This brusque dismissal, and the notion that Miss Selkirk’s fears for her fiance were unfounded, amazed me. But Holmes said nothing more, and had no further questions — save to again warn the constable to stay out of the woods — and, for the time being at any rate, our interview had ended.
It being Sunday, we were forced to confine our investigations to interviews with various inhabitants of Hexham. Holmes first tracked down the two eyewitnesses, but they had little to add to what Mr. Frazier had already told us: they had both seen a large wolf, remarkably large in fact, loping off in the direction of the bog, the fur on the top of its head a brilliant white in the moonlight. Neither had investigated further, but instead had the good sense to return to their homes with all speed.
We then repaired to The Plough, where Holmes contented himself with asking the customers their opinion of the wolf and the killings. Everyone we spoke to was on edge about the situation. Some, as they lifted their pints, made brave statements about taking on the hunt themselves one day or another. The majority were content to let young Master Aspern track down the beast on his own and expressed much admiration for his courage.
There were only two dissenting opinions. One was a local grocer, who was of the firm belief that the killings were the result of a pack of feral dogs that lived deep within Kielder Forest. The other was the publican himself, who told us that the second victim — the unfortunate Oxford naturalist — had stated point-blank that the beast which committed these outrages was no wolf.
“No wolf?” Holmes said sharply. “And to what erudition, pray tell, do we owe this unequivocal statement?”
“Can’t rightly say, sir. The man simply stated that, in his opinion, wolves were extinct in England.”
“That’s hardly what I would call an empirical argument,” I said.
Holmes looked at the publican with a keen expression. “And what particular beast, then, did the good naturalist substitute for the wolf of Kielder Forest?”
“I couldn’t tell you that, sir. He didn’t offer anything else.” And the man went back to polishing his glassware.
Save for the interview with the constable, it proved on the whole to be a day of rather fruitless enquiry. Holmes was uncommunicative over dinner, and he retired early, with a dissatisfied expression on his face.
Early the following morning, however, barely past dawn, I was awakened by a cacophony of voices from beneath my window. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was just past six. I dressed quickly and went downstairs. A cluster of people had gathered in the High Street, and were all talking and gesturing animatedly. Holmes was already there, and when he saw me emerge from the inn he quickly approached.
“We must hurry,” he said. “There has been another wolf sighting.”
“Where?”
“In just the same spot, between the bog and the edge of the forest. Come, Watson — it is imperative we be the first on the scene. Do you have your Webley’s No. 2 on your person?”
I patted my right waistcoat pocket.
“Then let us be off with all speed. That pistol may not bring down a wolf, but at least it will drive him away.”
Securing the same wagonette and ill-tempered driver we had employed before, we quickly left Hexham at a canter, Holmes urging the man on in strident tones. As we headed out into the desolate moorlands, my friend explained that he had already spoken to the eyewitness who had caused this fresh disturbance: an elderly woman, an apothecary’s wife, who was out walking the road in search of herbs and medicinal flowers. She could add nothing of substance to the other two eyewitnesses, save to corroborate their observations about the beast’s great size and the shock of white fur atop of its head.
“Do you fear—?” I began.
“I fear the worst.”
Reaching the spot, Holmes ordered the driver to wait and — without wasting a second — jumped from the wagonette and began making his way through the sedge- and bramble-covered landscape. The bog lay to our left; the dark line of Kielder Forest to our right. The vegetation was damp with a chill morning dew, and there were still patches of snow on the ground. Before we had gone a hundred yards, my shoes and trousers were soaked through. Holmes was far ahead of me already, bounding on like one possessed. Even as I watched, he stopped at the top of a small hillock with a cry of dismay, and abruptly knelt. As I made my way to him, my pistol at the ready, I was able to discern what he had discovered. A body lay amidst the swamp grass, not two hundred yards from the edge of the forest. A military rifle, apparently a Martini-Henry Mk IV, lay beside it. All too well I recognized the dustcoat and leather leggings, now torn and shredded in a most violent fashion. It was Constable Frazier — or, more precisely, what was left of him, poor fellow.
“Watson,” Holmes said in an imperious tone, “touch nothing. However, I would appreciate, via visual observation only, your medical opinion of this man’s condition.”
“He’s obviously been savaged,” I said, examining the lifeless body. “By some large and vicious creature.”
“A wolf?”
“That would seem most likely.”
Holmes questioned me closely. “Do you see any specific and identifiable marks? Of fangs, perhaps, or claw marks?”
“It’s difficult to say. The ferocity of the attack, the ruined condition of the body, render specific observation difficult.”
“And are any pieces of the body — missing?”
I took another look. Despite my medical background, I found this a most disagreeable undertaking. I had seen, more than once, native tribesmen of India who had been mauled by tigers, but nothing in my experience came close to the savagery under which Constable Frazier had fallen.
“Yes,” I said at length. “Yes, I believe some few.”
“Consistent with the description of the second victim? The naturalist?”
“No. No, I’d say this attack was more extensive in that regard.”
Holmes nodded slowly. “You see, Watson. It is again as it was with the man-eating lions of Tsavo. With each victim, they grow more brazen — and more partial to their newfound diet.”
With this, he removed a magnifying glass from his pocket. “The rifle has not been fired,” he announced as he examined the Martini-Henry. “Apparently, the beast snuck up and struck our man from behind.”
After a brief inspection of the corpse, he began moving about in an ever-increasing circle, until — with another cry — he bent low, then started slowly forwards, eyes to the ground, in the direction of a distant farmhouse surrounded by two enclosed fields: the residence, I assumed, of the unfortunate constable. At some point, Holmes stopped, turned round, and then — still employing the magnifying glass — returned to the body and moved slowly past it, until he had reached the very edge of the blanket bog.
“Wolf tracks,” he said. “Without doubt. They lead from the forest, to a spot near that farmhouse, and thence to the site where the attack took place. No doubt it emerged from the woods, stalked its victim, and killed him on open ground.” He applied his glass once more to the swamp grass along the verge of the marsh. “The tracks go directly into the bog, here.”
Now Holmes undertook a circuit of the bog: a laborious activity, involving several halts, backtracks, and exceedingly close inspections of various points of interest. I stayed by the body, touching nothing as Holmes had instructed, watching him from a distance. The process took over an hour, by which time I was drenched to the skin and shivering uncontrollably. A small group of curious onlookers were by now standing back along the roadside, and the local doctor and the magistrate had come up — the latter being the titular authority, with the demise of Constable Frazier — just as Holmes completed his investigation. He said not a word of his discoveries, but simply stood there amongst the marsh grass, deep in thought, as the doctor, the magistrate, and myself wrapped up the body and carried it to the wagonette. As the vehicle rolled off in the direction of town, I made my way back out to where Holmes remained standing, quite still, apparently oblivious to his soaked trousers and waterlogged boots.
“Did you remark anything of further interest?” I asked him.
After a moment, he glanced at me. Instead of answering, he pulled a briar pipe from his pocket, lit it, and replied with a question of his own. “Don’t you find it rather curious, Watson?”
“The entire affair is mysterious,” I replied, “at least insofar as that blasted elusive wolf is concerned.”
