White Fire

47

Of the many cases of Sherlock Holmes for which I’ve had the privilege to act as his Boswell, there is one I have always hesitated to put to paper. It is not because the adventure itself presented any singularly grim or outré elements — no more so than Holmes’s other investigations. Rather, I believe it due to the ominous, indeed baneful air that clung to every aspect of the case; an air that chilled and almost blighted my soul; and that even today has the power to vex my sleep. There are some experiences in life one might wish never to have had; for me, this was one. However, I will now commit the story to print, and leave it to others to judge whether or not my reluctance has merit.

It took place in March of ’90, at the beginning of a drear and comfortless spring following hard on the heels of one of the coldest winters in living memory. At the time I was resident in Holmes’s Baker Street lodgings. It was a dark evening, made more oppressive by a fog that hung in the narrow streets and turned the gaslights to mere pinpricks of yellow. I was lounging in an armchair before the fire, and Holmes — who had been striding restlessly about the room — had now placed himself before the bow window. He was describing to me a chemical experiment he had undertaken that afternoon: how the application of manganese dioxide as a catalyst accelerated the decomposition of potassium chlorate into potassium chloride and, much more importantly, oxygen.

As he spoke, I silently rejoiced at his enthusiasm. Bad weather had kept us very much shut in for weeks; no “little problems” had arisen to command his attention; and he had begun to exhibit the signs of ennui that all too frequently led him to indulge his habit of cocaine hydrochloride.

Just at that moment, I heard a knock at the front door.

“Are you expecting company, Holmes?” I asked.

His only reply was a curt shake of the head. Moving first to the decanter on the sideboard, then to the gasogene beside it, he mixed himself a brandy and soda, then sprawled into an armchair.

“Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is entertaining,” I said, reaching for the pipe-rack.

But low voices on the stairs, followed by footfalls in the passage, put the lie to this assumption. A moment later there came a light rap on the door.

“Come in,” cried Holmes.

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared. “There’s a young lady to see you, sir,” she said. “I told her it was late, and that she should make an appointment for tomorrow, but she said it was most urgent.”

“By all means, show her in,” Holmes replied, rising once again to his feet.

A moment later, a young woman was in our sitting room. She was wearing a long travelling coat of fashionable cut, along with a veiled hat.

“Pray have a seat,” Holmes said, ushering her towards the most comfortable chair with his usual courtesy.

The woman thanked him, undid her coat and removed her hat, and sat down. She was possessed of a pleasing figure and a refined carriage, and a decided air of self-possession. The only blemish of which I was aware was that her features seemed rather severe, but that may have been the result of the anxiety that was present in her face. As was my custom, I tried to apply Holmes’s methods of observation to this stranger, but was unable to notice anything of particular value, aside from the Wellington travelling boots she wore.

I became aware that Holmes was regarding me with some amusement. “Other than the fact that our guest comes from Northumberland,” he told me, “that she is a devoted horsewoman, that she arrived here by hansom cab rather than the Underground — and that she is engaged to be married — I can deduce little myself.”

“I have heard of your famed methods, Mr. Holmes,” said the young woman before I could answer. “And I expected something like this. Allow me, please, to deduce your deductions.”

Holmes gave a slight nod, an expression of surprise registering on his face.

The woman held up her hand. “First, you noted my engagement ring but saw no wedding band.”

An affirmative incline of the head.

She kept her hand raised. “And you perhaps remarked on the half-moon callus along the outer edge of my right wrist, precisely where the reins cross when held by someone of good seat, with riding crop in hand.”

“A most handsome callus,” said Holmes.

“As for the hansom cab, that should be obvious enough. You saw it pull to the kerb. For my part, I saw you standing in the window.”

At this, I had to laugh. “It looks as if you’ve met your match, Holmes.”

“As for Northumberland, I would guess you noted a trace of accent in my speech?”

“Your accent is not precisely of Northumberland,” Holmes told her, “but rather contains a suggestion of Tyne and Wear, perhaps of the Sunderland area, with an overlay of Staffordshire.”

At this the lady evinced surprise. “My mother’s people were from Sunderland, and my father’s from Staffordshire. I wasn’t aware I had retained a hint of either accent.”

“Our modes of speech are bred in the bone, madam. We cannot escape them any more than we can the colour of our eyes.”

“In that case, how did you know I came from Northumberland?”

Holmes pointed at the woman’s footwear. “Because of your Wellingtons. I would surmise you began your journey in snow. We have not had rain in the last four days; Northumberland is the coldest county in England; and it is the only one presently with snow still on the ground.”

“And how would you know there is snow in Northumberland?” I asked Holmes.

Holmes gestured at a nearby copy of The Times, a pained expression on his face. “Now, madam, do me the kindness of telling us your name and how we may be of assistance.”

“My name is Victoria Selkirk,” the woman said. “And my impending marriage is, in large part, why I am here.”

