Читать книгу The Dyrysgol Horror and Other Weird Tales - Edmund Glasby - Страница 4

THE DYRYSGOL HORROR

An ancestral terror from the past had returned to prey on the villagers.

Thunder rumbled briefly along the distant horizon, followed shortly after by a sudden flash of brilliance. The moon drifted behind a voluminous mass of dark cloud. Lightning flashed again, high in the heavens, as Detective Inspector Bernard Owen tried to concentrate on steering the car through the increasingly atrocious conditions. Several narrow farm tracks led off the road, but none of these were signposted, and most were little more than rutted paths leading apparently nowhere across deserted moorland and low, rounded hills that brooded oppressively on the skyline. Despite the fact that he had the car headlights on full beam, in the heavy rain, it was proving nigh on impossible to see anything clearly, giving the passing trees on either side a shadowy and menacing appearance.

He had been out this way only once before, and it was with a growing sense of trepidation that he noticed how the surrounding countryside seemed to grow more sinister and sombre in its overall aspect. The car lurched and bounced over several potholes, and the road had now become so narrow that the thorny hedges slashed and tore at the vehicle on both sides.

Another flash of lightning threw the dark trees into sudden stark relief, making them appear for a moment like startled ghosts. This was followed by a crash of thunder that seemed to shake the ground. Moonlight filtered through the dense, ominous clouds, throwing grotesque shadows across the landscape and illuminating the tall and foreboding shape of Dyrysgol Castle that now reared high on a hill directly ahead in an eldritch glow.

Owen brought the car to a stop.

There was a tight burning sensation at the back of his temples. The mere sight of the partially ruined castle set atop the hill before him, with its cracked and splintered towers and its crenellations silhouetted against the full moon, filled his stomach with a sudden wave of fear which threatened to push all other thoughts out of his mind, almost overwhelming him completely. His heart began to hammer against his ribs like a frightened beast. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to think calmly and logically.

Despite the fact that he was a Detective Inspector, there was no denying the fact that he was scared and, not for the first time that evening, he wished that he had brought some of his constables along with him, or at the very least, some of the local villagers. For, once more, there had been a disappearance—this time a farmer from one of the outlying farmsteads—and it was his duty to carry out an investigation.

As he sat in his car, staring up at the dark castle, he deliberated on the way in which he would initiate his questioning with Viscount Ravenwood, a man whom he had only met once before and a man who, clearly, was regarded with a great deal of suspicion and dislike amongst the highly superstitious villagers. There was no denying the fact that Ravenwood had done little to dispel the notorious reputation both he and his ancestors had earned over the centuries. For he had remained aloof and indifferent to local affairs, preferring instead to shun all contact with the village and to dispatch his manservant, Franklins, whenever the need arose to procure goods and necessities.

Owen reflected on this, pondering just how strange it was for a man of reputed wealth to live the life of a self-imposed hermit. Had his inherited wealth somehow disposed him against living with people whom he believed were below his standing? Or was there something else? After all, he could have sold or even abandoned the castle and moved to sunnier climes. It was what he would have done if their positions were reversed.

The rain outside was becoming heavier, although the thunder and lightning seemed to have eased somewhat. Gently chewing his bottom lip, Owen stirred the car into life once more and continued the long, uphill drive towards the castle.

Passing through the entrance gateway, undoubtedly a once-grandiose structure but now reduced to but two columns surmounted by small, bloated, winged gargoyles, he could see, through the darkness, that there did appear to be lights on in the ground floor of the castle. The grounds he was now driving through levelled out slightly and he could see what appeared to be several ruinous, vine-festooned burial edifices, emerging, spectrally, from the darkness. Cracked statues lined the approaching drive, leering at him from the shadows, their faces seemingly frozen in anger at this trespass. Some were twisted and fractured, little more than shattered heaps of half-buried statuary, whilst others were huge and towering, giant shapes laden with malice, monstrous idols that stood sentinel over the approach to Dyrysgol Castle.

What a place! Owen doubted if there was anywhere else in Wales that even resembled it, and as he drew his car up alongside the black, hearse-like vehicle that Franklins occasionally drove into the village, a sudden compulsion to turn the car around and head back flooded into his mind. It was small wonder, he thought, how this place, and its enigmatic owner, had managed to earn such a bad reputation. It was muttered in the village, and indeed, to some extent, in the wider district, that the Ravenwood family had long been associated with devil worship. It was held to be a distinct possibility that the current viscount still entertained such foul practices.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he reluctantly got out of the car and made a dash for the main entrance. He was just about to rap on the large, ornately carved knocker set in the middle of the iron-banded and studded door, when, to his surprise, he heard the sound of bolts being withdrawn from inside, and the door swung open, its un-oiled hinges squeaking protestingly, the sound not unlike that from a nest of dying rats.

