Pax Britannia: Human Nature (23 page)

"I wouldn't be surprised that if Allardyce and his cronies had half a mind to look beyond the obvious they would find something connecting them all. Remind me to look into it when we get back to the guest house will you, old boy?"

"As you wish, sir."

Ulysses looked from his manservant to the dog's carcass and then back again at Nimrod. "You think I'm looking for Machiavellian machinations where there are none?"

"Not at all, sir, I was merely playing devil's advocate. Is it not possible that all of the beast's victims have merely been the terribly unlucky?"

"Maybe so, in the case of the others, but not tonight. I don't believe the beast would have gone to all the trouble off tracking us here simply for revenge. An animal that had already survived a beating like the one we dealt out would have gone back to its lair whimpering, with its tail between its legs, not tracked us for miles across Ghestdale to then leap through a plate glass window to teach us a lesson!

"No, the Barghest was merely a puppet; there's someone pulling the strings, someone behind the scenes," he said, his eyes returning to the metal box clamped to the back of its neck.

"Besides there was someone who knew where we would be this afternoon as well, Nimrod, someone other than Inspector Maurice Allardyce of Scotland Yard and the North Yorkshire constabulary."

"I was just thinking the same thing myself, sir."

"Who? Who knew?" Jennifer said.

"A man called Rudge. We ran into him whilst pursuing our investigations down in the town. In fact, now I come to think of it, he made his entrance as I was asking a barkeep if he knew the name Bellerophon."

"Rudge?" Jennifer said, surprise raising her voice an octave.

"You know him?"

"Tall as he is broad? Built like a brick... well, you know how that saying goes."

"You
do
know him then!"

"Oh yes, I know him. I suppose you could describe him as a nasty piece of work, a cruel man. No time or regard for his animals, let alone his fellow man."

Nimrod gave Ulysses a look heavy with meaning.

"Really? He was really turning on the charm then when he spoke to us then."

Ulysses put his the brandy balloon to his lips but then paused.

"We come to Whitby looking for Mr Bellerophon but run into Rudge instead. Rudge arranges to meet us on the moors but rather than Rudge, the Barghest turns up..." With a swift jerk of his head, he knocked back the remainder of the brandy.

"So where would we find this Rudge?"

"He's gamekeeper to the Umbridge Estate."

"That name again," Ulysses pondered. "Then we have the lead we need. Come the morning we shall pay a visit to the reclusive Josiah Umbridge."

Putting the empty glass down on the table beside the dead dog-beast Ulysses turned to Jennifer, put both his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her grief-stricken face.

"But for now, let's get some rest. We're all in need of a good night's sleep."

Morning came, it seemed, all too soon, the watery grey light of a dreary dawn oozing across the moors along with the stagnant mists that rose from the peat bogs and waterlogged hollows. Hunter's Lodge having once been precisely that, it had not been a problem finding accommodation for both Ulysses and his manservant, so that each of them was able to have his own room.

Before the three of them had retired for what remained of the night, Jennifer had told both of her gentlemen house guests to feel free to help themselves to anything from her father's wardrobe, to replace that which had been either soiled or ruined during their battles with the Barghest. But she wouldn't enter the old man's room herself. It was all too soon, his death too recent, her loss still too raw. It would take her some time to come to terms with the old man's death, if she could at all.

On rising, Ulysses washed at the basin in the guest room. Peering at himself through bleary, half-closed eyes, he took in all the little nicks and scratches he had sustained battling the beast. There was even a bruise blossoming, like a blue-black carnation, on his cheek under his left eye, but he couldn't actually remember how he had come to sustain such an injury.

He decided that he would look a whole lot better if he shaved and so, finding soap and a brush, set to work, careful not to give himself any further injuries. One last dousing with chill water removed the last of the lather from his face and helped to bring him fully to his senses.

Sleep had come easily to him - exhaustion and alcohol both playing their part - but his slumber had been punctuated by dark dreams of savage dogs and desperate flights across the moors. The moors had given way to the sea and he had found himself at the edge of a cliff, white spume crashing on the black rocks below, like the distended open jaws of a predator. He heard the grunting panting of the black dog bearing down on him and yet he had been unable to take his eyes off the churning, corpse-grey surge of the sea. For there, visible between the rise and fall of the dark waves was a beautiful woman, her naked torso draped with the seaweed that tangled her hair, her pert breasts glistening milky-white against the black waters. He looked from her nakedness to her face and saw Jennifer Haniver staring back at him with anxious eyes, calling to him, her words subsumed beneath the crash of the breakers and the rattling suck of the sea as it retreated, preparing for its next assault on the jagged rocks. And then he could hear her and she was laughing. He watched as Jennifer's skin shrivelled and her hair receded until he was staring into the eyeless face of a mummified monkey. And then, with a flick of its fishy tail, the mermaid was gone.

Ulysses blinked sharply, chasing the last fading images of his disturbing dream from his waking mind. He dressed, Nimrod having already chosen him an appropriate outfit - and one in his size, no less - from the old man's wardrobe. He still felt slightly muzzy-headed, and as he dressed he had to sit down on the bed to put on his spotlessly clean shoes. But that wasn't down to a lack of sleep, but the result of an excess of medicinal cognac the night before.

Attired in a green-check suit and starched white shirt, the whole arrangement set off with a bold paisley-patterned bow-tie, Ulysses descended the stairs to be greeted by Nimrod who had a steaming cafetiere in one hand and a white napkin draped over his other arm.

The ever resourceful manservant appeared to be wearing the same set of clothes in which he had fought off the beast on the moors, cleared away corpses and cleaned up after them. And yet there didn't appear to be a mark on them. With perhaps the exception of a clean shirt from Hannibal Haniver's wardrobe, he must have been up most of the night doing the laundry.

