Emma braked to a stop at the bottom of a private drive and glanced again at the directions that she'd scribbled on the back of an envelope while consulting a local telephone directory and map in the nearest village. Second drive on the left. This is the one.
Easing out the clutch she caught glimpses of a quaint, white cottage nestled in a dense, English garden like a partridge on a nest. She could see that a careful gardener had designed the space. A canopy of colorful autumn blooms was interspersed with the still-green leaves of spring and summer blooming perennials and the darker hues of evergreens. This garden would be glorious in the spring, but it would be equally charming in the winter and lush in the summer. Smiling appreciatively, Emma parked in the narrow drive that ran along beside the garden, unavoidably blocking it. There was no other vehicle, but there was an old, faded wood frame garage, the closed doors decorated with a reinforcing wooden X.
As perfect as the rest of the garden, the path from a small white gate in the picket fence was delineated by large round pavers set into loose chippings. Emma tucked her small bag under her arm and used the heavy, lion's head knocker on the door. The sound seemed enormous in the cozy garden space. For a moment the birds all fell silent as if waiting with Emma for the door to be opened. When nothing happened they resumed their song. Emma knocked again.
Over the sounds of the garden she heard a creak of the floor inside and a moment later the door opened, someone inside holding it at the halfway point.
"Dr. Crispin Neff?" Emma asked, squinting slightly to see the man standing in the shadowy entry.
"Yes," came his reply, tentative but not alarmed.
"I'm Mrs. Emma Peel. I'm a freelance writer working on an article about a series of murders in St. James's Park. I hope you can act as a source, Dr. Neff."
"I don't know anything about –."
"No, I didn't expect so. The details have been somewhat suppressed, so you might not have grasped the connection to your professional reputation. I must be honest, Dr. Neff – my article is for a magazine covering the occult. I have plenty of sources who say the killer is anywhere from a wild dog to a werewolf to a man suffering from lycanthropy. I know of your skeptical view of such things so I am hoping you can supply me with some quotes to counter theirs."
While she spoke Emma studied the tall, lean figure before her. His unkempt dark brown hair hung in big curls all over his head and merged into an incongruously well-trimmed beard. His narrow shoulders were a little stooped, and his feet were angled outward in a pigeon-toed stance. She couldn't make out his facial features, and she got the impression that he was intentionally staying in the shadows.
"I see," he said. "Well, perhaps you should come in then."
His speech had a cautious, measured tempo and an evenness of tone that chilled Emma.
"Thank you," she said, stepping inside. At his inviting gesture she passed through the entry vestibule and into the sitting room beyond. Warm paneling, furniture upholstered in rich, tasteful fabrics, fresh flowers on a side table, and a beautiful painted screen in front of the fireplace gave Emma the impression of a cozy retreat. Steed would like this room, she thought absently as she heard the door close behind her and her host step into the room.
"I just put the kettle on," he said. "Will you join me in a cup? I am a firm believer in elevenses."
"I don't want to impose," Emma said, turning to him. Her eyes had adjusted to the low light inside the cottage. His ruddy complexion seemed as incongruous as his neat beard. His long, narrow nose pierced high cheeks and pointed to a narrow, thin-lipped mouth above a pointed chin. Like his skin, his lips were densely rouged. But it was his eyes that captured Emma's attention: they were so light brown they were almost yellow.
"It would be an imposition if you prevent me from my tea, and I would be rude to take it if you don't join me," he replied in his measured, matter-of-fact way. Emma wasn't sure if he was annoyed or if this was his idea of hospitality.
"Very well," she surrendered. "I would enjoy a cup of tea."
"Please make yourself comfortable. I'll bring it in a moment."
Emma watched him stride off down the hall, and then stepped further into the sitting room. For a moment she considered following him to the kitchen, but that was an intimidation technique she would use on a suspect. Unsettling as Neff was so far, he was not a suspect. What she wanted from him was cooperation and information.
