An Adventure in Gévaudan, a sherlock holmes fanfic

An Adventure in Gévaudan

"For this was the land of the ever-memorable Beast, the Napoleon Bonaparteof wolves. What a career was his! He lived ten months at free quarters in Gévaudan and Vivarais; he ate women and children and "shepherdesses celebrated for their beauty"; he pursued armed horsemen; he has been seen at broad noonday chasing a post-chaise and outrider along the king's high-road, and chaise and outrider fleeing before him at the gallop. He was placarded like a political offender, and ten thousand francs were offered for his head. And yet, when he was shot and sent to Versailles, behold! a common wolf, and even small for that."

- Robert Louis Stevenson, from Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes

"WATSON! WATSON!" I heard him shout, along with his bounding footsteps. "Where on earth have you been and why do you not respond to my messages and telegrams?" Holmes exclaimed, bursting into my apartment bedroom, he paused a moment and examined the room. "Why is it so dark in here, it's the middle of the day?" I coughed and spluttered, then wiped my mouth with a handkerchief. "And why are you in bed?"

"Surely you can come to the obvious conclusion." said I, weakly, for I was suffering with a headache. I had been taken ill with a high fever for a period of three days, it wasn't serious, and there was no significant threat to my life.

"Yes well, your health aside you must get dressed and come with me, south to France and Lozère. We have a case!"

"Holmes, I am in no fit state to travel anywhere and I fear I won't be for some days." He remained silent for several moments and paced my room, tapping the edge of an envelope against his lips as he did.

"I cannot go alone. I need a companion. Particularly a doctor, your learned skills are a requirement I cannot do without in this matter."

"So I assume that southern France has excommunicated all its doctors for scientific heresy." He arched his eyebrow at my dry wit. "Can you not consult a local doctor?"

"Yes, but their lack of investment in my methods and tolerance for my personality may provide a hindrance. The case requires a certain sensitivity."

"What is this case?"

"A series of wolf attacks and the disappearance of a young farmer, a François Reynard. Here, the letter from his wife." He said handing the letter to me. It read:

Dear Monsieur Sherlock Holmes

I have heard of your recent exploits in catching Christophe Laurent and the matter concerning the Gargouille art exhibit. I write to you with a desperate hand, for the local authorities deny my claims and my protests. The matter concerns my husband, François Reynard . Some weeks ago he disappeared without a trace. Men from the local villages searched high and low in the forests and the mountains that surround our little homestead, but they found nothing. During this time two great tragedies befell our region. The first, concerned our neighbour. Jeanne Boulet, a woman of twenty and five years. Her body was found, her throat bitten, her body bloody and mauled and all the evidence suggested she had been attacked by a wolf or predatory creature of a similar nature. The second, her son, a boy of fourteen, Pierre Boulet. The relationship between us has been strained over some months due to a legal dispute over the boundaries of our two homesteads. My husband and hers, Remi Boulet, have come to blows over the matter on several occasions.

Previously my husband had a relationship with Monique de Chastel who is also known locally as The maid of Gévaudan, she lives in an old château, deep in the Mercoire forest. My husband never gave much detail as to his affair with her. Some of the local villagers believe she is a witch, or in league with the devil and a direct descendant of Jean de Chastel. I put no credence on such claims, I believe she is merely a lonely woman who has quite possibly driven herself insane. I fancy myself a learned woman and engage myself in books and reading as often as I can, my sensibilities do not lend themselves to the supernatural as some of our villagers do but the more I hear and the circumstantial evidence surrounding our situation lends itself to that kind of explanation, particularly when you consider our region's history and the story concerning La Bête du Gévaudan.

I cannot conceive of what the authorities claim my husband has done. I wish to put a stop to this before it comes to fruition, prove his innocence and ultimately find him, for I fear if the authorities find him first, they shall do their worst. So I implore upon your reputation for solving such cases with rationality and your standing as a learned man of London. Please come, as soon as you can.

Yours

Madame Kamile Reynard.

P.S. I have included in this letter numerous articles from our local newspaper concerning the case in order to furnish you with as much knowledge as possible. There are also directions to my homestead once you reach the train station in Langogne.

"A desperate hand indeed." I said, noting the rushed handwriting and how the ink had blotted heavily upon certain words and letters.

"You are of course familiar with the legend in that region, La Bête du Gévaudan?"

"I am, but only vaguely." I replied and took a sip of water. "Might I suggest you take Mary with you as a companion."

"Mary?" He replied as if I'd suggested he take Santa Claus.

"While she is inexperienced, she has taken a great interest in my work over the past few weeks and I have been teaching her some of the basics in autopsy and diagnosis. Her good graces and amiable personality will assist you well. She is also fascinated by stories, myths and legends such as this. She would relish the opportunity."

He paced the room again, in consideration of my suggestion.

"I couldn't possibly put her in such danger."

"Danger? Surely you don't believe this beast has actually returned?"

"No, but the mountainous country is wild. It is conceivable that she could be attacked by a normal run of the mill wolf. I would be at pains to protect her and my worry for her safety may intrude on..."

"I assure you Holmes, Mary is quite capable of looking after herself. She may, from the outside, look like a delicate woman, but she is resourceful, and has a great capacity for wit and intelligence." Holmes pondered on my suggestion further.

"Does she speak French?"

"Fluently, like yourself."

"Good, excellent. Where is she?" he asked.

"On her way, she went out to fetch some medication for me."

"Well, if you don't mind enduring your fever alone without your wife to comfort you."

"She isn't my wife, Holmes."

"Oh. Sorry." He paused, regarding me with that pensive stare that had become so familiar to me. "Strange." He continued. "Perhaps an inevitability that my mind thinks as a fact." I coughed again and mopped my brow with a cool wet flannel. A sudden weakness came over me, the fever that ailed me came in waves and when Holmes had burst into my bedroom it was during a period of lucidity that, at that moment began to fail me.

"How long till Mary's return?" he asked. "The train to Dover leaves at seventeen minutes past four."

"You plan to go today?"

"Of course, Madame Reynard did say to come as soon as possible." I sunk down in my bed eager for rest. Upon seeing this, Holmes took the cue and moved into the living room of my apartment. "I shall wait for her in the next room. You clearly need your rest," he said as he left.

Half an hour later Mary came into my bedroom and looked upon me with loving eyes. She patted my forehead with the wet flannel, the fever made me break out in cold sweats.

"Have you spoken with Holmes?" I said.

"I have. I refused his request. You need me more than he does." I smiled, comforted by her devotion to me.

"It's just a fever, it will pass in a few days. You should go with him. It will be a wonderful opportunity. A chance to acquaint yourself more fully with him. You did say you were growing a little bored of London."

"Only a little and not enough for me to leave you."

"Would you go if I were not a factor? You said you'd like to be more involved in my life. Holmes it seems is a part of my life." She considered me as she dipped the flannel in the bowl of water.

"Do you want me to go?" I remained silent, unsure how to answer. If I said yes she may construe it as a rejection, if I said no, I might give the impression that I am incapable of looking after myself and prove myself to be an unfit husband. "I think Holmes wants and needs a companion. Someone to exchange ideas with and stimulate his analytical mind. He struggles on his own. And with your strong will and wits you would provide him with an excellent substitute in my absence."