Franklins, the manservant, looked at Owen disapprovingly. It was impossible to read what thoughts were going through him, for his face was blank and impassive. He was tall and slim, well dressed, but there seemed to be nothing in his eyes, neither malice nor welcome.

After an uneasy and slightly embarrassing moment, Owen said: “Good evening. I’d like to have a word with Lord Ravenwood, if he’s available.” Despite the fact that he was here pursuing a line of enquiry, and that he possessed all of the legal backing necessary to conduct his investigation, he felt uncomfortable just being here. Get a grip of yourself, he thought sternly. He was a Detective Inspector, had been for over twenty years, and besides, there was nothing to be afraid of here, or so he thought.

Franklins stared at him for a moment longer, whatever recollection he had of Owen’s past visit, several months ago, not registering in the slightest, and it was abundantly clear that he was unrehearsed with any form of etiquette when it came to making a guest feel welcome. Eventually, he said in a monotone voice: “His Lordship is in. But he’s not to be disturbed.”

“I’m here on official police business,” said Owen. “There’s been a disappearance. Another one. Now, if you’d be so good as to inform Lord Ravenwood that I’m here, I’d like to have a word.” An undertone of authority had returned to his voice. It would do no good, at a time like this, for the other to think that he was incapable of carrying out his duties.

“Very well. Wait a moment, please.” Franklins turned swiftly, and made his way along the wood panelled hallway, the walls of which were richly decorated with tapestries, antlers, and heraldic shields. He then disappeared into a doorway on the left.

Owen stepped inside and waited for the other to return.

A minute or two passed before the tall, dark-haired form of Viscount Ravenwood stepped out from beyond the door with his manservant in tow. He was an aristocratic-looking man of handsome and yet sharp features possibly somewhere in his early forties. He wore a dark grey, strangely-padded jacket and a pair of black trousers. A thin film of sweat covered his face and strands of black hair hung damply against his forehead. It was clear that he had been engaged in some form of physical activity. But Owen’s eyes were not concentrated so much on the man’s appearance as on the heavy and dangerous-looking broadsword he carried in his right hand.

“Lord Ravenwood.” Owen stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet with you once more. I hope this is not an inconvenience.”

Ravenwood paused for a moment, throwing a brief, untrusting glance at the Detective Inspector’s hand, before transferring his broadsword to his left hand and shaking it. “Inspector, I understand that there’s been another disappearance from the village. Is that correct?” His manner and accent were polite, precise, and yet somehow rather chilling.

Owen nodded his head slightly. “I’m afraid so.”

“Hmm. And am I also to understand, as this is your second visit, that I’m under some suspicion?”

Owen felt uncomfortable under the other’s dark scrutiny. There was something unreadable in the man’s piercing gaze—something dark and slightly sinister that engendered the uneasy feeling within him that this man had seen horrors not fit for human sight. “This is all purely routine. I’m sure you understand the gravity of the situation. I was wondering if we could just have a little talk.”

Ravenwood contained a laugh. “A little talk, is it? What you actually mean is can I explain where I’ve been all evening, and whether or not I had anything to do with the unfortunate’s death.”

“Who said anything about anyone being killed?” Owen countered, making a mental note of what the other had just said. It was little things like this that often revealed the true details about another’s involvement. It never ceased to amaze him how even the most astute could talk themselves into difficulty. It was just a question of giving them enough rope—

“Come now, Inspector. Surely you don’t believe that all of the people who’ve disappeared over the past year or so are still alive, do you? Where do you think they’ve gone? Why would they ‘up-sticks’ as it were, leaving their families and loved ones behind? Of course they’re dead. You know this as well as I. But please, why don’t you go into the study and make yourself comfortable whilst I change into something less intimidating. Franklins will show you the way.” He turned and made his way back along the corridor.

“If you’d follow me,” said the manservant, ushering Owen towards one of the doors that led off from the main entrance hall. He led the way along a wide corridor, hung at intervals with weird trophies which successive generations of Ravenwoods had obviously collected from all over the world.

“What’s with the sword?” inquired Owen.

Franklins turned. “Sorry?”

“The sword. Does the viscount make a habit of walking around his house armed such as that?”