“Do go on,” Holmes said, relapsing into his seat.

“Please forgive my calling on you without prior notice,” Miss Selkirk said. “But the fact is I don’t know who else to turn to.”

Holmes took a sip of his brandy and waited for the young lady to continue.

“My fiancé’s estate, Aspern Hall, is situated a few miles outside Hexham. My mother and I have taken a cottage on the grounds in preparation for the wedding. Over the last few months, the region has been plagued by a ferocious wolf.”

“A wolf?” I remarked in surprise.

Miss Selkirk nodded. “To date it has killed two men.”

“But wolves are extinct in Britain,” I said.

“Not necessarily, Watson,” Holmes told me. “Some believe they still exist in the most remote and inaccessible locales.” He turned back to Miss Selkirk. “Tell me about these killings.”

“They were savage, as would be expected of a wild beast.” She hesitated. “And — increasingly — the creature seems to be developing a taste for its victims.”

“A man-eating wolf?” I said. “Extraordinary.”

“Perhaps,” Holmes replied. “Yet it is not beyond the bounds of possibility. Consider the example of the man-eating lions of Tsavo. When other game is scarce — and you will recall the severity of last winter — carnivores will adapt in order to survive.” He glanced at Miss Selkirk. “Have there been eyewitnesses?”

“Yes. Two.”

“And what did they report having seen?”

“A huge wolf, retreating into the forest.”

“What was the distance from which these observations were made?”

“Both were made across a blanket bog…I would say several hundred yards.”

Holmes inclined his head. “By day or by night?”

“By night. With a moon.”

“And were there any particular distinguishing characteristics of this wolf, besides its great size?”

“Yes. Its head was covered in white fur.”

“White fur,” Holmes repeated. He put his fingertips together and fell silent for a moment. Then he roused himself and addressed the young woman again. “And how, exactly, can we be of help?”

“My fiancé, Edwin, is the heir to the Aspern estate. The Aspern family is the most prominent in that vicinity. Given the fear that has gripped the countryside, he feels it necessary to take onto himself the task of destroying this beast before it kills yet again. He has been going out into the forest at night, often alone. Even though he is armed, I’m terrified for his safety and fear that some misfortune may befall him.”

“I see. Miss Selkirk—” Holmes continued, now a little severely— “I fear that I am unable to assist you. What you need are the services of a game hunter, not a consulting detective.”

The anxiety on Miss Selkirk’s features deepened. “But I had heard of your successful close with that dreadful business at Baskerville Hall. That is why I came to you.”

“That business, my dear woman, was the work of a man, not a beast.”

“But…” Miss Selkirk hesitated. Her air of self-possession grew more tenuous. “My fiancé is most determined. He feels it an obligation because of his station in life. And his father, Sir Percival, hasn’t seen fit to prevent him. Please, Mr. Holmes. There is no one else who can help me.”

Holmes took a sip of his brandy; he sighed, rose, took a turn round the room, then sat down again. “You mentioned the wolf was seen retreating into a forest,” he said. “May I assume you are speaking of Kielder Forest?”

Miss Selkirk nodded. “Aspern Hall abuts it.”

“Did you know, Watson,” Holmes said, turning to me, “that Northumberland’s Kielder Forest is the largest remaining wooded area in England?”

“I did not,” I replied.

“And that it is famed, in part, for housing the country’s last large remaining population of the Eurasian red squirrel?”

Glancing over at Holmes, I saw that his look of cold disinterestedness had been replaced with one both sharp and keen. I of course knew of his great interest in Sciurus vulgaris. He was perhaps the world’s foremost expert on the creature’s behaviour and taxonomy, and had published several monographs on the subject. I also sensed in him an unusual admiration for this woman.

“In a population bed that large, there may well be opportunities to observe variances heretofore undiscovered,” Holmes said, more to himself than to us. Then he glanced at our guest. “Do you have rooms in town?” he asked.

“I arranged to stay with relatives in Islington.”

“Miss Selkirk,” he replied, “I am inclined to take up this investigation — almost in spite of the case rather than because of it.” He looked at me, and then — significantly — at the hat stand, upon which hung both my bowler and his cloth cap with its long ear-flaps.

“I’m your man,” I replied instantly.

“In that case,” Holmes told Miss Selkirk, “we will meet you tomorrow morning at Paddington Station, where — unless I am much mistaken — there is an 8:20 express departing for Northumberland.”

And he saw the young woman to the door.

The following morning, as planned, we met Victoria Selkirk at Paddington Station and prepared to set off for Hexham. Holmes, normally a late riser, appeared to have regained his dubiousness concerning the case. He was restless and uncommunicative, and as the train puffed out it was left to me to make conversation with the young Miss Selkirk. To pass the time, I asked her about Aspern Hall and its tenants, both older and younger.