Dearest John

I hope this letter finds you well and you are recovering from your malady The country here is wild and sprawling, the air is fresh and it stirs the soul. I wish you could be here to enjoy its beauty with me. We made good time on our journey, half a day to reach Lyon by train and mere hours upon entering the region of Lozère. The final leg of our journey we had to take by horse for there is no carriage service at least not in the abundance that London enjoys. Holmes is a most intriguing fellow and I found it quite surprising that in this modern age the man doesn't know how to ride. I initially thought the journey might allow me to get to know your friend a little better and find the measure of him. He remained quiet in silent study of an abundance of articles and documents for the first part of this journey. We had a private booth. I tried to engage him in conversation, but for the most part he replied with monosyllabic grunts and returned to reading. I think he is a little uncomfortable around women. The usual polite graces and small acts of chivalry aside. I made it my mission to discover the reasons, and draw out at least some small element of his character.

"What are you reading?" I ventured to ask when the silence became intolerable.

"Newspaper articles."

"Concerning what?" I asked and he stared at me with considerable contempt.

"The case, of course."

"Of course." I said, bashfully. "Anything of use? " He regarded me once more with a most penetrating stare. It makes a woman shrink in the very chair in which she sits. I do not know how you tolerate it, John. "Have you come to any conclusions?"

"No. It's impossible, the articles are shrouded in emotion and rhetoric of the worst kind. The only conclusions one can arrive at are ones concerning the authors character."

"And what might those be?"

"Arrogant, self righteous, and condescending, his views are steeped in religious and political rhetoric. He stands somewhere to the extreme right. He condemns without sufficient evidence and uses a straw picking tactic.

"Straw picking?"

"Yes, he points toward evidence and events that only prove his limited world view.. I might hazard a guess that he does this because he is paid highly to do so. Possibly by the prefectures of the region, possibly by the church. It is also a possibility that those same organisations are the reasons for the newspaper's very existence and it renders the articles useless. So, no, I haven't come to any conclusions."

I was at a loss for words. Holmes delivered the speech at such a pace I could barely keep up. I now understand your marvelling at the quickness of his mind and at the man himself. We sat in silence for several uncomfortable moments, during which we exchanged vague smiles.

"I guess it is to be expected."

"Pardon?"

"In a culture so driven by emotion one expects articles of this kind to tend toward the emotional. One laments at the loss of the empirical and the scientific, for somewhere between all this; the truth of a matter gets lost."

"But emotions are at the very core of our being, in essence it defines who we are."

"Then perhaps if science was at the core of our being we might be living in a better more organised world."

"Perhaps." I agreed. "What I would like to know is how you came to the conclusions you did concerning the authors character and his political affiliations."

"Ahh simplicity itself," said he, his eyes lit up at my question and he handed me the article. Which I skim read as he pointed out his conclusions.

"See how many times he uses the word family, and family values, eleven I think. He is quick to draw the conclusion that outsiders or foreigners are responsible. Xenophobia is a common fear amongst the conservative. He spends two paragraphs on this Monique de Chastel's history, and erroneously concludes that she is a gypsy from Romani."

"How do you know it to be erroneous?"

"While her jet black hair might suggest such a thing, I made some enquires as to her lineage. She is a direct descendent of Jean de Chastel, the man who claimed to have killed this so called beast of Gévaudan. He does have a murky past and thought himself a warlock, a strange man, influenced by many foreign cultures and practices that are different to those of the Catholic faith, but he remains of France and by ancestry, Monique is French down to her very essence."

"And most strikingly beautiful." said I, looking at the photograph accompanying the article. "The woman is the very definition of sensual. Why, if I weren't so taken with our mutual friend I might throw myself at her feet and beg her to take me as her lover." I added rather teasingly and it had the desired effect for Holmes arched his eye brow and readjusted himself in his seat. I pushed him further, I'm afraid to say, something I now feel guilty for, such was my need to penetrate your friends scientific mind and reveal something, other. I peered at him, pretending to study him, as he would me.

"You're not comfortable around the fairer sex are you?" He didn't respond for quite some time, letting the train wheel noise take precedent.

"I... it's not... It's something I take great pains to deny. For the understanding of a woman's mind, her impulses, the creative left turns, beyond a certain Darwinian imperative. There is, essentially, little mystery to the female kind. It is motivated by the material, perhaps a circumstance of our social system. But, they will, on occasion do things that defy reason. It is most perplexing and I gave up trying to understand it a long time ago. My world requires order and..."

"Who was it?" I said interrupting him.

"I'm sorry, who was what?"

"The woman that broke your heart."

"I... it was... I prefer not..." He fell silent and glanced toward the window of our booth watching the passing scenery. "I don't think it conducive to the case at hand."

"Of course not, but we have many a mile to travel before we get to the case at hand. Perhaps your story might furnish us with more trust and camaraderie." Holmes peered at me, and like you have said so many times, one can feel the gears working in his brain as he examines you with his stare, like some biological calculator.

"It was a brief encounter, and one that I am guilty of putting too much stock in. An old friend from my early school years sought me out. Losing her, losing that idea of hope will forever take some element of joy, if not all, out of my existence. I cannot see anything without the awareness of losing her to go with it. I see a sunset or the great wild, sprawling beauty of the France that passes by us through these windows or... read a book that I find poignant and meaningful ready to share the ideas and the intricate thematic detail within, only to turn and find she is not there and never will be. Knowing my dying words might be that I love her will be said, but never heard and have no meaning to anyone. So you see, I find great comfort in the scientific and the rational."

"Does this woman have a name?"

"She does, but I am at pains to say it, and if you ask me, I will not answer." John, I had to ask and I did. He remained silent for some hours after this conversation. We took food together, we took the opportunity to stretch our legs in the freshness of the air when the train stopped significantly long enough for us to do so. In all this time there was no conversation and I began to regret asking and probing toward such things. But who could resist unveiling such a unique mind and finding the core reason for his existence and the why of what he does in the world?

We reached Lyon in this continued silence and found a hotel near the Gare de Lyon-Perrache station. It was late but we managed to find a café that was open and we ate in silence. I was relieved to finally take to my bed in the hotel and put the uncomfortable day behind me.

"Aside from the article and its uselessness to you, what do you think has happened to François? Do you have any basic theories?" I asked Holmes on the second leg of our journey. We were headed for the region formally known as Gévaudan, now known as Lozère.

"I do."

"And do you care to share them with me?"

"The first, he has abandoned his wife and returned to Monique, and such is his shameful cowardice in the face of commitment he has made sure to go unnoticed and hide his tracks well. If this is the case the wolf attacks are a most unfortunate coincidence to him. The second, he too has been attacked and killed by the wolf and the authorities simply haven't found his body yet."

"And the third?" I asked, knowing that this would be the wildest and most unlikely theory. For it was not completely out of the realms of possibility, such is my agnostic and open view toward these things. Holmes paused for a long moment, reluctant to give the theory words. I waited with anticipation and he studied my eager expression.

"François has succumbed to a rare physiological malady known as Lycanthropy." This was not the answer I expected.

"Lycanthropy?"

"Yes a mental illness similar to that of schizophrenia and brought on by a severe melancholy state of mind. Wherein the sufferer imagines himself to be an animal, in this case a wolf, and during these bouts of insanity he conducts himself in a manner of a wolf. He might have killed the boy and his mother to resolve this dispute between he and his neighbour. In such a case I believe the father is at risk and will be his next victim."

"So you do not think he is an actual werewolf?"

"Out of the question."

"But given the region in which this happened and the legends surrounding the area of Gévaudan surely it is a possibility, however remote?"

"This is the problem with theorising before the facts and why I am reluctant to do so. One tends to lean toward one theory and fits the facts to suit it. Rather than let the facts direct one toward a theory. You are likely to do so, as you have and excuse me for saying so, romantic notions of wanting to believe in the legends. And strictly speaking the The Beast of Gévaudan was not a werewolf, not even a wolf, for no species of wolf has red hair and a black stripe down its back. There is nothing in the literature surrounding the event that tends toward a shape shifter."

"Oh, how disappointing."