“No, sir. It’s just that he always insists on an hour’s swordplay most evenings. He follows quite a vigorous routine of both physical and mental exercise, as did his father. Here we are.”

From the doorway, Owen could see that inside the study there was a warm fire blazing in the open hearth. The walls were lined with stags’ heads and bookcases, the contents of which appeared old, yet well looked after. In one corner, at the far end, stood a suit of antiquated plate mail armour. Opposite it was an upright, stuffed bear. A long oaken table, surrounded by several chairs, lay in the centre of the room, and a large, dusty chandelier hung from above, lending the place an air of forgotten and now long-lost opulence. A pair of crossed halberds hung above the fireplace.

“If you’d just wait here,” said Franklins gesturing to one of the chairs. “I’m sure his Lordship will not be long. Would you care for a drink?”

“Not whilst I’m on duty. Thanks all the same.” Owen strode over to one of the chairs and sat down, casting his eyes over the numerous collections and antiques that adorned the walls. This was the same room he had been in the last time he had paid the viscount a visit, and from the looks of it nothing had changed in the slightest. Just how many rooms were there in the castle, he thought. Twenty? A hundred? Although some of the castle, certainly when seen from the outside, appeared to have suffered greatly from the ravages of time, it was abundantly evident that many of the interior living spaces were perfectly functional.

On the table in front of him, within arm’s reach, there were numerous books. There was also a very antiquated globe, a collection of strange brass paperweights and a silver tray bearing a large crystal-cut decanter and several empty wine glasses. Nonchalantly, he picked one of them up and spun it in his fingers so that the harsh glare from the overhead lights was reflected in a million splintered rainbow shards off its faceted surface. A thousand eyes of fire, green and blue and red, winked at him mockingly. Hastily, he set it down on the table again.

After a few minutes, he heard a door close and the sound of approaching footsteps.

Now dressed in a velvet smoking jacket and slippers, Ravenwood stepped into the study. He looked far more relaxed, and some of the sternness seemed to have dissipated from his face. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, Inspector,” he said, trying to sound as genial as possible for that late hour of the evening. “I take it that Franklins has offered you a drink?” he said, removing the top from the decanter.

“Not for me, thanks.”

“As you wish.” Ravenwood poured himself a glass of wine and then slid into one of the chairs facing the other. “Now, Inspector, how can I be of assistance?”

“Well, that’s just it,” began Owen uncertainly. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really sure. The facts as they stand have me truly baffled, and all that I can tell you with any certainty is that over the past few months there have been nine disappearances from the nearby village and its outlying farmsteads. Now, as I said at our last visit, I’m not from Dyrysgol. My headquarters are in Tregaron, some twenty miles away, and I’d be the first to admit that things are more than a little strange around here.”

“You’re referring to the locals?”

Owen gave a half-hearted smile. “Well, in a way, I suppose. You undoubtedly know what they’re like better than me. Simple people with simple outlooks. Anyhow, they seem to have formed the opinion that, well—”

He hesitated, unsure how to complete what it was that he wanted to say.

“That I’m in league with the Devil?” Ravenwood interrupted, trying to keep his voice even. “And that, no doubt, it is I who am responsible for the disappearances. No doubt they have told you that I am a sorcerer, conjuring demons from the bottommost pits of Hell, or perhaps a necromancer, raising the dead from the nearby graveyard in order to fulfil my diabolical schemes. I daresay there are some who claim to have seen me with a gathering of witches up on Bryn Garwynn, dancing by firelight around the stone circle there.” He took a measured sip from his wine glass.

Owen cleared his throat. “Something like that. I suppose if we look at it from their perspective, it’s not that difficult to form such a belief. You never venture out and you’d have to admit that this property is unusual.”

“And that’s the basis on which to judge another’s character? Come now, Inspector, surely you can see, as a man of logic, that the superstitions and the fears are all in their minds. I admit that I am somewhat reclusive, preferring my own company to that of others, but as far as I’m aware, that is not a crime. Now, I understand fully that the spate of disappearances has undoubtedly heightened their concerns, and I can see in your eyes that you share their prejudice against me.”

“No, that’s not true,” said Owen, shaking his head. “I look at everything impartially, based on the evidence that it’s my duty to gather. And so far, I have nine people unaccounted for, all of whom seem to have disappeared at or around the time of the full moon.”

