The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood Read online

  “Pardon me,” said I, “but that is a very colourful shirt. What is its meaning?”

  “This?” he replied looking down at his chest. “It’s The Wolves, innit.”

  “The Wolves?”

  “The Werewolves of Wottenham Wood. Best death-metal band in the world. They sometimes drink in here.” He gazed hopefully around the ale house.

  “Local chaps, are they?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s right. All from Wottenham Town or the surrounding villages.” He snorted derisively. “Only good thing to come out of this crappy place.” The barkeep approached and the young man turned away to order his drink. Inscribed upon the back of his T-shirt was an ornate circle with an equilateral triangle within it. There appeared to be a Latin inscription around the circle’s perimeter, but the bar was too poorly lit for me to make out the words.

  “Rupert.” I turned at the sound of my name. “Our table is prepared.”

  A young lady led us through to the dining area at the rear of the building and showed us to our seats.

  “Soup of the day is walnut and raspberry.”

  We briefly perused the menus and placed our orders with our young lady, along with a request for more mead, and I watched her approvingly as she scurried away to the kitchen. I must say the place smelled divine, the aroma of freshly dispatched fauna and harvested vegetation creeping through the air like a rich musk.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you for some time, Fairfax,” I said, “what exactly did you study at University?”

  “Sociology.”

  “Sociology?”

  “Yes. Sociology.”

  “And how,” I asked, “did that lead to a career in paranormal investigation?”

  “You see,” he replied, “I chose to write my thesis on the subject of paranormal misinterpretology, and one thing just seemed to lead to another.”

  As a doctor, I consider myself reasonably educated, but yet again I found myself asking the obvious. “What precisely is misinterpretology?”

  “It is as it sounds,” he said. “It is the study of the misinterpretation of information and of the sociological effects of such. There are many branches of misinterpretology. Most undergraduates tend to choose biblical or political misinterpretology, but I did not wish to retread old grapes, hence my unconventional choice. It is this single choice that has led me down my current path.”

  “But what exactly does it involve?” I persisted.

  “Paranormal misinterpretology is the study, not of supernatural phenomena themselves, but of the perceived experience and its perpetuation. Let us take as an example the infrasonic generator to which you were introduced a few weeks ago.”

  I remembered it vividly. Fairfax had played to me a sequence of low frequency sound waves, too low to register as sound, but causing a resonation within the skull leading to unease, disorientation and hallucination, not to mention its effect on our housekeeper, Mrs Denford, and her unmentionables.

  Fairfax continued his explanation. “When exposed to an infrasonic frequency of nineteen hertz, most people see a shadowy figure rise before them. You and I know this to be a hallucination due to nineteen hertz being the resonant frequency of the human eyeball, but what conclusions would we draw if we were not in possession of that knowledge? Would we believe it to be a ghost? Would we believe ourselves to have lost our reason? Of all the theories that we would construct, the correct one is probably that which we would be least likely to consider. So you see, the phenomenon becomes misinterpreted, the rumour is propagated and, before long, it becomes the stuff of folklore and legend; much like our old friend, Tripod Jack.”

  “So you think Tripod Jack may be a misinterpretation of events?”

  “All history is subjective, Rupert. Historical misinterpretology is a huge area. Kenneth Badgerton has written several books on the subject.”

  “As I understand it,” interjected Ulysses, “your dead chappie had been reduced to leftovers. I see little room for misinterpretation.”

  “The challenge,” said Fairfax, “lies in deducing which data are pertinent and which are incidental. For example, is it relevant that the attack occurred during the full moon? What may be more germane is that it occurred between one and two in the morning. Wolves, like big cats, are crepuscular predators in that they mostly hunt at dusk and dawn. Whether the same applies to rogue kangaroos, I could not say.”

  “So, Fairfax,” said Ulysses, “let us talk of werewolves. Do you suspect the involvement of such a creature?”

  “The evidence is circumstantial, but does indicate a preternatural entity.”