"Yes, the truth is often very run of the mill and disheartening. If one wants to live a hopeful life full of optimism and opportunity one shouldn't venture to answer certain questions and leave a little mystery in life." said he, a sorrowful expression growing upon his face and his words falling heavy from his lips.

"How about a game?" I suggested, trying to lighten the mood and pass the time. He agreed and we whiled away the rest of the journey playing rummy. And I might add, for a man so gifted in intellectual capacity I found it very easy to beat him.

We arrived in Langogne late in the afternoon and made our way through its narrow avenues. The streets here have a quiet calm about them. It is most gentle and relaxing. We ate in Le Café du Vieux Pont a small café unaccustomed to strangers given that its patrons all turned their heads and stared at us as we entered. We ate quietly in a seat by the window. I could feel their eyes upon me, and if it wasn't for Holmes acting as my chaperone I might have felt unbearably vulnerable and intimidated. After dinner we set about finding some transport for the final leg of our journey and came upon some stables where they rented out horses.

"Is there not a carriage service in this town? Or perhaps we could purchase a couple of bicycles." Holmes said as we approached. I regarded him confused.

"Well we're here now and it won't be long before dark." I addressed the stable boy and asked the price of renting two horses.

"Actually we will only be needing the one horse." Holmes said to the stable boy.

"One?"

And then I realised. "Can't you ride?"

He shook his head. "I've never had a need. I spend most of my days in London where there are more than adequate transport services."

"Then it is something I must mark in my diary." He looked at me with suspicion and considerable perplexity. "That I, Mary Morstan will teach the great Sherlock Holmes how to ride a horse." I gave him a broad smile and, in response he raised a quizzical eyebrow. The stable boy interrupted the moment as he led out a sturdy stallion with a white mane. I paid him and we made our way out of Langogne to Kamile's homestead, Holmes shouting out directions that he read from Kamile's instructions. We rode through open fields and marsh lands, and through woods and thickets of trees until night fell. Kamile's homestead was small and quaint, not five miles from the edge of the Mercoire forest. She was delighted to see Holmes and made no account or protest at the late hour of our arrival. She was, however surprised to see me.

"If it isn't Jacques Holmes himself in my household, come in, come in... Oh." She added upon seeing me. I smiled courteously.

"Madame Reynard, may I introduce Mary Du Morstan."

"Please to meet you." She said.

"Charmed."

"Please, please come in make yourselves at home," said she, as she stepped aside allowing us into her small but cosy living room. A fire was blazing in the fire place. "I am sorry I thought you would be coming alone, I did not account for you having company. Is this your...

"Merely a friend." Madame Reynard smiled in response and we sat down. "I have food if you haven't eaten already. "

"We ate in Langagoc." I said relived to be taking the weight off my feet.

"Then perhaps some wine. Possibly not the quality you're used to," she said, as she poured. "I take it you will begin your investigations on the morrow?" Holmes nodded in response, too tired to speak and I too, felt a heavy tiredness within my bones. "I'm afraid I have only made allowances for one and my house is small with only two bedrooms." She said, looking at me as she finished the sentence.

"I would be perfectly accommodated here, Madame. Reynard. At home I often sleep in my armchair and am quite accustomed to it."

"Of course, I imagine you fall asleep reading some great tome and your mind just grows more intuitive and knowledgeable just by sleeping." She said, the woman seemed as if she was in love with Holmes and a wild theory popped into my head that she might have killed her own husband just to prompt and have justifiable reason to call on our mutual friend's unique skills. I might have been taken with jealousy, if I wasn't already taken with you, John. Still, a girl can feel slighted in the face of such disregard. What a strange thing, to see a woman drop all her guards and fawn all over a man as if she were a servant. And even stranger that I should, well not jealousy as such, one does feel protective after spending so much time with a man. Such unjustified competition between the feminine, one is at pains to admit, but such actions draw it out of me. Madame attempted in her enthused manner to engage us in conversation. But Holmes's eyes fell heavy and was asleep to the world before he could answer. Seeing as much, her questions fell short and she looked to me with a bashful smile.

"Perhaps it is time to retire," said she, finally and I nodded in agreement. By candlelight Madame Reynard showed me up the stairs and presented my room. It was an old house and the walls were made of stone, the candlelight flickered and bounced across the walls, highlighting the rustic but cosy atmosphere of the house.

"Perhaps not what you are used to, but I hope you will be comfortable." Madame Reynard said plainly. "Feel free to light a fire if the blankets don't provide adequate warmth. It can get very cold at night, even in the summer." She smiled as she bid me good night with all the kindness and gratitude of the world contained within her eyes..

I heard a strong wind blow across the farmlands and marshes outside my window and it rattled through the pine trees that stood tall in the forest surrounding the house. As I lay there, settling down to sleep I swear I heard voices whimpering across the wind. Initially I thought I was hearing the shrill calling of wolves, that was until the wind died a little and from the room next to me I heard gentle sobbing.

"You must think me awful."

"Why would I think that?"

"Flirting with Holmes as I did and being rude to you upon my arrival. You must forgive me I have been filled with anxiety over the past few weeks and with François gone, I find the work on the farm difficult. It takes its toil upon my mind and finally having someone that may solve these woes is such a great relief." She paused and wiped her eyes with handkerchief and I was struck by her outpouring of emotion. She must've been holding it all in, for all the time since François had been missing, and I had only just that evening met the woman. I sat at her bedside, forsaking my own weariness, until she finally drifted off to sleep and again I heard the wind and the calling of the wolves outside.

"How shall you conduct your investigation?" Madame Reynard asked of Holmes over breakfast. She must've been up before dawn and had taken great efforts to impress us, she even gave us coffee, a luxury I hadn't expected this far south and in such a rural area.

"Firstly I would like to speak with the prefecture and see if I might look over the reports as to how the search for your husband was conducted. And I might see what holes there are within these investigations. Perhaps they have missed a vital something."

"I don't expect you'll get a happy welcome. The prefecture is an arrogant fool, more concerned with wealth and power than that of the people he presides over. For example he was more apt to condemning my husband as a hapless drunk who was fool enough to lose himself in the forest on one of his drinking binges. That, and he may soon come to the conclusion that he is responsible for the deaths of Jeanne Boulet and her young son. On one of these fictional drinking binges."

"Was this drinking true of your husband?"

"Absolutely not. The only occasion in which he took a drink was at Christmas. Or on certain special occasions. He was hard-working and as honest as the day is long." Madame Reynard responded, most defensively. Holmes arched his eyebrow and sipped his coffee. "What is the matter, Holmes? Do you not believe me?"

"Madame Reynard, I find that second hand information about a person most unreliable at the best of times and you are at a duty to defend the honour your husband."

"I have no reason to lie to you," she said, sharply.

"He means nothing by it, I assure you." I added, well aware of Holmes's lack of social graces and his blunt way of speaking. "Shall we?" I said, and stood up from the table.

"I'm afraid I cannot go with you, I have duties and chores to attend to."

"When we return would it be possible for you to show us the last known location of your husband?"

"Of course. When shall you return?"

"Hopefully, early this afternoon."

"Take heart Madame Reynard, Holmes's skills at deduction will surely put the matter to rest soon and you shall be reunited with your husband." I said as we left and attempting to quell Madame's Reynard's ever lowering opinion of Holmes.

"You shouldn't have done that." Holmes said as we mounted the horse outside.

"What?"

"You made guarantees that François would be found and they would be reunited. It is quite possible that the man is dead. You only served to keep up her false hopes and prolong her..."

"...Hope is a very useful thing in these situations, Holmes. Do you want the woman to collapse in fits of despair and sorrow? Do you want the woman to give up? She very well might take her own life if we don't give her this false hope as you call it. False hope is still hope." He paused and regarded me with that pensive stare.