Ravenwood spread out the fingers of his right hand, looking down for a moment in pensive thought at the signet ring he wore before looking across directly at the other. “A most tragic set of circumstances, and I’ll obviously help you in any way that I can, but, as you yourself pointed out, I seldom leave the castle and I’m afraid my assistance may be of little use.”

Owen was stumped. If there was any truth in what the other was saying, and without evidence to the contrary it seemed as though there was, then surely he was pursuing a dead end here. He could probably go as far as ordering a search of the castle, to see if any of the missing people were being kept here against their wills, but he reasoned that such a course of action would not be fruitful and it would take time to authorise and conduct. Time in which Ravenwood could destroy whatever evidence there may or may not be.

He was just about to speak, when something large brushed against his legs under the table, causing him to jerk back in surprise. Looking down, he was rather startled to see the large head of a night-black dog, staring up at him, its saliva-flecked jaws ridged with jagged white teeth.

Ravenwood noticed the worried look on the other’s face. “Don’t be alarmed, Inspector. Wolf has been well-trained, as a guard dog that is. He’s merely come to say hello.” He gave a wintry smile that failed to put the other at ease.

With a slightly trembling hand, Owen reached out and patted the heavily panting, vicious-looking creature. Desperately, he tried to marshal his turbulent thoughts, to reach some kind of decisive plan of action. He had ventured out here in the hope that Ravenwood might be able to offer some insight into the rash of disappearances. But it seemed that the man knew nothing. That being the case, there was little reason for him to remain a moment longer. Additionally, he did not like the look of the dog. He made to get up from his chair. “I’ll take my leave of you then, Lord Ravenwood. If anything should come to your attention regarding these disappearances, I’ll be staying at the inn in the village for the next few days if you should wish to contact me.”

“Very good. Before you go, Inspector, may I just say that I’d appreciate it if you were to offer my condolences to the relatives at this troubling time. And once again, may I reaffirm that I am not the monster that the villagers take me for. The real monster—is still out there.” He pointed towards the lead-latticed study window where the rain and the wind lashed and howled, and grotesque shadows cast from the trees and bushes outside wildly cavorted.

* * * *

“I don’t suppose Ravenwood said much, did he?” asked the innkeeper, pouring Owen a glass of whisky. “I told you he were a queer one. Living up there in that godforsaken castle, all alone except for that oddball, Franklins.” He pushed the glass towards the Inspector. “Here.”

“Thanks. Good health.” Owen took a measured sip. The fiery liquid went down into his stomach and expanded into a cloud of warmth. He took another sip and rested the glass on the counter. “He didn’t have much to say, if that’s what you’re asking.” About him, some dozen or so other patrons were sat about drinking and talking quietly amongst themselves, their voices little more than hushed mutters. Under normal circumstances, there should have been a hubbub of activity; laughing and joking, perhaps a few card games or a friendly dispute over a game of darts, but here hung an air of depression and fear, with anger bubbling just below the surface. He sensed that they were waiting to hear a full-blown account of his visit. To perhaps provide them with cause to mobilise and march on the castle in order to vent their superstition-fuelled wrath; to bring mob justice with flaming torches and pitchforks like in the Mediaeval days. They needed a scapegoat, and he knew that things could get out of hand quite easily. His thoughts were validated when a gruff voice from behind him called out:

“It’s him, I tell ye! He’s the one responsible. To hell with the Ravenwoods!”

Owen turned, just in time to see a stocky, well-built man with a huge bushy black beard slam his tankard down on the table at which he sat. Ale and foam flew.

“Steady, Pat. Steady!” exclaimed the innkeeper. “We all know that your boy was one of them that’s disappeared, but—”

“He were only fourteen!” the thickset man shouted. “How many more will there be before someone is brought to account?” He threw an accusatory glance at Owen. “Can you tell us that, Inspector? Just how many more innocents will Ravenwood claim before someone does something?”

“There’s no proof whatsoever to implicate him in any of these wrongdoings,” said Owen, raising his voice in order that the gathered men could hear him well. “He claims to have no knowledge regarding these disappearances. And until any evidence comes up to the contrary, there is absolutely no reason to suspect him. Now, if you all just calm down a minute, I will explain how I plan to proceed from here. In the morning, I expect two constables to be arriving from Tregaron to assist in my investigations. We’ll be meticulously going over all the details, trying to piece together what evidence there is in order to—”

With a crash, the door to the inn was flung wide, and a rain-soaked man stumbled forward, prompting all eyes to turn towards him.

Owen and the innkeeper rushed forward, catching the man as he slumped down. There was a look of sheer horror on his face; his eyes were wide and bulging, and he was trembling violently.