The Hall, she explained, had been rebuilt from the remains of an ancient priory, originally constructed around 1450 and partially razed during Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries. Its current owner, Sir Percival Aspern, had been a hatter by trade. In his youth he had patented a revolutionary method for making green felt.

Holmes paused in his perusal of the passing scenery. “Green felt, you say?”

Miss Selkirk nodded. “Beyond its use for gaming tables, the colour was most fashionable in millinery shops during the ’50s. Sir Percival made his fortune with it.”

Holmes waved a hand, as if swatting away an insect, and returned his attention to the compartment window.

Sir Percival’s specialty hats, Miss Selkirk informed me, now held a royal warrant from Queen Victoria and formed the basis for his knighthood. His son Edwin — her fiancé—had gone into the army quite early, having held a commission in the light dragoons. He was now in temporary residence at the Hall, considering whether or not to make the military a lifelong career.

Although Miss Selkirk was the most tactful of her sex, I nevertheless sensed that, whilst Edwin’s father wished him to take up the family trade, Edwin himself was of two minds on the subject.

As our journey lengthened, the rich grasses and hedgerows of the Home Counties began giving way to wilder vistas: moorlands, bogs, and skeletal trees, punctuated at intervals by rocky outcroppings and escarpments. At length we arrived at Hexham, an attractive country-town, consisting of a cluster of cottages fashioned of thatch and stone, huddled along a single High Street. A wagonette was waiting for us at the station, a dour-looking servant at the reins. Without a word, he loaded our valises and grips, then returned to his perch and directed his horses away from the station, along a rutted country lane in the direction of the Hall.

The road made its way down a gentle declivity, into an increasingly damp and dreary landscape. The snow — which Holmes had remarked on the day before — could still be seen in patches here and there. The sun, which had at last made its appearance during our train journey, once again slipped behind clouds, bestowing the vista round us with a sense of oppressive gloom.

After we had gone perhaps five miles, Holmes — who had not spoken since we alighted from the train — aroused himself. “What, pray, is that?” he enquired, pointing off in the distance with his walking-stick.

Looking in the indicated direction, I saw what appeared to be a low fen, or marsh, bordered on its fringe by swamp grass. Beyond it, in the late-afternoon mist, I could just make out an unbroken line of black.

“The bog I spoke of earlier,” Miss Selkirk replied.

“And beyond it is the verge of Kielder Forest?”

“Yes.”

“And am I to infer, from what you mentioned, that the wolf attacks occurred between the one and the other?”

“Yes, that is so.”

Holmes nodded, as if satisfying himself on some point, but did not speak further.

The country lane ambled on, making a long, lazy bend in order to avoid the bog, and at length we could make out Aspern Hall in the distance. It was an old manor-house of a most unusual design, with unmatched wings and dependencies set seemingly at cross-angles to each other, and I attributed this architectural eccentricity to the fact that the manse had risen from the ruins of an ancient abbey. As we drew closer, I could make out additional details. The façade was rusticated and much dappled by lichen, and wisps of smoke rose from a profusion of brick chimneys. Sedge and stunted oaks surrounded the main structure as well as the various cottages and outbuildings. Perhaps it was the chill in the spring air, or the proximity of the bog and the dark forest, yet I could not help but form the distinct notion that the house had absorbed into itself the bleakness and foreboding of the very landscape in which it was situated.

The coachman pulled the wagonette up beneath the mansion’s porte-cochère. He removed Miss Selkirk’s travelling bag, then started for ours, when Holmes stopped him, asking him to wait instead. Following Miss Selkirk, we stepped inside and found ourselves in a long gallery, furnished in rather austere taste. A man, clearly the squire of Aspern Hall himself, was waiting for us in the entrance to what appeared to be a salon. He was gaunt and tall, some fifty-odd years of age, with fair thinning hair and a deep-lined face. He wore a black frock-coat, and held a newspaper in one hand and a dog-whip in the other. Evidently he had heard the wagonette draw up. Putting the newspaper and dog-whip aside, he approached.

“Sir Percival Aspern, I presume?” Holmes said.

“I am, sir; but I fear you have the advantage of me.”

Holmes gave a short bow. “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and associate, Doctor Watson.”

“I see.” Sir Percival turned to our female companion. “So this is the reason you went into town, Miss Selkirk?”

Miss Selkirk nodded. “Indeed it is, Sir Percival. If you’ll excuse me, I must see to my mother.” She departed the gallery rather abruptly, leaving us with the squire.

“I have heard of you, Mr. Holmes,” Sir Percival said, “but I fear that you have made a long journey to no purpose. Your methods, brilliant as I understand them to be, will have little application against a beast such as the one that plagues us.”

“That remains to be seen,” Holmes said shortly.

“Well, come in and have a brandy, won’t you?” And Sir Percival led us into the salon, where a butler poured out our refreshment.

“It would appear,” Holmes said once we were seated round the fire, “that you do not share your future daughter-in-law’s concern for the safety of your son.”