"So you consider hope an absolute?"

"Yes, I guess I do. Is there something wrong in that?"

"No, no, just something I hadn't considered before." I smiled and waited patiently for him to mount. I spurred the horse forward and we made our way through the gently fading mists of the early morning. We took the same route we had done the night previous and onward to Mende.

On our way we rode along a narrow dirt track, pine trees soaring into the clear morning sky on either side of us. The dirt track rose up high above the tree line where we came upon and passed the ruins of a castle, the a statue of the Virgin Mary mounted on its keep. It was as if she were looking over the region with a watchful and graceful eye. And as we passed down into the valley I noticed some faint plumes of smoke rising from one of the ruined buildings. I said nothing at the time, happy to follow Holmes and his train of investigation and stopping at that moment might hinder such a course. It was approaching midday when we reached Mende and found the prefecture building. Our timing couldn't have been more serendipitous, we caught the prefecture during his lunch so he couldn't fob us off with other engagements. His secretary took some convincing, but Holmes annulled such protests by ignoring her and walking straight into his offices. After explanations as to our visit, he agreed to speak with us, but gave us a limit of only ten minutes. His name was Davide Labelle in his early forties, and he was a most strikingly fair and good looking gentleman. He informed us that the bodies of Jeanne Boulet and her son had been cremated, so there was no opportunity there and no possibility of confirming their deaths as wolf attacks or otherwise.

"Might I see the reports made in relation to the investigation?" Holmes asked, once the introductions of our business had been made.

"I'm afraid there are no reports, Monsieur Holmes. This is not Paris, nor London and our town hasn't the means nor the budget to employ a police force to investigate and record such matters. We employed a few local wolf hunters in the search, but we found nothing. It happens, farmers inspired by drink go wondering off into the forest never to return, their bodies left for the animals. I really can't see why Madame Reynard has employed you. I expect she is finding it difficult to deal with her loss and she is drawing this matter out beyond need be. Far be it from to tell you your wasting your time, but the town considers the matter settled. If you want to roam about the forest looking for a dead man that's your business and you're free to do so. But don't expect any help from me or anyone in my employ."

"But what of the young boy and his mother? Do you..."

"Wolf attacks." Monsieur Labelle interrupted abruptly.

"What kind of wolf?" I said and he peered at me most suspiciously. Holmes looked across at me too.

"Your normal run of the mill wild wolf."

"And you have evidence of this?" I asked and he paused again.

"Mademoiselle Morstan if you are leading me to a train of thought that concludes a werewolf or the beast of Gévaudan then kindly stop. They are stories to entertain little children and childish adults. They have no basis in fact and I won't entertain you stirring up such nonsense in my department. As I said, it comes with the territory and living in a wild region." I was about to protest more. "The matter is closed." He said before I could put words to my thoughts. "Feel free to patronise our bars, café's and shops, we are open to tourists and we hope you enjoy your time here, now I have other matters. Good day."

I stopped before leaving.

"Excuse me Monsieur, but on the way here we passed an old castle high on the hills of the Mercoire forest."

"Yes, Castle de Luc."

"I was wondering at its history, particularly if anyone lives there."

"Why would you think that?"

"I saw smoke rising from one the buildings. Perhaps François has taken up residence there, for whatever reason." He peered at me with much condescension in his eyes.

"Probably hunters making camp for the evening."

"But did you at least check, during your search for François?"

"Yes, yes. We found nothing. No one lives there."

There was little else we could do and we left his offices and the building. Holmes seemed quite happy judging by the smirk adorning his face as we left. "What are you looking so pleased about?" I asked.

"I can now conduct my investigations with impunity. The police, or in this case the authorities often provide a hindrance rather than assistance. In their absence I expect to find François much faster. That and I found your questioning in the face of Monsieur Labelle's reticence most amusing. Dupin was right, your companionship will prove most invaluable."

With little business left in Mende we made haste back to Madame Reynard's homestead.

Might we stop along the way, at the castle. I suggested to Holmes as we rode.

"You have the reins, Mary."

"But do you think it would be worth our time?"

"I do."

"You were very quiet during the interview with Labelle. Why?" I asked after some time on our journey back.

"You heard his long diatribe, his mind was already set. There was little I could do or say to change it. Or bring forth any pertinent evidence or fact. It was evidence in and of itself."

"How so?"

"He obviously has something to hide. Or something he doesn't want us to find. Did you notice he lied about someone living in that castle, unless Madame Reynard lied to us about Monique De Chastel why would he deny that anyone lived there?" I paused in realisation as in all the travel and the excitement of visiting new lands I had forgotten Madame Reynard's letter and her pointing out Monique's existence and history. "Why would the prefecture deny such a thing and why give us free reign to investigate?"

"What else can he do? We have committed no crime. But I imagine he or one of his agents will be keeping a close eye on us. So be on your guard and be careful."

We found little on our arrival at Castle De Luc, just a smouldering fire, long extinguished, within one of the ruins and evidence left behind of hunters seeking shelter as Labelle had told us beforehand. Holmes examined the area fully and while doing so stopped in the midst of studying the ground.

"Do you hear that?" He asked and I listened. To my ears there was nothing but the gentle wind and the faint tweeting of birds from the surrounding trees.

"You mean the birds? The wind?"

"No, that hollow sound... the ground under foot. Look, here, there are tracks, two sets leading into the ruin, but none leading out."

"So, where are these two hunters and their horses? Perhaps they were ravaged by... wolves?"

"Then where's the blood?"

"You are correct of course."

"You see now what I mean about fitting theories to suit facts instead of facts to suit theories?"

"I do. So where did they go?" He peered at me with that most pensive of gazes.

"I do not know." He said and examined the ground underfoot once more.

"It's getting late, and Madame Reynard will be expecting us.

"Indeed." He said, deep in thought.

"Then shall we?" Holmes started out of his thoughts and took my cue.

It was mid afternoon upon our return to Madame Reynard's homestead and we found her dutifully waiting in her living room. Her face brightened up with hope upon seeing us.

"Did you discover anything from the prefecture?"

"It was as you said. Now, you must show us the place where you last saw your husband."

"Technically I last saw him leaving this very homestead. But I have full knowledge of his routine. His first duty is to take the cows out to pasture and since his second duty went undone he must have disappeared during this time."

"A very astute conclusion Madame Reynard. May I enquire as to the weather since his disappearance?"

"The weather?"

"Yes, has it rained significantly?"

"Now that you mention it, no. It has been an unusually dry spell over these past weeks."

"Excellent."

We made our way across the open fields, following the well beaten path of the Reynard cowherd. This path lead us to the very outer reaches and to the threshold of the Mercoire forest.

"It is a strange thing, but the cows are somehow drawn to this area, even when my husband tried to encourage them toward to other parts of the field, they would inevitably come back here. A small fact." Madame Reynard said as we came upon the area. "Much to the chagrin of Monsieur Boulet. The boarders between our land and homesteads treads this line here and the cows do sometimes drift over."

"Most intriguing." Holmes said and he began his meticulous study of the ground at his feet and the well trodden grass and mud. To mine and Madame Reynard's surprise at one point he laid flat on his stomach as if to study each blade of grass individually. After which he stood up and stared into the forest. Then he would study the ground once more. He engaged in this odd behaviour and study for almost ten minutes

"Please, Monsieur Holmes I can bear it no longer, what conclusions have you drawn?" Madame Reynard suddenly said. He flashed his look over his shoulder and approached us.

"This is something of a loose theory and open to interpretation."

"But..?"