  “Pah!” I expectorated. “Tish and pish!”

  “Steady on, Rupert,” said Ulysses glancing nervously about. “There are ladies present.”

  I was not to be quelled. “I do not for a moment believe that Homo sapiens can become lusus naturae with the rising of the moon, nor vice versa.”

  Fairfax wagged his finger at me reproachfully. “The truth does not cease to be so simply because one chooses not to believe it.”

  “Tu loqueris per ano tuo [you are talking out of your anus],” I retorted maturely.

  To his credit, he refused to be deflected. “Let us examine the facts, Rupert. Mr Timone has been attacked, and three of his four limbs have been either bitten or torn from him. No homo sapien is capable of this. The attacker has availed himself of a walking stick or crutch and bound each of his feet with cloth to disguise his tracks. No wild beast is capable of this. The only logical conclusion is that the attacker (for there was only one, the pattern of the tracks proves this) displays a beast’s presence coupled with a human’s sensibility. There have been no sightings of this creature by day, only the sound of the wolf’s howl at night. Can you reason a sounder argument?”

  Not to be outdone, I sat furiously pondering, much to the amusement of both brothers.

  “Assuming the existence of lycanthropy,” said Ulysses, “what is the mechanism?”

  “Do you know much about genetics, Ulysses?”

  “Not really, Fairfax.”

  “The primary function of DNA is to encode proteins and thus provide a template for a living organism. Most DNA, however, is noncoding, or junk, DNA. Apparently, this stuff takes no part in the templating process at all. Opinion varies as to what it does; some say it contains all the possible variations and permutations of all the known species, so that if one had the know-how, one could take the DNA from any type of organism (be it bacteria, rhinoceros, celeriac, you name it) and use it to clone any other.”

  “One could take DNA from a potato and fashion a zebra?” clarified Ulysses.

  “Exactly. Precisely the example I would have chosen. Given the correct circumstances, any part of this DNA could become active and express itself, though only for a short time. It is just a theory, but one man, Professor Iam de Wolfmann, claims to have had some success in creating temporary dominance of usually recessive genes.”

  Ulysses appeared none the wiser. “I’m afraid that I am none the wiser,” said he accordingly.

  “My understanding is this, Rupert will correct me if I err; we all inherit two sets of genes, one from each parent, and these genes determine our configuration and performance. Some of these genetic traits exert their influence more powerfully than others. Less dominant (or recessive) traits will only manifest in the absence of a more dominant gene.

  “Let us take Rupert as an example. If he were to stand on a step ladder in order to impregnate a statuesque lady, the children would likely inherit their father’s squat demeanour, for the gene for short stature is dominant over that for tall. If de Wolfmann is correct, one could stimulate the less dominant gene in the children and cause them to grow to loftier heights.”

  “But only temporarily.”

  “Thus far, yes.”

  “Did you say that this Professor de Wolfmann lives nearby?” I asked.

  “Indeed I did. As a matter of fact, I have arranged for us to meet with him tomorrow. He seemed quite de
lighted at the opportunity to expound, since he has read my monographs on the concordance of lunar phase upon subterranean tidal fluctuations. As you know, I believe that only when the moon displays its greatest countenance will underground water flow generate the sufficient geopathic energy to awaken dormant DNA.”

  “Tu loqueris per ano tuo,” said I.

  “We should make that the family motto,” suggested Ulysses. “Is there a Harker family motto, Rupert?”

  “Omne foramen est meta; every hole’s a goal.”

  ◆◆◆

  3. Dividing Vic Timone

  Thursday, 4th January 2007

  At nine a.m. the next morning, I presented myself at the mortuary of the Linctus Memorial Hospital in Cambridge, where I was greeted by a slender chap dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and striped tie, and freshly polished black shoes. He had a thin, severe face with a hooked nose, and his beady eyes were framed by round, metal-rimmed glasses. He pumped my hand gleefully.

  “Dr Harker, grand to meet you. I am Dr Steinway. Please call me Gibson.”