“It’s old Edwin from the other side of the valley. He looks like death,” said the innkeeper, guiding the unfortunate into a chair by the fire. He turned to one of the men nearby. “Get him a large brandy. Hurry, man!”

A large brandy was soon thrust into the shaking hands of the old man. For a moment, he looked at it blankly, as though unsure why it was there before taking a large gulp. He shivered, convulsively, whether due to the cold and the soaking he had obviously received or whether due to something else, Owen was unsure, although he highly suspected the latter. After a minute or two some semblance of lucidity began to creep back into him. He jerked upright, eyes staring wildly around him.

Edwin took another hefty drink of brandy. He tried desperately to gather his distraught emotions. It was abundantly clear that he had experienced something—something that had given him the fright of his life. “It was as I was coming back along the road from Ystradffin that I saw in my headlights up ahead that a car, Doctor Jones’ car, had gone off the road, into the ditch.” He paused and took several deep breaths before continuing; “I parked up alongside and got out to see if there was any way in which I could help. The driver’s door was lying wide open and there was no one to be seen, although I could tell that something dreadful must have happened. The windscreen was shattered and there seemed to be huge claw marks along the roof of the car and all down the side. As I could see no one, I thought the best thing was to come here and—and, that’s when I heard it—” He took another drink.

A great hush had fallen over all of the patrons. They waited with bated breath for Edwin to continue:

“It was a terrible sound that seemed to come from everywhere, yet in the darkness I could see nothing. I’m no hero, so I ran back and got in my car and drove as fast as I could all the way here.”

Owen contemplated this new information. He rubbed his chin worriedly. “There’s no chance of getting officers out there tonight. In the morning, when my constables arrive, I’ll go out and investigate the scene. In the meantime, and certainly in light of what we’ve all just heard this evening, I think we can safely rule out any involvement on the viscount’s part. I would advise everyone to return home, in groups of at least three if possible, and make sure that all their doors are firmly bolted.”

* * * *

A cold, damp fog hung like a thick blanket over the area, making driving difficult and hazardous, yet slowly and steadily Owen drove out towards the place Edwin had informed him of the previous night. In the passenger seat sat Constable Hughes, a crudely-drawn map in his hands, whilst in the back of the car, staring out of the window, was Constable Jenkins.

“We can’t be far away now, sir,” said Hughes. “If this map’s anything to go by, I’d say we’ve probably got less than a mile to go. Just keep going along this road.”

“If you want my opinion,” butted in Jenkins, “I still think that this Ravenwood sounds a bit of a dodgy character. You said yourself, sir, that he’s got a huge dog. Could be that he’s trained it to kill people like in that story.”

“You mean the Hound of the Baskervilles?” Hughes laughed, although there was little mirth in it, for they had now ventured far from the village. The realisation that they would shortly be conducting a search of a possible crime scene, one for which the perpetrator or perpetrators responsible remained both unknown and at large, was not something to laugh at. The thought chilled him somewhat.

Owen shifted gear and slowed down, gradually bringing the car to a halt. “We’ll walk from here. Keep your eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary.” He got out of the car and put his hand up to his forehead. There was a filming of sweat on it and he felt suddenly cold. Even with the others there, close beside him, he felt oddly afraid. It was nothing he could put his finger on, nothing really tangible, but walking down that barely visible stretch of country road, he had the sudden impression that red eyes were watching his movements with a raptorial hunger. Savagely, he bit his lower lip to prevent himself from screaming out loud. The fear was palpable, clinging around him, soaking into his mind. He stood quite still, listening for a moment, certain that something—some hideous evil—would emerge from the fog and tear them all to pieces.

“Sure is one hell of a creepy place,” said Hughes. In the distance, he could hear the bleating of sheep.

“And this fog doesn’t help either.” Jenkins was walking slowly, eyes scanning the road below him.

They walked on through the fog for a further five minutes or so before Owen brought them up short. He pointed to the ground. “Look! See those tyre marks? This is clearly were the car began to skid. It looks as though the driver tried to hit the brakes.”

“And what’s this?” Jenkins, who had walked over to one side, returned with something long and slender in his right hand.

“What have you found?” asked Owen.

“Why, it’s an arrow, sir.” Jenkins handed it over. “It was just lying on the road.”

Carefully, Owen ran his hand down the relatively thick, smooth pine shaft. The black fletching had obviously been well trimmed, and testing the iron-cast barbed point against his thumb, he was not surprised to find that it was incredibly sharp. His appraisal was interrupted by a call from Hughes.