"I believe your husband, while attempting to encourage the cows away from this boarder you speak of, stopped most abruptly and turned to address someone or something within the forest. See here, how his these foot marks in the dried mud suggest the turn of his feet to face whomever it was." I looked down at the ground and saw the footprints of which he spoke and they did suggest as much. "I believe he was engaged in conversation for sometime and then he stepped forward and here I lose his trail into the forest." Holmes was holding back on saying what I then saw as apparent. The footprints were those of a man, but in his next steps toward the threshold of trees had changed into gigantic paw prints. I looked up at Holmes.

"But this is surely evidence of..." I stopped dead in speaking the sentence as I saw in Holmes's eyes a warning not finish it.

"Evidence of what?" Madame Reynard said pleadingly. I turned from Holmes's look to address her.

"There are footprints here of a wolf." Madame Reynard could barely comprehend and she searched mine and Holmes's eyes for meaning.

"You mean to say, François was killed by this wolf? Then where is his body?"

"And where is the blood?" Holmes added.

"Then what do you mean to suggest?"

"That your husband is the beast of Gévaudan. That he changed into a wolf and ran into the forest and killed Madame Boulet and her son."

"Mary you construe ahead of the evidence and ahead of the facts."

"What other conclusion is there?"

"One less ridiculous." We looked to him expectantly, but he didn't furnish us any further.

"Where were the bodies found?"

"Not far from here. In the forest, just off the winding dirt track that leads through the forest toward Langogne." Again Holmes gave me a look of disapproval arching his eye brow, warning me just with his look not to speak further. The man is at times most annoying and condescendingly superior. I merely huffed in frustration at his dismissal of my theory.

"Might there be a short cut through the forest?"

"It is possible, yes." Madame Reynard said. Holmes turned and made toward the threshold of trees. "Holmes!" She exclaimed and he span on his heels.

"Is there a problem?"

"I believe you are coming to the same conclusions I feared the town would and it's a conclusion I hired you to prove against."

"What conclusions are those?"

"That François is responsible for the deaths of Jeanne Boulet and her son."

"Would you have me deny the truth? If it is indeed so? I would also add, Madame Reynard that I have yet come to a complete conclusion, please have patience." Madame Reynard floundered and blushed at a loss for words. "Shall we continue?"

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Holmes, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." I said after a time and as we had made our way along the dirt track Madame Reynard spoke of.

"Shakespeare's Hamlet?" Madame Reynard said.

"Yes."

"The Englishman has the luxury of being a poet. Not confronted with the day to day practicalities of scientific investigation. The man made his way in the world by his imagination."

I nearly punched him Dupin, I'm afraid to say. He does have this dispiriting habit of reducing every mystery, every wild or romantic idea down to earth with the dull shards of reality. I find it most disagreeable.

We progressed through the forest following Holmes, he examined every inch of the area and the narrow path that led us through. He stopped on occasion and examined the bark on the trees, and the foliage at his feet. There was a particular point at which he did this and came up with an empty wine bottle. He turned and presented it to us. Madame Reynard huffed.

"It's been there for months if not years." He said and tossed it. I did wonder as to why he chose this action and thought that he meant to plant doubt in Madame Reynard's mind about her husband's character. If he did, it did not work, she remained resolute as to his innocence.

"Here?" He asked when we came out upon the dirt track.

"Yes."

"They were most definitely killed by wolves, or a wolf." Both I and Madame Reyanrd looked to him thinking he had confirmed the theory I presented earlier. "See the clumps of white hair that litters the ground, the trees, and the undergrowth marking our short cut. Wolves moult in early summer to adapt to the changing climate."

"Yes, that much is obvious."

He stooped to the ground and between finger and thumb picked up a torn piece of red fabric. He then sniffed at it as one would a glass of fine wine. What he did next was very odd. He wafted the piece of fabric through the air, pacing up and down the dirt track. Madame Reynard and I looked at each other, silently remarking on the oddity of his action. "Holmes?"

"Shhhhh." He said abruptly. We listened in silence, but as in the Castle De Luc ruins I heard nothing but the wind rustling through trees and the birds gently tweeting.

"What do you hear?" Madame Reynard asked. As he spoke the breath froze in my lungs as I saw something thirty feet behind Holmes in the depths of the forest. Behind me I heard a low growl and I spun around and saw a large white wolf. They had us surrounded and their low growling was growing ever more aggressive as they crept toward us. Madame Reynard let out a shrill and fearful yelp. Holmes was strangely calm as if he knew something we didn't. The wolf behind him charged through the bracken and the undergrowth of the forest. Holmes span around and threw the piece of fabric and the wolf leapt for it instead of us. They snarled and grappled with each other fighting over the fabric and we ran, ran as fast as we could back along the dirt track. I was full of fear and panic and grateful I had chosen a sensible and moveable dress.

Dusk had fallen by the time we reached the point that the dirt track came out of the forest. I stopped, sucking in the air, panting with the exertion of the run. When I turned, Holmes caught up with me, Madame Reynard trailing behind him gripping his hand, her face full of fear and panic. The wolves were nowhere to be seen or heard. There was a brief moment in which we caught our breath, shafts of bright full moonlight shone through the trees.

"What on God's green earth happened? Where did they come from?" I exclaimed. Holmes did not answer, his look trained on something over my shoulder and I feared the worst, another pack of wolves? It was my relief to find he was staring at the Boulet homestead in the fields, some kilometres behind me.

"The wolves, Holmes!"

"What of them?" He said in reply and for several moments I was struck dumb.

"Why did they attack us? And what were you doing with that piece of fabric?"

"Is that the Boulet homestead?" He asked. Madame Reynard simply nodded in reply still recovering from the brief ordeal. Holmes made haste toward it, continuing along the dirt track. Madame Reynard remained were she was, as did I. Upon realising we hadn't followed him, Holmes stopped and turned.

"I take it you intend to question Monsieur Boulet?" Madame Reynard said.

"I do."

"Then I shall take my leave and go home. My presence will surely hinder you rather than help."

"Very well."

"Will you be all right on your own?" I asked, she nodded and set forth back to her homestead.

"Monsiuer Remi Boulet?" Holmes asked when the man finally answered the door. He nodded glumly in reply. "I wonder if we might ask you some questions concerning the disappearance of François Reynard and your recent loss."

"If you must." Remi stood aside inviting us into his small farmhouse. It seemed that even though Monsieur Boulet was walking and talking, his disposition presented a passive lifelessness, a ghost of a man, if you will. The appearance and presentation of his home and the rooms within displayed the same state of mind. A still wind swept through the corridors and echoed across its stone walls. Household items were in disarray, left strewn on the floor and piled on top of chairs and other furniture. We walked through into the kitchen and took seats at a small wooden dining table and I noted with interest a red dress and sewing materials laid across it and there was distinct but gentle fragrance that hung in the air, that of a very exquisite and expensive perfume.

"An unusual past time for a man?" I said. Remi looked up at me, confused at first. "The dress." I added pointing out the sowing threads.

"My wife's most prized possession." He said heavily as he delicately pushed a thread through the eye of his needle. Holmes examined the room before he took a seat. "You said you had questions?"

"Yes. When was the last time you saw, encountered or spoke with François Reynard?" Remi placed the needle and the thread down on the table and fixed his gaze squarely upon Holmes.

"I was chopping wood at the front of the house and I saw him across the way herding his cows. It was the oddest thing. He stopped and turned, as if he heard something within the depths of the forest. Then, after a moment he just stood there staring into the trees as if listening to someone who wasn't there. In the next moment he walked into the forest. And that was the last time I saw him." I marvelled on hearing this brief account for it was almost exactly as Holmes had concluded from his examination of the days old footprints in the ground.

"Where was your wife and son?" Holmes asked.

