‘Whatever Stoke is paying you, I’ll double,’ Saul said to the Prof. ‘Look at him. Your client. A useless, drunken, cowardly braggart. Practically an American! No fit Master of Trantridge. I have plans for the estate, Professor. Scientific plans. I intend to reintroduce the Wessex Wolf to England. I’ll clear out the village, of course. People get in the way. But The Chase will be preserved. Do we have an understanding? Double the fee!’
Stoke whimpered, clutching an empty goblet. I believe he wet himself.
Moriarty’s head continued its swaying.
‘No, Mr Sorrow,’ he said, at last. ‘It will not do. I have taken a commission. Thus far, Mr Stoke-d’Urberville has kept his part of the bargain. I have a reputation to uphold.’
That was a laugh. He’d sold out clients for profit so often it was almost a habit — though he was careful to keep it quiet so as not to inhibit trade.
Stoke looked desperately hopeful.
‘Have you ever seen anyone torn apart?’ Saul asked. ‘By wolves?’
‘Not by wolves,’ the Professor replied.
‘It’s most… instructive…’
Saul gave a short, shrill whistle. His wolves leaped…
XVI
Stoke screamed as Red Shuck — four Red Shucks! — swarmed all over him. Their teeth caught in his clothes. Cloth ripped.
Then, another noise assaulted my eardrums.
And the wolves laid off our client.
Moriarty had produced his crank-handle music box. Its thin, unearthly whine filled the dining room. Unpleasant to human ears, it was agony to canine senses. The wolves rolled over, choking on their froth, biting their own tails, pawing their skulls.
Saul was almost as sorely affected. The confidence went out of him. Dan’l got meaty arms around him and held him from behind.
I scraped the fork out of my back against a long-case clock. I felt a wet seepage inside my jacket. Better out than in, though.
Mod made a rush towards the Professor, but I tripped her — then put a boot on her head to keep her on the carpet.
The wolves’ eyes rolled and bulged, as if their brains were boiling in their pans. Bloody tears started from their eyes. Red foam oozed from their nostrils.
My gold back teeth pained me.
At once, the Professor’s gadget shut off, with the twang of a snapped string in its works. Its job was done, though. The demon dogs lay, heads leaking — dead as fur rugs.
Stoke uncurled from his ball of terror and stood. In a poor state, quivering like a recruit who’s survived his first charge, he bled from a dozen scratches. Half his face was slack, skewing his villain’s moustache to one side.
Swiftly, our client got his starch back. As he crossed the room, he stood taller, taking pleasure in having the upper hand and his enemies out in the open.
Mod writhed and kicked, but I kept her down with boot pressure. For skewering me, the minx deserved worse.
Stoke would serve his enemies as he saw fit.
He picked up Gertie, which Dan’l had dropped, and felt the stick’s weight. I recalled my deduction that it had been used in night-work. Saul struggled in Dan’l grip, but had nothing to say for himself. He bled from the ears, showing kinship with his wolves.
Stoke fetched an enormous clout to Saul’s face. Cheekbones gave way.
Let go, Saul fell to his knees. Stoke rained blows on his head and shoulders, then launched into kicks to the chest — with odd reverse heel-stabs which would have made sense if he were wearing spurs — and vicious jabs at the groin.
Our client kicked Saul from one side of the hall to the other. Saul’s clothes soaked through until they were a match for Diggory Venn’s.
Mod keened in frustration. I noted a sympathetic spasm on Dan’l’s face. The big cowboy wasn’t entirely with his boss in all this. He liked Saul and Mod and — despite what had happened in front of his face — his slow mind wouldn’t change for a while yet…
Eventually, Stoke left off kicking and went to the table. He stuffed a thick slice of beef into his mouth and washed it down with a quaff of wine. Exercise had given him an appetite.
Saul rolled into a heap, among his dead wolves.
Stoke was drunk on the thrill of hurting someone helpless, aglow with the sudden change in his fortunes. He wasn’t afraid any more. Despite the sorry state of his appearance, he was Master of Trantridge again.
‘You’ll join me in a drink, Moriarty? Moran?’
I needed to get a hellcat out from under my foot, but appreciated the offer.
‘Just a tipple,’ I said.
Mod thumped the floor.
‘Our business is concluded,’ Moriarty said, curtly — freezing Stoke as he reached for the bottle. ‘There is the question of the agreed fee. Five thousand pounds for a pelt.’
Stoke grinned. ‘Indeed. You’ve earned it right smartly, Professor. You and your little gimmick-box. That was your angle, of course. You could have just sold me the box and I’d not have needed your personal services. I’ll not grudge you that. It’s sound economics, one businessman to another.’
Stoke took a key from his waistcoat and opened a cabinet. Inside was a big, solid safe. Several gents of my acquaintance could have opened it quicker without knowing the combination beforehand than Stoke did working the wheel with excited, still-bloody fingers.
‘Silver to your satisfaction?’
Stoke laid five weighty bars of Tombstone silver on the table.
Moriarty waited, making no move.
‘What is it?’ asked Stoke.
‘We agreed five thousand pounds for a pelt… you have four. You do not need a Professor of Mathematics to tally that up as twenty thousand pounds. Silver is acceptable.’
The mobile half of Stoke’s face fell to match the dead side… then he caught himself and managed a cracked chuckle. He brought up a finger in mock-accusing, would-be jovial fashion.
‘Ah, a good one, Moriarty. A fine funny gag. You nearly had me there…’
Moriarty’s head began to oscillate.
‘Surely, no, you can’t be serious?’ said Stoke. ‘That’s… why, that’s gross extortion. No, I’m grateful as all get-out, Moriarty. You’ve served me well, but what you ask is… ridiculous, out of the question, unholy. Contrary to all principles of sound business. No, five thousand is the limit. The price we agreed, and the price I’ll pay.’
Stoke took a Gladstone bag from the cabinet, and transferred the silver to it under the vulture eye of Professor Moriarty.
‘A fair sum for services rendered,’ he said. ‘I’ll even throw in the bag.’
He tried to grin, though his face wasn’t working yet.
A movement caught my eye. A pair of feet disappearing through the kitchen door. A bloody trail across the floor showed where Saul had dragged himself.
‘Now,’ said Stoke. ‘There’s the matter of another thrashing. Colonel, if you’d shift your boot…’
I did so. Mod gathered her skirts and stood. She spat in Stoke’s face. He smiled.
‘My family owes yours a murder,’ he said. ‘Yours won’t be in the papers, though. You’re for an unmarked grave in The Chase with your brother — nephew? — and his f--ing mutts.’
Moriarty picked up the Gladstone bag as if it were a specimen.
‘Moran, our business here is done,’ he said. ‘We should leave Mr Stoke and Miss Durbeyfield to their discussions. I doubt they’ll care for witnesses.’
‘Hah,’ Stoke said. ‘You’re a card after all, Moriarty. I’m glad to have known you, and no hard feelings. You’ve not done badly out of Trantridge.’
My wounds might argue, but I didn’t.
Moriarty and I made for the door. Jasper reached for a carving knife.