot, and his teeth black.”
“Black, you say?” Holmes interrupted with sudden eagerness. “You mean, black as in unsound? Decayed?”
“No. It was more a dark, uniform grey that in dim light almost looked black. And he seemed to be in a state of continual intoxication, though where he got the money for liquor I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“How do you know he was intoxicated?”
“The usual symptoms of dipsomania: slurred speech, shaking hands, unsteady gait.”
“Did you come across any liquor bottles in the wood-cutter’s hut?”
“No.”
“When you spoke with him, did you smell spirits on his breath?”
“No. But I’ve had to deal with enough drunkards in my time to know the signs, Mr. Holmes. The matter is absolutely beyond question.”
“Very well. Pray continue.”
The constable took up again the thread of his narrative with evident relief. “Well, opinion in town was strong against him, so strong that I was about to run him off, when that wolf did the job for me. The morning after I questioned him, he was found on the edge of the forest, his body dreadfully torn and mangled, with tooth marks on the arms and legs.”
“I see,” said Holmes. “And the second victim?”
At this point, I confess I nearly objected to the line of enquiry. Holmes had questioned the constable closely on trivial matters, but was leaving the main points unbroached. Who, for example, had found the body? But I held my tongue, and Constable Frazier continued.
“That took place two weeks later,” the constable said. “The victim was a visiting naturalist up from Oxford to study the red fox.”
“Found in the same location as the first?”
“Not far away. Somewhat nearer the bog.”
“And how do you know both killings were done by the same animal?”
“It was the look of the wounds, sir. If anything, the second attack was even more vicious. This time, the man was…partially eaten.”