  “Thank you, Gibson. Call me Rupert.”

  “This one’s a doozy, isn’t it?” He was almost delirious with enthusiasm. “Mauled by a huge critter. How exciting!”

  “Do you see many of these, Gibson?”

  “First one, actually. Obviously, we see some gorgeous injuries; decapitations, burns, car accidents and the like. Last month, we had some fellow who fell under a threshing machine. Marvellous! But never a mauling like this.”

  Shortly after his arrival at the mortuary the preceding afternoon, Vic Timone had been passed through an MRI scanner, and Dr Steinway and I examined the images. Despite the facial and chest wounds, there was only a modest amount of blood collected within the skull and thorax, lending credence to my observation that these wounds were inflicted after the limb amputations, possibly even post-mortem.

  Dr Steinway was champing at the bit to lay his paws on poor Mr Timone, so we donned our aprons and gloves and set about it. The deceased was laid out on the autopsy table, naked, legless and down to his last arm and a half. From the pattern of the bite marks, it looked as if each limb had been removed with only one or two bites; beyond that, there was little else we could conclude.

  “They look like shark bites,” I observed. “He must have been paddling in the brook.”

  “Surely your friend, the eminent author, detective, paranormal investigator and researcher, Fairfax Urban-Smith, must have a theory of what could have caused this?”

  “According to him,” I replied, “All the evidence would indicate a thirty-stone, carnivorous werekangaroo with arthritis, sporting a walking stick and giant socks.”

  “Werekangaroo, eh? We shall be needing a silver boomerang.” He paused to wipe his brow with the back of his forearm. “There is a particularly good forensic odontologist working for the Met. I’ve left him a message.”

  “Dr Chewman?”

  “That’s the fellow. Frightfully clever, but exceptionally ugly.” He looked at me, stricken. “Please don’t quote me on that.”

  “Mum’s the word, Gibson.”

  Next we examined Mr Timone’s chest wound, and those to his face and scalp. The injuries were horrendous, and Dr Steinway cooed over them with gusto. A good portion of the face had been stripped away, including one eye, and I was surprised that Edna Clearing had recognised him at all.

  “Have you swabbed the wounds?”

  “I have, Rupert, though with all the woodland scavengers having a munch, I suspect that there are more strains of DNA in him than there were in my ex-wife.”

  Next task was to scrupulously measure, photograph and document each wound, abrasion and bruise. This part of the examination I always find rather dull, preferring to be elbow deep in the stew as soon as possible, but Dr Steinway seemed to approach every stage of the proceedings with an unbridled enthusiasm that one rarely sees in such an experienced colleague. I found myself compelled to probe this aspect of his personality further.

  “I don’t believe that I have ever met a man who so relishes his toil. What is your formula?”

  “Ah, Rupert,” he replied with a sly grin, “the secret is to rise early, eat healthily, and indulge in regular and spirited intercourse.”

  I know not what my features revealed at this observation, but the smile dropped from his face like dung from a giraffe. “My Lord,” he spluttered, “I do believe that I have struck a raw nerve. Do you wish to seek my counsel?”

  I will admit to a little initial cynicism. “Have you much experience of such matters?”

  “Oh indeed. In my day, I was most prolific. At medical school, I was known as the Saint. Short for St Allion. You know; Patron Saint of shagging.”

  I pondered for a few moments; my current romantic situation was a source of great inner turmoil for me, and strong though my friendship with Urban-Smith had become, this was not a matter in which he appeared able to display any degree of empathy. It seemed prudent to avail myself of this opportunity to present the matter to an unbiased third party.

  “It is a strange situation in which I find myself,” said I, claiming a scalpel from the instrument trolley and carving a great furrow from Vic Timone’s right clavicle to his sternum. The skin and flesh parted like the Red Sea before the blade, and I repeated the action in symmetry, then extended the incision down his midline to his pubic bone in the traditional Y-shaped pattern.

