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 facade 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-cochere. 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 fiance, 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,
