“How did the town react to this second killing?”
“There was a lot of talk. Talk — and fear. Sir Percival took an interest in the case. And his son, who was recently returned from the Indian campaign, began roaming the woods at night, armed with a rifle, intent on shooting the beast. I opened an investigation of my own.”
“After the second killing, you mean.”
“Beg pardon, Mr. Holmes, but there didn’t seem to be any purpose to one before. You understand: good riddance to that ancient ruffian. But this time, the victim was a respectable citizen — and we clearly had a man-eater on our hands. If the wolf had killed twice, he would kill again…if he could.”
“Did you interview the eyewitnesses?”
“Yes.”
“And did their stories agree?”
The constable nodded. “After the second killing, they saw the beast skulking back into the forest, a fearsome creature.”
“Seen from how far away?”
“At a distance, at night, but with a moon. Close enough to note the fur on its head having gone snow white.”
Holmes thought for a moment. “What did the doctor who presided over the inquests have to say?”
“As I said, amongst other things he noted the fact that, whilst both victims were severely mauled, the second had been partially eaten.”
“Yet the first merely had a few tentative bite marks.” Holmes turned to me. “Do you know, Watson, that that is the usual pattern by which beasts become man-eaters? So it was with the Tsavo lions, as we spoke of previously.”
I nodded. “Perhaps this wolf’s hunting range is deep within the forest, and it has been driven closer to civilization because of the long, cold winter.”
Holmes turned back to the constable. “And have you made any further observations?”
“Lack of observations is more like it, I’m afraid, Mr. Holmes.”
“Pray explain.”
“Well, it’s strange.” Constable Frazier’s face assumed a look of perplexity. “My family farm is at the edge of the forest, and I’ve had opportunity to go out looking for traces of the animal half a dozen times, at least. You’d think a beast that large would be easy to track. But I only found a few tracks, just after the second killing. I’m no tracker, but I could swear there was something unusual in that beast’s movements.”
“Unusual?” Holmes asked. “In what way?”
“In the paucity of sign. It’s as if the beast were a ghost, coming and going invisibly. That’s why I’ve been out of an evening, searching for fresh track.”
At this, Holmes leaned forwards in his chair. “Permit me to advise you right now, Constable, I want you to put a stop to that immediately. There are to be no more nocturnal ramblings in the forest.”
The constable frowned. “But I have certain obligations, Mr. Holmes. Besides, the person in true danger is young Master Aspern. He is out half the night, every night, looking for the creature.”
“Listen to me,” Holmes said severely. “That is utter nonsense. Aspern is in no danger. But you, Constable, I warn you — look to yourself.”
This brusque dismissal, and the notion that Miss Selkirk’s fears for her fiancé were unfounded, amazed me. But Holmes said nothing more, and had no further questions — save to again warn the constable to stay out of the woods — and, for the time being at any rate, our interview had ended.
It being Sunday, we were forced to confine our investigations to interviews with various inhabitants of Hexham. Holmes first tracked down the two eyewitnesses, but they had little to add to what Mr. Frazier had already told us: they had both seen a large wolf, remarkably large in fact, loping off in the direction of the bog, the fur on the top of its head a brilliant white in the moonlight. Neither had investigated further, but instead had the good sense to return to their homes with all speed.
We then repaired to The Plough, where Holmes contented himself with asking the customers their opinion of the wolf and the killings. Everyone we spoke to was on edge about the situation. Some, as they lifted their pints, made brave statements about taking on the hunt themselves one day or another. The majority were content to let young Master Aspern track down the beast on his own and expressed much admiration for his courage.
There were only two dissenting opinions. One was a local grocer, who was of the firm belief that the killings were the result of a pack of feral dogs that lived deep within Kielder Forest. The other was the publican himself, who told us that the second victim — the unfortunate Oxford naturalist — had stated point-blank that the beast which committed these outrages was no wolf.
“No wolf?” Holmes said sharply. “And to what erudition, pray tell, do we owe this unequivocal statement?”
“Can’t rightly say, sir. The man simply stated that, in his opinion, wolves were extinct in England.”
“That’s hardly what I would call an empirical argument,” I said.
Holmes looked at the publican with a keen expression. “And what particular beast, then, did the good naturalist substitute for the wolf of Kielder Forest?”
“I couldn’t tell you that, sir. He didn’t offer anything else.” And the man went back to polishing his glassware.
Save for the interview with the constable, it proved on the whole to be a day of rather fruitless enquiry. Holmes was uncommunicative over dinner, and he retired early, with a dissatisfied expression on his face.
Early the following morning, however, barely past dawn, I was awakened by a cacophony of voices from beneath my window. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was just past six. I dressed quickly and went downstairs. A cluster of people had gathered in the High Street, and were all talking and gesturing animatedly. Holmes was already there, and when he saw me emerge from the inn he quickly approached.
“We must hurry,” he said. “There has been another wolf sighting.”
“Where?”
“In just the same spot, between the bog and the edge of the forest. Come, Watson — it is imperative we be the first on the scene. Do you have your Webley’s No. 2 on your person?”
I patted my right waistcoat pocket.
“Then let us be off with all speed. That pistol may not bring down a wolf, but at least it will drive him away.”
Securing the same wagonette and ill-tempered driver we had employed before, we quickly left Hexham at a canter, Holmes urging the man on in strident tones. As we headed out into the desolate moorlands, my friend explained that he had already spoken to the eyewitness who had caused this fresh disturbance: an elderly woman, an apothecary’s wife, who was out walking the road in search of herbs and medicinal flowers. She could add nothing of substance to the other two eyewitnesses, save to corroborate their observations about the beast’s great size and the shock of white fur atop of its head.
“Do you fear—?” I began.
“I fear the worst.”
Reaching the spot, Holmes ordered the driver to wait and — without wasting a second — jumped from the wagonette and began making his way through the sedge- and bramble-covered landscape. The bog lay to our left; the dark line of Kielder Forest to our right. The vegetation was damp with a chill morning dew, and there were still patches of snow on the ground. Before we had gone a hundred yards, my shoes and trousers were soaked through. Holmes was far ahead of me already, bounding on like one possessed. Even as I watched, he stopped at the top of a small hillock with a cry of dismay, and abruptly knelt. As I made my way to him, my pistol at the ready, I was able to discern what he had discovered. A body lay amidst the swamp grass, not two hundred yards from the edge of the forest. A military rifle, apparently a Martini-Henry Mk IV, lay beside it. All too well I recognized the dustcoat and leather leggings, now torn and shredded in a most violent fashion. It was Constable Frazier — or, more precisely, what was left of him, poor fellow.
“Watson,” Holmes said in an imperious tone, “touch nothing. However, I would appreciate, via visual observation only, your medical opinion of this man’s condition.”
“He’s obviously been savaged,” I said, examining the lifeless body. “By some large and vicious creature.”