  “Just a few weeks ago, I became acquainted with a most charming young lady, Nell, and we seemed to hit it off like the proverbial house on fire. We share similar tastes, both in and out of the bedroom, and all was going well until she lost her job and sought employment as an exotic dancer at a gentleman’s club, The Blue Belvoir.”

  I paused to peel back the skin and subcutaneous tissue of Mr Timone’s chest and expose his ribcage. Three of his ribs showed signs of injury, but not of fracture. Dr Steinway handed me the electric bone saw, and once he had taken a few photographs of the dissected praecordium, I proceeded to divide the ribs on each side and remove the breast plate to facilitate examination of the chest cavity. We took fluid from the heart and then removed the chest contents, and weighed and dissected them.

  “You were speaking of the Blue Belvoir,” prompted Steinway.

  “Yes. The Blue Belvoir. It boasts some of the finest exotic dancers in Westminster, but additionally it offers its employees the opportunity to advertise services of a more ….how should I put it…..exclusive and lucrative nature. Nell’s ambition is to attend mortician’s school, and the club’s hours suit her well, but I see so little of her, I am becoming a little suspicious.”

  Dr Steinway selected a sharp knife and began to divide Mr Timone’s heart into sections, looking for signs of disease. “Your concern is that Nell may be supplementing her income?”

  “Precisely."

  “These additional services that you mention, Rupert; do you know for sure, or is it merely hearsay?”

  “I have a frequent-flyer card in my wallet entitling me to a fifteen percent discount for all services rendered.”

  “Oh dear.” Dr Steinway shook his head sternly. “It would seem that in this matter, you do not occupy the moral high ground.”

  Dr Steinway set aside the heart and passed me the right lung and a knife. He retained the left, and together we whittled away, inspecting airways and blood vessels. The right lung seemed in rude health, and Dr Steinway expressed the same opinion of its companion.

  “The other aspect that troubles me,” I said, “is that Nell has formed a very close, dare I say intimate, attachment to her co-worker, a spirited young lady who calls herself Clara.” We returned to Mr Timone and began to rummage through his abdomen as if it were a lucky dip (though neither of us had the stomach to bob for apples). “I have noticed that Nell and Clara often smell of one another’s perfume. The situation is becoming so uncomfortable, that I have considered seeking nomination for membership at a different club.”

  We scooped Mr Timone empty, pl
aced the rest of his contents on the workbench, and began to examine each organ in turn. They all seemed remarkably normal.

  “Have you spoken to her about it, Rupert? Does she know how you feel?”

  “It is hard to know just how to broach the subject. I do not wish to sully the relationship, for although our time together is at a premium, it is most invigorating and life affirming. Should I admit my jealousy? Should I ask her to choose me over her ambition?” I selected a scalpel and neatly slit the capsule of Mr Timone’s left kidney, then cut deeply into the parenchyma to look for atrophy or tumours.

  “I would suggest,” said Steinway, investigating Mr Timone’s Ampulla of Vater with a steel probe, “that you try to draw the information out of her in a non-confrontational, conversational manner. For example, try asking her how her new job is going. Ask after the wellbeing of her friend, Clara. Ask her if there are any aspects which she is finding difficult or challenging. She may prove more forthcoming than you anticipate.”

  For the next half hour, we continued to weigh and dissect, taking notes and collecting samples before finally collecting together all of Mr Timone’s various segments and ingredients and replacing them whence they came.

  “I shall take your advice, Gibson,” said I, running a scalpel across Mr Timone’s forehead and peeling his scalp back over his skull. “I shall contact Nell forthwith and arrange a quiet evening, so as to encourage her to wax lyrical.”

  “I think it for the best,” said Steinway, “but unless you are flexible enough to service your own needs, I would proceed with caution.”

  A look of peace and tranquillity descended upon Steinway’s face as he flicked on the bone saw and busied himself upon Vic Timone’s exposed skull.

  I do love to see a man so contented in his work.