“I do not,” Sir Percival replied. “He’s lately returned from India, and knows what he’s about.”

“And yet, by all reports, this beast has already killed two men,” I said.

“I have hunted with my son in the past, and can vouch for his skill as both tracker and marksman. The fact is, Mr. — Watson, was it? — Edwin takes his responsibilities as heir to Aspern Hall very seriously. And I might say that his courage and initiative have not gone unnoticed in the district.”

“May we speak with him?” Holmes asked.

“Certainly — when he returns. He is out in the forest at present, hunting the beast.” He paused. “If I were a younger man, I would be at his side.”

This excuse seemed to me to betray a streak of cowardice, and I shot a covert glance at Holmes. However, his attention remained fixed on Sir Percival.

“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.”

“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.”

“A wolf?”

“That would seem most likely.”

Holmes questioned me closely. “Do you see any specific and identifiable marks? Of fangs, perhaps, or claw marks?”

“It’s difficult to say. The ferocity of the attack, the ruined condition of the body, render specific observation difficult.”

“And are any pieces of the body — missing?”

I took another look. Despite my medical background, I found this a most disagreeable undertaking. I had seen, more than once, native tribesmen of India who had been mauled by tigers, but nothing in my experience came close to the savagery under which Constable Frazier had fallen.

“Yes,” I said at length. “Yes, I believe some few.”

“Consistent with the description of the second victim? The naturalist?”

“No. No, I’d say this attack was more extensive in that regard.”

Holmes nodded slowly. “You see, Watson. It is again as it was with the man-eating lions of Tsavo. With each victim, they grow more brazen — and more partial to their newfound diet.”

With this, he removed a magnifying glass from his pocket. “The rifle has not been fired,” he announced as he examined the Martini-Henry. “Apparently, the beast snuck up and struck our man from behind.”

After a brief inspection of the corpse, he began moving about in an ever-increasing circle, until — with another cry — he bent low, then started slowly forwards, eyes to the ground, in the direction of a distant farmhouse surrounded by two enclosed fields: the residence, I assumed, of the unfortunate constable. At some point, Holmes stopped, turned round, and then — still employing the magnifying glass — returned to the body and moved slowly past it, until he had reached the very edge of the blanket bog.

“Wolf tracks,” he said. “Without doubt. They lead from the forest, to a spot near that farmhouse, and thence to the site where the attack took place. No doubt it emerged from the woods, stalked its victim, and killed him on open ground.” He applied his glass once more to the swamp grass along the verge of the marsh. “The tracks go directly into the bog, here.”

Now Holmes undertook a circuit of the bog: a laborious activity, involving several halts, backtracks, and exceedingly close inspections of various points of interest. I stayed by the body, touching nothing as Holmes had instructed, watching him from a distance. The process took over an hour, by which time I was drenched to the skin and shivering uncontrollably. A small group of curious onlookers were by now standing back along the roadside, and the local doctor and the magistrate had come up — the latter being the titular authority, with the demise of Constable Frazier — just as Holmes completed his investigation. He said not a word of his discoveries, but simply stood there amongst the marsh grass, deep in thought, as the doctor, the magistrate, and myself wrapped up the body and carried it to the wagonette. As the vehicle rolled off in the direction of town, I made my way back out to where Holmes remained standing, quite still, apparently oblivious to his soaked trousers and waterlogged boots.

“Did you remark anything of further interest?” I asked him.

After a moment, he glanced at me. Instead of answering, he pulled a briar pipe from his pocket, lit it, and replied with a question of his own. “Don’t you find it rather curious, Watson?”

“The entire affair is mysterious,” I replied, “at least insofar as that blasted elusive wolf is concerned.”

“I am not referring to the wolf. I am referring to the affectionate relationship between Sir Percival and his son.”

This non sequitur stopped me in my tracks. “I’m afraid I don’t see what you’re driving at, Holmes. From my perspective, the relationship seems anything but affectionate — at least, with regard to the father’s callous unconcern for his son’s life and safety.”

Holmes puffed at his pipe. “Yes,” he replied enigmatically. “And that is the mystery.”

Being now rather closer to Aspern Hall than to Hexham, and having had our transportation commandeered by the magistrate, we made our way down the road to the Hall, arriving there in just under an hour. We were met by Sir Percival and his son, who had just finished breakfasting. The news of the latest attack had not yet reached them, and almost immediately the estate was thrown into an uproar. Young Edwin stated his intention of setting out directly to track the beast, but Holmes counselled him against it: in the wake of this latest attack, the animal had no doubt retreated to his lair.

Next, Holmes asked Sir Percival if he could have the use of his brougham; it was his intention to ride into Hexham without delay and catch the first train to London.

Sir Percival expressed astonishment but gave his consent. Whilst the coach was being called for, Holmes glanced in my direction and suggested we take a stroll round the garden.