She wandered around the room, dragging a finger over the surface of the side table out of habit to check for dust – there was none – and pausing in front of a tall barrister's bookcase filled with dozens of volumes on psychology, sociology, and the occult. She turned to the mantel where a bronze figure sat in the place of honor at the center, flanked by silver candlesticks. It was a noble looking wolf, its cast face bright and intelligent.
"A gift from an uncle," Neff's voice came from the hall. He entered carrying a tray and headed for the cocktail table in front of the settee. The table bore several uneven stacks of books. Neff stood looking down at it for a moment as if trying to figure out how to fit a square peg into a round hole. Emma resisted the urge to go to his aid. He turned jerkily, first toward a stuffed chair, and then, apparently realizing that it was too small, toward the settee. He set the tray on the upholstered seat while he moved the books from the table to the floor.
Emma watched the proceedings from across the room. He appeared to be completely subsumed in the project – unaware of her presence. When the table was clear he moved the tray to it. And then he looked up at her.
"It's a Swiss wolf – a European wolf."
"It's exquisite," Emma observed, concealing her surprise at his abrupt resumption of the previous topic as she moved toward him. He indicated that she should sit on the settee and watched her do so. As she smiled up at him she felt the same little chill from his yellow gaze that his voice had inspired. And then, abruptly, he sat down on the chair across from her and reached for the teapot.
"I'll play mother, shall I?" he said as he poured.
ooooo
"I was able to backtrack your beast here Steed," Sir Lionel Bridgewater, professional hunter and tracker, dragged aside dense willow branches and pushed through into a secluded open area in near the trunk. Steed followed him, hand on his hat to keep it in place as he passed through the narrow opening.
"You're sure it's a wolf, Sir Lionel?" he asked.
Bridgewater was crouching, forearms on knees, near the base of the willow tree. He pointed to a track in the soft soil. "Oh yes, no question it's a wolf -- a very big one. Quite remarkable."
"That it's so large?"
"No – that it's here in the park. An animal that large needs a lot of territory," he stood up. "But that could explain why it's attacking humans. An ordinary wolf in the wild would stick to smaller, easier game."
"So is this a nest?" Steed asked, poking at drifts of dead leaves and foliage on the ground.
Bridgewater shook his head. "A den," he corrected. "No. It's just the start of the trail. Your wolf started here, stalked through the woods out into the higher-traffic areas of the park, and eventually attacked Mr. Styles. But I can't follow the trail back further from here."
Steed frowned, looking around the open space beneath the tree.
"I know. It's quite a puzzle," Bridgewater acknowledged. "As if it materialized here. And there's more. Look."
He led Steed to the edge of the space under the tree and dragged aside the low-hanging foliage to point at the ground.
"Human footprints. Two sets, different types of shoes. See?"
"Yes."
"They both came in under the tree, although I have no way of telling if they were together or just within a few hours of one another. And over here," he moved back to the area where they'd entered and pointed to a set of human prints. "That man went out with the wolf."
"They went together?"
"Well," Bridgewater put his hands on his hips and arched his back, then straightened and looked at Steed. "Based on the spacing of the prints, the wolf left here at a jog. The man's footprints indicate that he was running – which would be about right to keep up with an animal that large. So yes, they left together."
"The wolf could have been chasing the man."
"No," Bridgewater shook his head. "If that were the case, the prints would not be side-by-side, and the man would have been sprinting. And he would have been the wolf's first victim that night."
Their eyes met for a moment and then Steed turned back to scan the area under the tree. Leaving Bridgewater near the hanging foliage he paced slowly toward the tree trunk and then around it, looking down at the roots and up at the limbs that spread out like an umbrella above them. Dappled green light filtered through to create a luminous, watery feel.
"Sir Lionel?"
The tracker came around the tree trunk, moving so carefully across the leaves and twigs his progress was nearly silent.
"Does this shoe match either of the prints?" Steed asked, using the point of his umbrella to flip over a cheap, rubber-soled canvas shoe that was half covered by a drift of leaves.
"My word Steed," Sir Lionel exclaimed, picking up the shoe. "You do have a sharp eye." He carried it back to the site of the two sets of human prints and held it next to one. Steed followed, already certain of the answer but awaiting the tracker's confirmation. "Yes. It's a match for this set," Bridgewater held the shoe next to one of the prints. "But these are not the prints that exit with the wolf's."
