‘Fair questions, Moran,’ he said. ‘They shall be answered.’
Moriarty unfastened his dress, pinching a row of little black buttons out of their eyelets. Underneath, he wore his town clothes.
I saw his dress and veil were shiny, waterproof material. More practical than unearthly. In his cocoon, the bastard kept snug and dry. Whereas I felt like shit. Wet shit that’s been trodden in.
‘You hit me,’ I said. ‘Twice!’
‘You were about to waste silver, Moran.’
It was like him to be more concerned over expenses than the threat to his life. Even with my left hand, I’d have shot him square.
‘One can learn more observing from concealment than out in the open,’ he expounded. ‘With you in the field, Moran, no one looked for me.’
So, I’d been the hare to flush out this hound. I wasn’t surprised. Being used this way came with the position of Number Two. Everyone in his employ was expendable. I wasn’t even angry he had acted according to his nature, just as I would to mine. That didn’t mean I liked being so used, or would forget.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘I came down on the same train as you,’ he said. ‘In the next compartment. I overheard every word which passed between you and our client. Stoke, in fact, mentioned the significant point of the smell in The Chase…’
‘Hold on a mo, Moriarty! You couldn’t have got off at Stourcastle. We’d have seen you.’
‘I travelled on to Sherton Abbas and made my way back to Trantridge via hired trap. I have been in The Chase ever since.’
I couldn’t imagine the habitué of lecture halls and laboratories in the wild woods, even with his waterproof frock.
‘Where did you sleep?’
‘I did not sleep. I took an injection. Too much had to be found out and tested. I exploited rumours of the ghost of Theresa Clare to conceal my presence.’
He would never admit it, but I knew Moriarty derived some thin, watery thrill from ‘dressing up’. Like his deduction craze, it came on him as if he were in a competition whose terms were set by another he wished to better. Usually, he was rotten at dissembling. He couldn’t do voices and the snake-neck thing gave him away. This performance was well above his average. The Polish Jew in Irving’s The Bells wasn’t half as eerie.
‘How did you make the noise? The ghost sound?’
The Professor’s lips set in a tight line — his approximation of a smile. From his pocket, he produced a wooden box with a crank-handle. He worked it and a whine filled the cave. It set my teeth on edge.
‘You don’t imagine I would dismantle an Amanti on a whim? The violin was sacrificed to this invention.’
Mercifully, he shut the toy off.
‘Wouldn’t rattling a chain and going “woo-woo” have been a damn sight cheaper?’
‘This is not for your ears, Moran. Nor any human ears.’
‘Communicating with spirits now, Moriarty? I’d not take you for a table-rapper.’
‘This instrument has nothing to do with ghosts. It is for dogs.’
XIV
It was full dark in The Chase.
Venn remained in his hole. He was not Red Shuck’s master. Our commission was to kill the dog only. Therefore, we’d no quarrel with the radical reddleman.
Moriarty returned my guns. I could balance the rifle on my bandaged paw and pull the trigger with my left hand — but accuracy would be an issue.
‘Saul has queered my game,’ I complained. ‘What happened to the idiot? Did Red Shuck get him?’
If Saul made it home, he’d be taken for the party’s sole survivor. That would really put the wind up our client, who was panicky enough to start with.
Moriarty lead the way with a dark lantern, as if he knew The Chase as well as Saul. In his few hours as Weird Witch of the Woods, he’d explored thoroughly.
He stopped in his tracks and shone the beam at a thicket between two old tree trunks. Red scuffs showed on bark.
‘Blood?’ I asked.
‘Reddle.’
‘Venn?’
The Professor shook his head. ‘Smell it,’ he said.
I bent to sniff. That damn pong!
‘I can’t understand why Venn doesn’t whiff this,’ I said.
‘He’s lived in it for years,’ Moriarty said. ‘He no longer notices.’
I touched fingers to sludgy stains. Wet powder, not blood. That goes sticky and stops being red.
‘Sheep dye,’ Moriarty said. ‘Not presently being used on sheep.’
He lifted aside the bushes, which were uprooted but tethered together. They disguised a gate fixed between the two trees. He unlatched it. We entered a concealed enclosure.
Moriarty shone his light around.
‘What is this?’ I asked.
‘Originally, Venic of Melchester’s hideaway. Recently, put back in use. Look…’
Iron animal cages were at present empty, gnawed animal bones strewn in the straw. Drinking bowls bore the marks of chewing. Posts set in the ground had iron rings and shackles.
‘Red Shuck’s lair,’ Moriarty said. ‘Here, our demon has been trained to viciousness. Here, he has been reddened…’
Under a tarpaulin, we found brushes and pots of dye.
‘He?’
I counted six cages.
‘Strictly speaking, they.’
I saw spoor on the dirt. Not the fantastic, elongated, claw-toed prints of the plaster cast, but tracks I was more familiar with. I’d seen enough in the snows of the Steppe.
‘Wolf,’ I said.
‘White wolf,’ concurred Moriarty. ‘Large, not inexpensive. Imported from the Russias. I made enquiries with the usual importers of exotic animals about recent purchases of unusual canines. As a professional courtesy, Singapore Charlie was forthcoming. You know the Lord of Strange Deaths’ fondness for spiders and such…’
I did — though that’s not a story I want to go into now, or indeed ever.
‘Some months ago, a customer paid cash for six white wolves, giving the name “Pagan Sorrow”. Wolf fur is prized, but I fear dye makes these pelts unsaleable.’
‘Except to Stoke. He’ll be happy with fox-red tails, just so long as Red Shuck is brought down.’
Moriarty nodded in agreement.
‘It’s not just Red Shuck, though. Someone — this “Pagan Sorrow” — whistled up the doggies and sicced ’em on Stoke…’ I continued.
‘Indeed.’
‘And tricked up the plaster cast? To sell the Red Shuck story?’
‘Quite so.’
‘Cunning bastard!’
Moriarty shrugged, allowing a neatness to the scheme.
‘Moriarty, if these cages are empty… where are the wolves?’
The Professor looked at me. ‘I’m sure we shall find them before they find us.’
With that comforting thought, we were on our way again.
XV
Outside Trantridge Hall we found Dan’l, standing guard, Gertie at the ready.
‘Saul said you wuz done for. Et by a dog demon.’
‘Saul’s not the first and won’t be the last to report my death. He’s alive then?’
‘Came back in a state. Said hounds of Hell were after him.’
‘So they were.’ I noted the plural.
Inside, we found the company in the dining room. A Guy Fawkes’ Night bonfire roared and spit on the huge grate. A carved, bloody side of beef was hacked to the bone on a platter. Stoke, drunk and affrighted, sunk in an armchair. Mod, in a scarlet satin dress, poured for the Master. Braham paced in front of the fire. Thring stood by, with a trolley of bottles fetched up from the cellar.
Saul, it seems, had gone early to bed after an exhausting day.
Mod swarmed up at me in a froth of concern.
‘Sebastian,’ she cooed, ‘it’s such a relief you are living! We thought you’d perished in The Chase. Another victim of the Curse of the d’Urbervilles.’