"In town, she likes to... I mean... she liked to take Pierre to church of a Sunday morning and spend the rest of the day in Langogne. I am not a man of faith, at least I wasn't."

"How do you mean?" I asked. Remi paused and looked me in the eye, considering his answer.

"I believe God punished my lack of faith, by taking my wife and son."

"Out of interest where did your wife obtain such a lovely garment? It must have been expensive." I asked.

"Oh, well. We had good harvest this year. And we decided to take a trip to Lyon before winter. We passed a boutique and she set her heart on it. So, I bought it."

"And the perfume?" Holmes asked.

"Perfume?"

"Yes the smell is quite prevalent. Amour is it not? Made from jasmine from Grasse.

"Yes, another gift I bought for her in Lyon." Holmes arched his eye brow and lit a cigarette.

"You don't mind, do you?" Remi shook his head and continued with his stitching of the red dress. A silence hung in the air for a very long moment. Several minutes in fact. In such time I noticed Holmes 's eyes dart and flicker about the room, Remi seemed unconcerned with this social awkwardness and consumed himself in weaving the thin thread through the dress. I was about to ask a question myself, concerning the hunt for François and Remi's seeming lack of motivation to find his wife's killer. At such time as I was about to open my mouth to speak, Holmes plucked the piece of red fabric from his shirt pocket and tossed it delicately on the table.

"The missing piece of the puzzle," he said and stood up from his seat and made for the front door. Remi barely responded as he studied the fabric. He merely repositioned the dress on the table examining it for, as Holmes said, the missing piece of the puzzle. "And I wouldn't go into town through the forest if I were you." At this, both I and Remi looked toward him, but before either of us could respond, he left.

"That was a rather brief line of questioning." I said as we made our way across the ever darkening fields between the two homesteads.

"What were you expecting?"

"I'm not sure really, something more than that."

"I acquired all the information I needed from the man, anything else would've been an exercise in futility and dull sentimentality. Thus playing into and enhancing his existential crisis."

"Pardon? Existential?"

"Yes, it always comes with grief. A symptom. One loses something important. One begins questioning one's purpose in the universe. Questioning the reasons for death, the reasons for life. What am I here for, etc, etc. Thus an existential crisis. In short he is mortally depressed. And it may account for his new found faith in God."

"Do you think it's possible Remi Boulet may be suffering from, what was it? The rare condition you spoke of on the train?"

"Lycanthropy?"

"Yes. You did say depression was one of its fundamental causes."

"That is possible. But I think it is more likely his depression was brought on by the loss of his wife and child. After the fact of François's disappearance."

"Isn't it possible he was depressed before these incidents." He arched his eyebrow in response.

"He was also lying."

"Lying? About what?"

"The dress and the perfume. Those two things would cost more than a farmer could afford. No matter how good a harvest he had."

"But why would he lie?"

"Denial. Someone else bought those gifts."

"His wife was having an affair... with... with François!" Holmes stopped walking and addressed me with surprise.

"Good lord, no. How could you conclude such a thing?"

"Perhaps it was the source of tension between their two homesteads. The real source, this argument about borders does seem rather trivial."

"Then why keep the dress and fawn over it in such an obsessive manner? Surely he would've disposed of it and thus the tainted memory. The benefactor of the dress and the perfume is clearly someone of means, and someone non-threatening to their marital status."

"Who?"

"Who indeed."

He said little else as we made our way across the muddy track back to Madame Reynard's homestead, even though I continued to question him in attempt to establish what theories about François's disappearance he had come to. But, alas he gave me little more than grunts and nods.

As we were about to enter Madame Reynard's homestead I stopped him, grabbing his upper arm.

"Jacques, I believe you know where François is and who is responsible."

"You do?" He said, surprised at my forthrightness.

"Yes I do. And if I am to take the role of your assistant in place of John, I think I should be privy to all the facts."

"You've seen the same things I have. You are privy to all the facts." I paused, flummoxed at his simple conclusion.

"But you've summarily dismissed all the theories I've presented to you."

"Does that not narrow down the field somewhat."

"Can you not just tell me?"

"I'm sorry. I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Madame Reynard might be in a very fragile and agitated state and she will have many questions. At this point I do not wish to arouse her hopes or promote her despair by giving her any erroneous conclusions before we have confirmed all the facts and there can be no doubt. Currently I have an idea of the method used to kill Monsieur Boulet's wife and child, but one lacks a definite suspect capable of such a method."

"What is this method?"

"Trained wolves." He said and entered the homestead.

We ate dinner quietly after Holmes specifically requested Madame Reynard not to ask any further questions about the progress of his investigation. And I wonder why is the man and our mutual friend so hell bent on being this mysterious? He thanked her for dinner and enquired about a tranquil room where he might think alone.

"It is something of a three cigarette problem." He added as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin and stood.

"It is of meagre size but perhaps my library might suit you?"

"You have a library?" I asked, surprised.

"Yes, it may not compare to those you might have in England or in your own homes. But it suits my needs."

"I'm sure it will more than suffice." Both Holmes and Madame Reynard then left my company and after a short while Madame Reynard returned. She cleaned up the plates from dinner and began to wash them and I, feeling a duty to do so, assisted her. As we did, there was the most uncomfortable silence.

"He seems the most oddest of men, not at all what I expected."

"He does have that affect."

"Did you make much progress at the Boulet house?" She asked of me.

"It was a rather brief interview. Holmes assures me he has all the information he needs." Madame Reynard stopped in the midst of scrubbing a plate and she gazed out of the window with the most lost and forlorn look. She shook it off and smiled at me softly.

"I shall leave it in your most capable hands. If you'll excuse me, the day has worn heavy on my spirits." She said, and she wiped a stray tear from her eye and left my company. Not long after I too, retired to bed.

The wind picked up during the night and greatly disturbed my sleep and, John I had the wildest and most hideous of dreams. A great howling permeated them all and I even dreamt that I awoke during the night to shut the bedroom window, upon doing so, I saw in the fields, a woman drifting toward the house, she was wearing a black wedding dress of a very thin fabric, for when the moonlight caught her I could see, faintly, the woman's voluptuous and shapely body beneath the gown. I hesitate to describe her motion as a walk, her pace was too fast, she seemed to be floating above the ground. This was not the most terrifying element however, the woman was surrounded by pack upon pack of gigantic white wolves. They ran with her, and they seemed caught in an aggressive fever of some kind. As if on the hunt. Growls and barks and snarls hung on their mouths and filled the air. The sound so loud it overshadowed the very wind. I started from my sleep as none other than Holmes himself burst into my bedroom.

"The letter." He said urgently. I recoiled in shock and wrapped the bed sheets closer around myself, still in the fever of my terrible dream, and not only fear I found myself sensually aroused by the dream. Holmes's presence left me feel exposed.

"The letter!" He exclaimed once again, insisting and taking little account and courtesy.

"What letter?"

"The one from Madame Reynard. Did you bring it?"

"I... I... I.. What time is it?" I replied sleepily.

"Two a.m. Or thereabouts."

"Two a.m.! Really, Jacques, could this not have waited until the morning?"

"No, of course not. The letter? Do you have it?"

"I... I... let me think. Ahh." I searched my belongings and found the letter in my small carry case. Holmes snatched it from my fingertips and read through it with a hurried fever.

"AH HAH!" He exclaimed. "We have our suspect. For the life of me I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner."

"Perhaps you keep your conclusions not just a secret from your assistants, but from yourself as well." He peered at me with the most penetrating stare and arched his eyebrow. Without further word or graciousness he turned and left.

"Holmes!" I shouted after him.

"Yes?" He replied on his return at the threshold of the bedroom door.

"The suspect. Who is it?"