"No," Steed said thoughtfully. "They wouldn't be, would they?" Above them a sudden gust of wind rustled the willow's branches. The trunk creaked eerily.
ooooo
"What are you doing here? You should not have come Bela!" Crispin Neff recoiled from the doorway, pursued by a man dressed in a threadbare sweater and blue denim trousers. Despite Neff's generous height, the visitor seemed to tower over him.
"You said we need to talk doctor. I did not wish to do so over the telephone," Bela replied gently.
Neff inhaled a short breath through his nose, his yellow eyes narrowing in a calculating expression for a moment as he looked at the visitor. Then he backed further into the house.
"Come in. Shut the door! Did you bring a car?" at this last he stepped sideways into the sitting room to look out of the front window.
Bela barked a quick laugh and followed him into the room. "Where would I have gotten a car?" he snapped.
Neff shrugged, turning back toward him, oblivious to the bitterness in Bela's tone.
"I hitchhiked," Bela growled, intent on making his point to the other man. "That's all I can do, Doctor Neff. Beg for rides, beg for food, beg for treatment --."
"And I have provided that last, Bela. But you have not progressed, have you?" Neff moved to the armchair and sat down, eyes never leaving his visitor. Bela crossed to the fireplace and stood looking at the wolf figure.
"You taunt me," he muttered.
"Bela?"
"You don't believe in me, Doctor. How can you treat me?"
Neff shut his eyes for a moment as if to organize his thoughts, then they popped open and he focused on Bela, watching as he paced toward the bookcase.
"They are going to catch you Bela. I had a visitor this morning: a woman who claimed to be a writer. She was most certainly with the police."
Bela faced him, a vicious grin on his face. "You mean they're going to catch you, doctor," he snorted. A low growl emanated from deep in Neff's chest. He rose and lunged at Bela in a fluid motion, knocking aside a candlestand as his momentum slammed the other man into the glass-fronted bookcase. One of the glass panes shattered under the impact of Bela's shoulder. He cried out in a long, keening wail and wrapped his left hand around his right upper arm.
The sound snapped Neff out of his rage and he stepped back, hands dropping to his sides.
"Go away, Bela. Go far away. Before they catch you. Find someone who can help you." He sounded defeated, his words a final entreaty.
Bela turned eyes full of pain and anger on Neff.
"I'm bleeding," he said. "Get me a bandage."
Neff glared at him for a moment, then turned and left the room. Bela followed him down the hall and into the kitchen, standing silently while Neff looked in one cabinet and then another until he found a first aid kit. They both remained silent while Bela pulled his arm out of the now torn sleeve of his sweater. Neff wrapped and taped gauze over several slices from the broken glass on his upper arm. When he had finished Bela worked his arm back into the sleeve.
"It's in tatters," Neff observed, lightly touching the tears. "Let me give you something else."
Bela waited while Neff disappeared up the stairs. He returned a few minutes later carrying a faded Manchester United jersey and a dark grey anorak.
"Take these. It's cold outside," he said.
Bela snatched the garments but made no move to put them on. "Don't forsake me, Doctor. I don't have anywhere else to go. I don't know how to stop," he nearly pleaded.
Neff sighed as he repacked the first aid kit and put it away. When he finished he turned back to find Bela still standing there watching him.
"The exercises I've shown you – you must do them," he said.
"I do them!" Bela's expression darkened, the anger of a few moments ago returning.
Neff's anger rose to meet it. "Do them more! You can modify your behavior if you really want to. And if you do not then you will be caught. Do you want to go to jail?"
Bela shifted the bundled clothes to one hand and reached for the knob on the garden door with the other. He paused in the doorway. Neff's look of relief that his visitor was leaving froze on his face.
"Maybe I do," Bela said. "It would be easier than living the way I do now."
"Bela –."
"And what about you doctor? It seems to me you have no hope. Certainly no hope of modifying your behavior!"
He slipped out and shut the door leaving Neff standing frozen in the middle of the kitchen.