“I think you should ride into Hexham with me, Watson,” he said. “Gather up your things from The Plough and then return here to Aspern Hall for the night.”

“What on earth for?” I ejaculated.

“Unless I am much mistaken, I will be returning from London perhaps as soon as tomorrow,” he said. “And when I do, I shall bring with me the confirmation I seek as to the riddle of this vicious beast.”

“Why, Holmes!”

“But until then, Watson, your life remains at grave risk. You must promise me that you will not leave the Hall until I return — not even for a turn about the grounds.”

“I say, Holmes—”

“I insist upon it. In this matter I shall not give way. Do not leave the main house — especially after dark.”

Although this request seemed eccentric in the last degree — especially given the fact that Holmes believed the much more aggressive Edwin Aspern to be in no danger — I relented. “I must say, old man, that I don’t see how you can be so certain of solving the case,” I told him. “The wolf is here in Hexham — not in London. Unless you are planning to return with a brace of heavy-calibre rifles, I confess that in this matter I see nothing.”

“Quite the contrary — you see everything,” Holmes retorted. “You must be bolder in drawing your inferences, Watson.” But just at that moment there was a clatter of horseshoes on the gravel drive and the brougham drew up.

I spent a dreary day at Aspern Hall. A wind came up, followed by rain: light at first, then rather heavier. There was little to do, so I occupied the hours with reading a day-old copy of The Times, jotting in my diary, and glancing through the books in Sir Percival’s extensive library. I saw nobody but servants until dinner. During that meal, Edwin declared his intent of going out again that very evening in search of the wolf. Miss Selkirk, who was by now naturally even more concerned for her fiancé’s well-being, protested violently. There was an ugly scene. Edwin, though not unmoved by Miss Selkirk’s objections, remained determined. Sir Percival, for his part, was clearly proud of his son’s courage and — when confronted by his daughter-in-law-to-be — defended himself with talk of the family honour and the high approval of the countryside. After Edwin had left, I took it upon myself to stay with Miss Selkirk and try to draw her into conversation. It was a difficult business, given her state of mind, and I was heartily glad when — at around half past eleven — I heard Edwin’s footsteps echoing in the Hall. He had again been unsuccessful in the hunt, but at least he was safely returned.

It was very late the following afternoon when Sherlock Holmes reappeared. He had wired ahead to have Sir Percival’s brougham meet him at the Hexham station, and he arrived at the Hall in high spirits. Holmes had brought the magistrate and the town doctor with him, and he wasted no time in assembling the family and servants of the Hall.

When all were settled, Holmes announced that he had solved the case. This caused no end of consternation and questioning, and Edwin demanded to know what he meant by “solving” the case when everyone knew the culprit was a wolf. Holmes refused to be sounded further on the matter. Despite the late hour, he explained, he would return to his rooms at The Plough, where he had certain critical notes on the case, in order to put his conclusions into order. He had made use of the carriage ride to confer with the magistrate and the doctor, and had only come out to the Hall in order to bring me back to town with him to assist with the final details. Tomorrow, he declared, he would make his conclusions public.

Towards the end of this little speech, a coachman came in to make known that the rear axle of Sir Percival’s carriage had broken and could not be repaired until morning. There was no way that Holmes — or the magistrate or town doctor, for that matter — could return to Hexham until the following day. There was nothing for it; they would all have to spend the night at Aspern Hall.

Holmes was dreadfully put out by this development. During almost the entire dinner that followed he said not a word, a peevish expression on his face, morosely pushing the food on his plate idly about with his fork, one elbow lodged on the damask tablecloth in support of his narrow chin. Just as dessert was served, he announced his intention of walking back to Hexham.

“But that’s out of the question,” said Sir Percival in astonishment. “It’s over ten miles.”

“I shan’t be taking the road,” Holmes replied. “It’s far too indirect. I shall make my way from Aspern Hall to Hexham in a direct line, as the crow flies.”

“But that will take you right past the blanket bog,” Miss Selkirk said. “Where…” She fell silent.

“I will accompany you, then,” Edwin Aspern spoke up.

“You shall do nothing of the sort. The wolf’s most recent attack occurred just the night before last, and I doubt its hunger will have returned so soon. No; I shall undertake the trip on my own. Watson, once I reach Hexham I will leave word for the wagonette to come for you and the others in the morning.”

And so the matter was settled — or so I thought. Shortly after the men had passed into the library for brandy and cigars, however, Holmes took me aside.

“Look here,” he told me sotto voce. “As soon as you are able to effect it successfully, you will contrive to sneak out of the house, making sure your departure is undetected. That point is most vital, Watson — you must leave undetected. Remember that, for the time being, you remain in grave danger.”

Despite my surprise, I assured Holmes that I was his man.