"Monique de Chastel, of course. We shall visit her on the morrow." And, abruptly, he left.

I was about to settle back into my bed and dull my shaken senses with a hopefully dreamless sleep when a sudden realisation ran through me. Could my dream have been a reality? Could the woman in the black gown have been this Monique de Chastel? I hurried to the window and opened the shutters. I was relieved to find the fields empty, just the pale moonlight casting its glow upon the trees and fields and the wind, the wind was still and silent.

I settled myself to sleep, wrapping myself in the sheets, pleased to abscond myself of the memories of the day. I directed my thoughts to you, John and the happy times we have spent in London but this only provided a brief solace as I was awoken by a shrill and tormented scream. It was the hour before dawn, and I sat up in bed with the knowledge that something terrible had happened. I dressed quickly, in simple and easy clothing and bolted out of the door. I was met by Madame Reynard in the hallway, she had also been awoken and the look on her face, one can barely comprehend the terror expressed in that look. We hurried down the stairs where we saw Holmes as he was about to leave.

"What was that scream?" Madame Reynard asked.

"There is but one way to find out." Holmes replied.

We rode out across the fields, the thin morning mists swirling at our horses feet. There was no reply when Holmes urgently knocked on the Boulet door.

"Damn my flippancy." He said.

"What? What is wrong?"

"My arrogance may have killed him."

"Killed him, how?"

"My suggestion that he should not go through the forest path and my reveal concerning the fabric from the dress."

"What did you reveal?"

"That he too, would be killed by the very same wolves trained to kill his wife and child."

We found Remi in almost exactly the same place where his wife and child were killed, his body bloody and mauled, he was clutching his wife's red dress and moaning softly in great pain. Madame Reynard recoiled in shock at the grim sight as did I. Holmes crouched down over the man and he whispered something to him, something I didn't hear. Remi fell limp and lifeless and Holmes solemnly closed his eye lids. He stood and turned.

"Ride into town and inform Labelle of this. Have his men meet me at Monique de Chastel's château as quickly as possible." We looked to him stunned and silenced, unable to comprehend the meaning and Holmes's conclusions. "What is the best way there?"

"Where?"

"Monique's château of course."

"You think she is responsible?"

"Most certainly. Now which way?" Madame Reyanrd pointed west.

"Through the thicket there. You will come upon a narrow path, follow it west for two miles."

"Thank you. Now go."

"Surely you are not going alone," I protested. "What of the wolves?"

"Precisely why I must go alone. I refuse to risk your lives. Dupin would never forgive me. Now go."

At this we parted ways. The prefecture Labelle flatly refused our requests, even going so far as to refuse and audience with him. We were even refused by the few men we sought out in Mende and in Langogne, men we took for hunters. It was almost as if there were a conspiracy of silence and inaction at work. We had little choice but to return to Madame Reynard's homestead and wait. During the ride home I did consider defying Holmes's strict instruction not to follow him to Monique's château and was perplexed as to his insistence, apart from the risk of a wolf attack, what danger did he think this Monique de Chastel presented?

We waited silently at the Reynard homestead. She quelled her worry and the trauma of these previous events with wine and she occupied herself alone in her library. I too joined her in drinking and paced the living room, still considering the idea that I should follow Holmes. I grew tired, my head heavy from a night's lack of restful sleep and I sat. I wondered as to Madame Reynard's lack of questions, but put it down to her faith in Holmes to solve the matter. Her faith, it would seem, was rewarded as night fell and Holmes burst through the door, carrying a limp and dazed François on his shoulder. Holmes himself was dirty, his clothes in much disarray. The two men looked as if they had been through the most harrowing ordeal. I couldn't ask what had happened as immediately he ordered us to take François upstairs and stay there.

We settled François in bed, for he was exhausted and traumatised, his skin was pale and he shivered uncontrollably. I thought a glass of cognac might calm his nerves and as I poured it I noticed out of the window a pack of wolves charging across the fields toward the Reynard homestead. I was dumbstruck with fear at the similarity to the visions in my dream. I left François and Madame Reynard's company and returned downstairs where I found Holmes slotting bullets into the chamber of a revolver.

"Stay back," he said.

"Jacques, there are wolves outside they..."

"I know." He replied and plucked a black rag from his pocket. Promptly he opened the door and threw the long black rag out and slammed the door closed once again and distinctly I heard the wolves growling and snarling outside. Holmes took a moment swung the door open again, he aimed and fired off three shots, hitting three of the six wolves as they fed feverishly on the black rag. The other three wolves fled back across the fields as Holmes fired the remaining bullets in the chamber. All went silent for a beat and I dared myself to walk outside. Holmes was breathing hard as he stood, looking out upon the fields and the dawn sun casting shafts of light through the trees of the out-laying Mercoire forest.

"What happened? Where is Monique de Chastel?"

"I believe she is dead."

"But how? Why?"

Holmes didn't respond, he seemed hypnotised, and most traumatised. "I need rest. I will make a full account of the ordeal in good time." He turned and walked back into the Reynard homestead.

It wasn't until our train journey home that he gave this full account. We spent two more days at the Reynard homestead in which we monitored François's recovery. Madame Reynard was more than willing to let us overstay our welcome and profusely grateful at Holmes's success in returning her husband to her.

Upon leaving the Reynard's and bidding our farewells we made our way through the forest and onward into the town of Lagagone and further to the train station in Mende and all the while I noticed the heavy atmosphere of this part of the Lozère region had lifted, the summer air seemed fresher and cleaner. It wasn't until we were aboard the train from Lyon to Paris that Holmes told me of his encounter and how he rescued François and I write his account below.

"Upon leaving your company on the forest road, I dirtied my face and I rolled around in the dirt and purposefully ruffled my clothes. I walked along the narrow dirt track that led to Monique's château. It was, in actuality, more of a cottage than a château and I was surprised at how small it was. I prepared myself, much in the way an actor might, and took on the demeanour of a lost and hopeless man, shaken with nerves and rattled by days lost in the forest.

The heavy wooden door opened with a creak and she peered out at me, her face half hidden by a black veil. She smiled meekly and pulled the door open fully, revealing her in all her shapely and sensual glory. She wore a black dress, her breasts packed tightly in the low cut corset. "Hello." She said in a hauntingly husky voice, the words formed by her luscious red lips. "Can I help you?"

"I am a gentleman, an accountant from Lyon and I... you must help me, I've been lost in the forest for days and I can't seem to find my way out and back to Mende. I had some business there." She looked me up and down, studying me and I felt something strange, something that I still cannot put my finger on. Knowing who she was and her deeds I still felt compelled by her, drawn to her, attracted maybe. It was something beyond her luscious and attractive appearance. What I was unaware of at the time, was the fact that when rolling around on the ground I had inadvertently rolled over a particularly toxic and hypnotic mushroom and I must have inhaled the spores, which may account for the strange goings on I found there.

"Please come in, I'll be happy to help you. Perhaps you'd like to join me for breakfast. After you've chanced to clean yourself. I can then give you directions to Mende, perhaps you have need of a horse?" Monique said.

I paused with reluctance. "I don't wish to trouble you too much. The directions back to Mende should suffice."

"Think nothing of it, I would be glad of the company, I don't get many visitors."

"Excuse me for saying so, but I would think you could have the company of any man of your choosing." I said as I stepped inside.

"Yes I am aware that I have certain womanly whiles, but the heart wants what it wants. There is only one man I would like the company of, and regretfully he loves another."