"Good morning, sir. I take it you slept well," he enquired politely.

"As much as might be expected, under the circumstances." Ulysses looked around him in dazed confusion and then realised what it was that had surprised him. Nimrod had already cleared away the detritus from their final showdown with the beast the night before.

"You will find breakfast served in the drawing room this morning, sir."

"Ah yes, breakfast," Ulysses said, eyeing the coffee pot in Nimrod's hand. "A capital idea!"

Ulysses turned at the bottom of the stairs and made his way across the hall to the drawing room. Jennifer was already there and her appearance took Ulysses aback somewhat. He had been preparing himself to have to deal with a puffy-eyed, grief-stricken girl constantly dabbing at her tears with the scrunched up ball of a damp handkerchief and not the resolute young woman stood before him instead.

She looked better than he had ever seen her since they had first met on the moors the previous afternoon. For then she had just sprained her ankle and was suffering from the cold shock brought on by the trauma of the injury.

But now she appeared fresh-faced and with a rosy glow he had not seen before. She had washed and dried her hair, tying it up in a practical bun, and she was wearing an open-necked shirt and a new pair of Harris tweed knickerbockers. He could see from the way the knee-length sock on her right foot bulged that she must have strapped up her ankle well - it certainly didn't appear to be troubling her unduly - and had managed to put on another pair of walking shoes.

Ulysses found himself struck dumb by her simple, natural beauty - his English Rose had blossomed - and so it was Jennifer who initiated their first exchange of the day.

"Good morning, Ulysses. Is something the matter?"

"What? No. No, nothing." He realised he had stopped dead in the doorway of the drawing room on catching sight of Jennifer. Crossing the room, he sat down in an armchair next to the windows through which wan sunlight was streaming. "You're looking well," he said cautiously. "Are you feeling -"

"Yes, quite well, thank you."

"There's nothing quite like the smell of grilling bacon, is there?" he said, by way of making light conversation, anxious not to say anything that might upset Jennifer's seemingly cheerful mood, which he was sure must be balanced on a knife edge.

Nimrod returned and placed a plate laden with bacon, scrambled eggs and black pudding in front of Ulysses. Not only had he managed to rustle up a filling breakfast amidst the devastation of the kitchen, he had even found enough intact plates to serve it on.

"Looks wonderful, old boy," he beamed, inhaling deeply, savouring the succulent aromas of the hot food.

"Thank you, sir."

Having made himself scarce the night before when the much bigger dog had invaded his home, the smell of bacon and other such delights had drawn Ambrose the terrier out from his hiding place under the sofa. The dog squatted down beside Ulysses, hopeful eyes watching every forkful of food with expectant relish, but he wasn't even going to get a look in.

The dandy tucked in straight away, but, as far as he was concerned, the pot of coffee that Nimrod had produced was by far his greatest achievement.

"I'm sure you must ravenous after all your exertions last night," Jennifer said, placing her own knife and fork delicately together on her empty plate.

"What? Oh, yes," he admitted, still somewhat unsettled by her oh-so positive tone.

"Well, come on then, eat up. We're all going to need our strength for what lies ahead of us today, aren't we?"

There was something disconcerting about the way she was speaking so freely, a dark, disquieting edge to her strikingly cheerful tone. As far as she was concerned, there would be time enough to grieve later. For now, determination and a resolution to find her father's true killer was paramount.

"Um, yes," Ulysses managed through a mouthful of black pudding. "I'm looking forward to meeting Mr Umbridge."

Less than half an hour later, with breakfast finished and everyone suitably attired for a clear, cold day on Ghestdale, the trio, made up of the cryptozoologist, the dandy and his manservant, set off west, following the stony track that led across the moors in the direction of the Umbridge estate, Miss Haniver taking the gentleman detective's arm for support.

It had been cold out the night before, but certain that the beast would not be troubling him, he had made a bed of heather and bracken for himself in the lea of a rocky outcrop that sheltered him from the warmth-stealing winds that seemed to constantly scour the moors.

He had risen at first light, as the fragile light of the sun struggled to penetrate the cloying November mists and made his way back to the lodge. From his hiding place behind a dry-stone wall he saw a tattered curtain flapping in the breeze, tugged through the shattered remains of the French windows and wet with dew.

When he had reached the house after the others, the night before, all had seemed well. He too had thought the beast dead, or at least trapped within the warren of mine-workings underground. It was only as he was making his way home, scampering back towards the distant lights of the town, that he heard the blood-curdling howls and the woman's screams.

He had returned to the lodge at a run, but by the time he got there it was all over. It took some minutes for him to realise what had happened. It had been then that he had resolved to wait close by until morning, just in case she needed his help again.

It wasn't until the party were a good two hundred yards along the track - Miss Haniver making confident progress despite her injured ankle - that he left his hiding place and, careful as ever not to be seen, set off after them.

Heavy hobnail boots kicked away the wreckage of the devastated French windows, crunched over broken glass and entered the dining room. There on the table, lying under a blood-soaked tablecloth, was the dog. Yanking the cloth free of the animal's body the man turned his face away; the combination of blood, shit and putrefaction was too revolting to stomach even for him.

Hearing the sound of more heavy footsteps in the hall beyond, the man looked up to see his companion standing there, behind the splintered remains of the dining room door.

"Did ya find 'em?" the first asked gruffly, not bothering to remove the stub of the cigar he was smoking from between his teeth as he spoke.

"Only the old man," the second replied, "wrapped up in a curtain in the scullery."

"Bloody 'ell!" The man kicked at the remains of a shredded upholstered chair.