“You are to make your way unobserved to the vicinity of that small hillock where we found Constable Frazier. Find a suitable hiding spot from which no approach can reveal your position — not the bog, not the forest, not the road. Be sure to be in position no later than ten o’clock. And there you are to wait for me to pass by.”

I nodded my understanding.

“When I come into sight, however, under no circumstances are you to call out, or stand, or in any manner betray your presence.”

“Then what am I to do, Holmes?”

“Depend upon it — when it comes time to act, you shall know. Now: do you still have your pistol about you?”

I patted my waistcoat pocket, where my Webley had been in residence ever since we had arrived at the Hall the previous day.

My friend nodded his satisfaction. “Excellent. Keep it close at hand.”

“And you, Holmes?”

“I myself will spend some time here before I take my leave, engaging young Aspern in conversation, billiards, or whatever proves necessary to distract him. It is vital that he not indulge his penchant for wolf-hunting, tonight of all nights.”

Accordingly, I bided my time, waiting until the gentlemen were engrossed in a game of whist. Then, retiring to my room, I retrieved my cap and travelling coat, and — making sure I was observed by neither family nor servants — I left the house by way of the French doors of the morning room, slipped across the lawn, and from there out onto the Hexham road. The rain had stopped, but the moon remained partially obscured by clouds. Heavy tendrils of mist lay across the bleak landscape.

I followed the muddy lane as it curved leisurely to the northeast, anticipating in its course the expanse of bog that lay ahead. It was a chill night, and here and there patches of snow could still be seen amidst the brambles and swamp grass. After several miles, at the bend where the road reached its northernmost point and angled eastwards towards town, I struck off south through the low undergrowth in the direction of the bog itself. The moon had by now emerged from behind the clouds and I could just make out the bog ahead, shimmering with a kind of ghastly glow. Beyond it, and barely discernible in the darkness, was the black border of Kielder Forest.

Reaching the hillock at last, I glanced round, then set about following Holmes’s instructions: to find a blind in which I could remain unseen from all directions. It took some doing, but at last I found a depression on the eastwards side of the hillock, partially surrounded by gorse and furze, which afforded excellent opportunities for concealment, whilst at the same time commanding a view of all approaches. And here I settled down to wait.

Over the next hour I held a most gloomy vigil. My limbs grew stiff from inactivity, and my travelling coat did little to keep out the damp and chill. From time to time, I examined the various approaches; on other occasions, from sheer force of nervous habit, I checked the state of my weapon.

It was past eleven o’clock when I at last heard the sound of footsteps, coming through the marsh grass from the direction of Aspern Hall. Carefully, I peered out from my place of concealment. It was Holmes, unmistakable in his cloth cap and long coat, his thin frame emerging out of the mists with its characteristic loping stride. He was walking along the very edge of the blanket bog, headed in my direction. Slipping the Webley out of my waistcoat pocket, I steeled myself for whatever action might now transpire.

I waited, motionless, as Holmes continued his approach, hands in his pockets, heading for Hexham with perfect equanimity, as if out for nothing more than an evening’s stroll. Suddenly, from the direction of the forest, I saw another form appear. It was large and dark, almost black, and as I watched in horror it bounded directly towards Holmes on all fours. From his position on the far side of the hillock, my friend would not yet be able to catch sight of the creature. I tightened my grip on the Webley: it was beyond any doubt that here was the fearsome wolf itself, and that it was intent on bringing down a fourth victim.

I watched it draw near, ready with my pistol should the beast get too close to Holmes. But then — when the animal was some hundred yards from my friend, and just as it came into view of Holmes himself — the most peculiar thing happened. The beast stopped short, creeping forwards with savage menace.

“Good evening, Sir Percival,” Holmes said matter-of-factly.

The beast greeted this sally with a vicious bark. I was by now out of my blind and approaching the wolf from the rear. The wolf abruptly reared up on its hind legs. Drawing closer, whilst trying my best to conceal the sound of my approach, I saw to my astonishment that the creature was, in fact, human: Sir Percival, dressed in what appeared to be a heavy bearskin coat. The soles of his leather boots had been fitted out with makeshift claws, and wolf pads dangled by large buttons from his gloves. One hand appeared holding a pistol; the other a large, claw-like implement with a heavy handle and long, wicked tines. His fair, thinning hair shone a pale, unnatural white in the light of the rising moon. I found myself almost paralysed by this bizarre and wholly unexpected turn of events.

Sir Percival laughed again — a maniacal laugh. “Good evening, Mister Holmes,” he said. “You shall make an excellent repast.” And with a raving torrent of words that I could not begin to follow or understand, he cocked his pistol and raised it at Holmes.

This extremity broke my paralysis. “Stand down, Sir Percival,” I cried from his flank, my own weapon raised. “I have you in my sights.”