"François?" I asked and she nodded mournfully. And in saying his name I had made the mistake of giving myself away, a mistake I think that was brought on by my inhalation of the mushroom spores. Monique didn't acknowledge this fact, but there was now a tension in the air. She boiled some water and I washed myself with it while she prepared breakfast. As I was about to enter the small dining room of the modest cottage I saw her put something in my drink. From my position at the door I could barely see, but it looked like a dry green/brown powder, its distinct colour disappeared as soon as it mixed with the water. I also noted something particularly odd. There was a door leading from the dining room to a room that, from my study of the exterior of the cottage, could not exist, for the door led nowhere, there was no door on the other side. I took the seat at the table, opposite Monique and as I looked into her smiling eyes and her beautiful face I felt, somehow haunted by her beauty, as if she were seducing me with her very presence. I have not felt this drawn to a woman since... since... my previous experience. I adjusted myself in my seat and knew that I must be on guard and air on the side of rationality and logical thinking if I were to outwit her and avoid her darkly charms.

As I ate and she told me how to get back to Mende I thought to adopt a new tactic and initially play into her hands. I purposefully drank the tainted water. Perhaps, on reflection, it was foolish as it could've been poison. I put this irrational decision down to the inhalation of the mushroom spores I experienced earlier. Upon drinking I suddenly felt drowsy and a moment later I passed out.

When I awoke I found myself in a dark dank cell surrounded by stone walls, there was but one way in and out and the bars and the door embedded within these bars was under lock and key. My head and my thoughts were foggy and it took sometime for me to recover my full senses. During this time I saw, beyond the bars a long tunnel lit by torchlight, leading toward some stone steps and a door at the summit of these steps. I examined the padlock and the keyhole and found it to be a simple Roman cylinder lock. I have spent some time in the study of locks and keys and the mechanism by which they work, in anticipation that I may need such knowledge. All it would take was a hairpin (that I make a point of carrying with me at all times) and some minutes working the keyhole and I would be free. As I worked the lock I heard a soft whisper.

"Hello," the voice said, "is someone there?" The voice was weak and tired and coming from beyond the wall, I assumed it was another cell, similar to mine and judging by the heavy air I concluded that I was underground, in a dungeon of some fashion.

"Hello? François?" I asked.

"How, how do you know my name?"

"I am Jacques Holmes, I have been hired by your wife to find you."

"Then all is truly lost," said he. I was momentarily confused by his defeatism.

"Why do you despair?"

"If you are indeed Holmes, the detective, Kamile speaks so highly of and you too have found yourself locked in these dungeons. Then all hope is lost."

"Don't worry, I have purposefully allowed myself to be caught by Monique, in order to facilitate your rescue."

"Are you mad, as well as a failure?"

"Fear not, François. We will escape soon enough." At that moment I was successful in opening the padlock and the caged door swung open with a loud creak that echoed about the dungeon walls. I then set to freeing François and as I was doing so I heard the faint and distant howling of wolves. Not moments later, just as I was working the last bolt, the heavy wooden door at the peak of the stone staircase opened and presently I heard footsteps descending those stairs. It was surely Monique. François was in a considerably weakened state, pale with dark circles in his eyes, his clothes like rags. I gathered him up hurriedly, threw his arm about my shoulder, and carried him out of the cell. Monique shrieked with horror and despair upon seeing us. And then, she did something most odd. She began howling like a wolf. Calling out into the dank heavy air. The cry carried and echoed along the tunnel and moments later another howl came in reply. Monique then fetched a glass vial from a hidden pocket within her black dress. Thinking on my feet I anticipated her intent, I grabbed the heavy metal padlock and threw it at her. The padlock struck her upon the shoulder causing her to drop the glass vial, wherein it smashed upon the stone floor. The perfume contained within splashed up against the hem of her dress where it met the floor. Mortal terror filled her expression as she looked down. I did not waste time and proceeded to carry François along the dark tunnel in the opposite direction toward the ever increasing sound of those wolves. We had not run thirty or fifty meters along the tunnel when the pack of white wolves came upon us, charging at us, head on, with snarling mouths and fevered rage. François feared the worst shivering and trembling as he was, but unable to speak, and I must admit a small amount of doubt crept through me, but I stood firm and, as I had anticipated, the wolves ignored us and ran straight toward Monique and the scent given off by the perfume.

Shrill cries of pain and snarls haunted the tunnels as we made haste through a labyrinth of tunnels. François was delirious with weakness and fatigue and he dropped in and out of consciousness. My sense of direction was severely impaired and for a time I believed we might have been walking in circles. I saw then... something terrible to behold. Two bodies, recently mauled and eaten by those very same trained wolves. I believe they were those two missing hunters that took solace in the ruins of Castle de Luc. Without the luxury of time I pressed on, dragging François with me and a faint glint of daylight casting a shaft of light into the tunnel led my way. We came out at the place, or thereabouts, where François was last seen by both his wife and Remi Boulet. We continued across the open fields, running as fast as my legs would carry me. It was to my shock and panic that I heard those very same wolves who, not content with feeding on their own master, had now caught up with us. I had, in my haste to escape, forgotten the vial of Amour I had in my pocket. I had stolen it from Monsieur Boulet's kitchen in anticipation that I might need it and that I might prove or test how Monique had trained these wild pets of hers to do her bidding and kill anyone she chose. And this I realised is why they chased us. One can only imagine what torture Monique put these animals through in order to provoke such fervour in a reaction to such a delightful and enchanting smell. I think you can deduce the rest, my account is over."

"But what of the reluctance and reticence to investigate on the part of the local townsfolk and the prefecture?" I asked him.

"Ahh, well clearly Monique had either paid the prefecture, Labelle quite highly, and she was a woman of considerable means, or..."

"Or...?"

"Well, she seemed proficient in toxins, hallucinogens and perhaps... spells that can warp men's minds to confusion. I dare-say she might have harvested those wild mushrooms that grew in abundance around her cottage."

"Surely Jacques, you cannot be suggesting that the woman was a witch and that she practised black magic?"

"Quite the contrary. If one were to be specific, she practised some rudimentary chemistry, botany, and medicine, alternate as it may have been, still, it is still science."

"But what of love?" I asked of him as the train rattled along the tracks, making its way trough the wild and untamed countryside between Lyon and Paris. Holmes regarded me for a long moment, initially perplexed by my question. He offered me a cigarette, I took one and leant forward making use of Holmes's lighter. He smoked and thought and leant back in his seat...

"Love makes fools of us all and perhaps inspires the most irrational application of science.

"Jacques, love comes in many forms. I feel in this case, Monique was most obsessive in her affections for François. To the point of her being inspired to kidnap him. It is most unusual, a high born woman falling for a mere farmer, his rejection of her charms perhaps led her toward this irrational train of thought. A confused mind as to the reasons why, perhaps it led to her to denial, and to frustration and to longing for that which she couldn't have. And whereas you have chosen to attach yourself to rationality and science and wholeheartedly reject emotional impulse because of your loss, Monique failed and didn't have the same stiff resolve that you have." He regarded me once again in reflective silence.

"Perhaps." He said simply. I pondered the account for a time and realised something that Holmes had missed.

"But what of her motivations for killing the Boulet family, why would she do such a thing?"

"One can only speculate, but the conclusion I draw would be that Monique thought she was assisting the Reynard couple by settling their dispute of the boarders between their lands. Perhaps she felt guilt at taking away Kamile's husband and this action may have alleviated her guilt."

We didn't engage in conversation much further and I turned my attentions to the passing scenery and the vast and epic countryside of France, its rolling hills and soaring mountains, the sprawling forests. I was a little haunted by both my experiences and more specifically of my would be predictive dream. For there must be, John, more in this world than is dreamt of in our meagre philosophies, science and understanding. Something unseen and untouched.

I hope you are getting well, if not fully recovered and I greatly look forward to Saturday and seeing you once again.

Yours

Mary.