White Fire

there out onto the Hexham road. The rain had stopped, but the moon remained partially obscured by clouds. Heavy tendrils of mist lay across the bleak landscape.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then pray explain yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The carriage continued its jostling way towards Hexham, and Holmes went on. “Remarking on these facts, I began to consider the possibility that this man, now sadly reduced, had once been Sir Percival’s business partner — and, perhaps, the true author of that revolutionary felt-making process. Now, years later, he had returned to square accounts with his former partner, to expose and ruin him. In other words, this whole matter began as a mere business dispute; one that Sir Percival solved in a traditional manner — by murder. It seemed to me highly likely that when this fellow appeared in Hexham, Sir Percival had promised him amends, and had agreed to meet with him in a lonely spot at the edge of the bog. There, Sir Percival murdered his former partner, and — to keep