Caught off guard, Sir Percival wheeled towards me, aiming in my direction. As he did so, I squeezed off a shot, catching him in the arm. With a cry of pain, the man clutched at his shoulder, then fell to his knees. In a moment, Holmes was at his side. He relieved Sir Percival of his weapon and the grotesque device — no doubt, I realized, used to simulate the lacerations of a wolf’s claws — then turned to me.

“I should be glad, Watson, if you could head into town as quickly as you can,” he said calmly. “Return with a dog-cart and several able-bodied men. I shall remain here with Sir Percival.”

The rest of the particulars can be summed up in short order. After Sir Percival was taken up by the authorities and remanded to the police-court, we returned to Aspern Hall. Holmes spoke briefly, in turn, with the magistrate; young Edwin Aspern; and Miss Selkirk, and then insisted on our returning to London by the very next train.

“I must confess, Holmes,” I told him as our carriage made its way along the road back towards Hexham just as dawn was breaking, “that whilst I have often been in the dark in past cases, this is your most singular surprise yet. Without doubt it will prove your coup-de-mâitre. How on earth did you know that a human, not a wolf, was behind these outrages — and how in particular did you know it was Sir Percival, if in fact you knew that at all?”

“My dear Watson, you do me a disservice,” Holmes replied. “Naturally I knew it was Sir Percival.”

“Then pray explain yourself.”

“Several clues presented themselves, for anyone with the discernment to sift the important from the mere coincident. To begin with, we have the madman — the first victim. When there is more than one killing to reckon with, Watson, you must always pay particular attention to the first. Frequently the motive, and therefore the entire case, rests upon that particular crime.”

“Yes, but the first victim was nothing but a mindless vagrant.”

“He might have been so in recent years, but he was not always thus. Recall, Watson, that in his ravings, a single word stood out again and again: carrot.”

I recalled this, and Holmes’s fascination with it, all too well. How it could have any significance seemed to defy credibility. “Go on,” I said.

“Carroting, you must understand, was a process by which animal fur is bathed in a solution of mercury nitrate, in order to render the hairs more supple, thus producing a superior felt.” At this last word, he threw a significant glance in my direction.

“Felt,” I repeated. “You mean, for the making of hats?”

“Precisely. The solution is of an orange colour, hence the term carroting. However, this process had rather severe side effects on those who worked with it, which is why its use today is much reduced. When mercury vapours are inhaled over a long enough period of time — particularly, for our purposes, in the close quarters of a hat-making operation — toxic and irreversible effects almost inevitably follow. One develops tremors of the hands; blackened teeth; slurred speech. In severe cases, dementia or outright insanity can occur. Hence the term mad as a hatter.” Holmes waved a hand. “I know all this, of course, due to my long-abiding interest in chemistry.”

“But what does all this have to do with Sir Percival?” I asked.

“Let us proceed in a linear fashion, if you please. You will recall that Constable Frazier believed our vagabond to be a drunkard, citing as evidence the man’s slurred speech and impaired movement. And yet he detected no smell of alcohol on the man’s breath. I immediately assumed that the real cause of the man’s affliction was not drunkenness, but rather the effects of mercury poisoning. His mention of ‘carrots’ explained how this poisoning had come about: as an occupational hazard of making felt, from working as a hatter. I naturally realized that there could be no coincidence between Sir Percival’s former occupation and the sudden arrival of this curious fellow upon the scene. No: this man had clearly once been in business with Sir Percival. Recall, if you will, two things. First, how this man had raved about betrayal, about getting a judgement from a court of law. Second, how Sir Percival made his fortune by a unique felt-making process — a process, you may recollect, he refused to discuss with me when I broached the topic at Aspern Hall.”

The carriage continued its jostling way towards Hexham, and Holmes went on. “Remarking on these facts, I began to consider the possibility that this man, now sadly reduced, had once been Sir Percival’s business partner — and, perhaps, the true author of that revolutionary felt-making process. Now, years later, he had returned to square accounts with his former partner, to expose and ruin him. In other words, this whole matter began as a mere business dispute; one that Sir Percival solved in a traditional manner — by murder. It seemed to me highly likely that when this fellow appeared in Hexham, Sir Percival had promised him amends, and had agreed to meet with him in a lonely spot at the edge of the bog. There, Sir Percival murdered his former partner, and — to keep any suspicion from ever redounding upon him — tore the body cruelly, even going so far as to leave some tentative bite marks, so as to make it appear the work of a large and savage beast, most likely a wolf.”

“And in so doing, he seemed to have been entirely successful,” I said. “Why, then, kill again?”

“The second person killed, you will recall, was a naturalist from Oxford. He was heard in the local inn debunking the rumours of a wolf, declaring that no wolves still survived in England. By killing this man, Sir Percival accomplished several goals. He silenced the man’s insistence on the extinction of the English wolf — the very last thing Sir Percival would want was attention returning to the initial killing. Also, by this time he had of course heard the rumours in Hexham about a wolf being the culprit in his partner’s murder. In case he was spotted, he had now had the opportunity to fit out a large bear coat, complete with wolf-paw gloves and boots that he — with his hatter’s skill — could make entirely convincing. He used this disguise to run to and from the second murder scene on all fours. I believe, Watson, he was actually hoping for a witness this time, in order to inflame the rumours of a man-eating wolf. In this, at least, he was fortunate.”

“Yes, I can see a cruel logic in such a course of action,” I said. “But what, then, of the constable?”

“Constable Frazier was, if not the world’s most accomplished investigator, a man of great doggedness and persistence. No doubt Sir Percival perceived him to be a threat. Recall how the constable hinted at certain suspicions about the wolf’s behaviour. Those suspicions, I would hazard, had to do with why the wolf tracks entered the bog but never came out again. The constable would have remarked on this after the second murder, if not before. I myself found this curious phenomenon to be the case after the constable’s own death, when I made a circuit of the bog. Wolf tracks entered the region from the east; only human tracks emerged from the west. Sir Percival, you see, would have entered the bog on all fours, as a wolf; he would have used the concealing vegetation to come out from the bog as merely himself, should anyone encounter him. The constable must have mentioned his suspicions to Sir Percival — remember, Watson, his remarking he’d been to the Hall just the day before, to warn young Aspern to cease his hunting of the wolf — and in so doing, signed his own death warrant.”

Hearing these revelations, presented in Holmes’s complacent tone, was nothing less than astounding. I could only shake my head.

“What clinched the case for me was Sir Percival’s cavalier, indeed encouraging, attitude towards his son’s hunting of the beast. He seemed to evince total unconcern for young Edwin’s well-being. Why? At this point in the game, the answer was obvious to me: he knew his son was in no danger from the wolf, because the wolf was himself. Then, of course, there was the manner in which Sir Percival spilt his brandy.”

“What of it?”

“He was making great pains to hide his trembling hands. That incipient palsy demonstrated to my satisfaction that he himself was well on the road to madness brought on by mercury poisoning, and that he would soon be reduced to the same pitiable state as his former partner.”

By this time we had arrived at the Hexham station; we descended with our valises and mounted the platform, just in time for the 8:20 to Paddington.

“Armed with these suspicions,” Holmes went on, “I went to London. It did not take me long to uncover the facts I was looking for: that, many years before, Sir Percival did indeed have a business partner. At the time, he accused Sir Percival of stealing a valuable patent, claiming it as his own. He was adjudged a lunatic, however, and was committed to an asylum — through the offices of Sir Percival himself. This poor unfortunate was released just days before the initial appearance of the raving madman in Kielder Forest.

“I returned from London, secure in the knowledge that, not only was there no man-eating wolf, but Sir Percival himself was the murderer of three men. The only question remaining was how to catch him up. I couldn’t very well reveal the truth — that there was no wolf. No; I had to find a reason to manoeuvre Sir Percival into making me his next target, and to arrange it, so to speak, on home ground. Hence my dramatic announcement of having solved the case — and my nocturnal shortcut across the open countryside, between the bog and the forest edge, site of the previous killings. Unless I had made a mistake in my calculations, I felt certain Sir Percival would take the opportunity to make me his fourth victim.”

“But you undertook that walk only because Sir Percival’s carriage broke an axle,” I said. “How could you have anticipated such an eventuality?”

“I did not anticipate it, Watson. I precipitated it.”

“You mean—?” I stopped.

“Yes. I fear I committed an act of sabotage against Sir Percival’s brougham. Perhaps I should send down a cheque for its repair.”

A faint whistle echoed out across the morning sky. A moment later, the express came into view. Within minutes we were boarding. “I confess myself astonished,” I said as we entered our compartment. “You are like the artist that outdoes his best work. There remains only one particular I do not understand.”

“In that case, my dear Watson, pray unburden yourself.”

“It is one thing, Holmes, to make a killing look like the work of an animal; quite another to actually devour portions of a body. Why did Sir Percival continue to do so — and, in fact, to an increasing extent?”

“The answer is quite simple,” Holmes replied. “It would seem Sir Percival, in his growing madness, had begun acquiring a taste for his, ah, prey.”

The subject of the Hexham Wolf did not come up again until perhaps half a year later, when I came across a notice in The Times stating that the new owner of Aspern Hall and his fiancée were to be married in St. Paul’s the following month. It appeared that — in local opinion, at least — the atrocities of the father were more than compensated for by the son’s military success, and by the courage he had displayed in his hunt for the would-be wolf. As for myself, I would have wished to have spent more time, had the circumstances been more pleasant, in the company of one of the handsomest young ladies of my acquaintance: Miss Victoria Selkirk.

On the lone occasion Holmes himself later referred to the case, he merely expressed a passing regret that the excursion had not furnished him with an opportunity to further his study of Sciurus vulgaris—the Eurasian red squirrel.