“The car’s just up ahead, sir.”

“Keep a good hold of this,” said Owen, returning the arrow to his constable. “And good work spotting it.”

The two of them jogged up the road to join Hughes, who had clambered down into the relatively shallow ditch and was peering inside the wrecked vehicle.

At first glance, it could have just been a simple accident. A car going off the road in adverse driving conditions was not, in itself, an unusual occurrence. However, it was only as they got closer that they noticed the jagged marks that covered the roof and the nearside. It was as though some creature, a bear for instance, had attacked it. Some gouges went right through the metal.

The driver’s door hung wide open, and Owen had to hope that the good doctor had somehow managed to escape and that he was out there somewhere trying to make his way back to civilisation. Much as he wanted to believe this, the state of the car and the terrible sounds Edwin had described seemed to make it unlikely. No, he told himself, there was something far more sinister at work here. With that realisation, he clambered down into the ditch to join Hughes.

“Sure is a bit of a mess,” said Hughes. “But there’s no blood visible, which is rather surprising.”

“Most strange.” Owen gave a final look around the interior of the car. He drew himself to his full height and straightened his back. His eyes narrowed to mere slits as he tried to push his vision into the enshrouding fog. That feeling of being watched was strong within him once more, as was the unsettling awareness that there was something out there. Something that could see them, despite the fact that they could not see it. A lump gathered in his throat, but he forced it down. There was a sudden cold clamminess of sweat on his back and an icy chill on his chest. He felt his arms shaking.

“Inspector!”

Jenkins’ call made him jump.

“There’s another arrow over here. And—and something else. I think you’d better have a look.”

* * * *

By early afternoon the fog had lifted somewhat, permitting Owen to drive far more easily than he had that morning. Passing through the gateway that led up towards Dyrysgol Castle he suppressed a shiver of fear and he heard Hughes, who was in the passenger seat, let out a little gasp of uncomprehending bewilderment.

“Looking at this lot, it’s no wonder that Jenkins thinks that this viscount is behind everything.”

“We’ve got nothing to go by yet, so let’s not be too quick to judge, although I’ll agree with you this place sure gives me the creeps.”

“I—” Hughes was about to speak, when he suddenly stopped and stared. “I think you’ll find that we’ve got plenty to go by, Inspector. Stop the car and look! Over there to the left.”

Owen brought the car to an abrupt halt. “What is it?” he asked tersely. His eyes lit up. “Right, let’s go. Leave the talking to me. And don’t forget to bring that.” He pointed meaningfully at a large black bag, which lay on the back seat. With that, he got out of the car and began to stride purposefully towards the near side of the castle.

Some two hundred yards away, he could see Ravenwood shooting arrows at a large, circular straw target.

“Lord Ravenwood!” he shouted.

Ravenwood turned to look at him, an arrow notched on his bow and ready to be released.

“A moment, if you please.” Owen was now getting near and the sudden, dreadful thought that he presented a good target to an experienced archer flashed briefly through his mind. He dispelled it the moment Ravenwood lowered his bow and stood waiting, expectantly.

“Inspector. Once again I have the pleasure of your company.” Ravenwood stood tall and imposing, the bow he gripped slightly longer than him. “You catch me pursuing one of my great hobbies. As a toxophilite—”

“A what?”

“A toxophilite—a lover of archery. I don’t suppose you’re aware that the so-called English longbow was in fact invented here, in Wales.”

“Is that right? Well that’s one of the main reasons why I’m here. You see, two arrows were found at the scene of one of our investigations this morning, and, they seem to be identical in appearance to the ones in your quiver. Now, I had merely come out here on the off chance that perhaps you could have told me something about them, what with your interest in old weapons and such. But here I find you with arrows, very similar in appearance, in your possession. Would you care to explain?”

Hughes had now approached. He opened the bag that he carried and took out the two arrows in question. He gave a slightly mocking look to the viscount that seemed to imply that it was all over for him now. They had the evidence to pin him to one of the disappearances. It would of course be interesting to discover how the man explained the other thing in the bag, but this was, nonetheless, a major breakthrough.

Ravenwood shrugged his shoulders. There was no obvious admission of guilt in his body movement nor in his eyes, only a confirmation that what the other held in his hand did indeed belong to him.

“They are yours, yes?” Owen looked at him with a hard stare.

“Yes, I do believe that they are. And I suppose as a token of my appreciation for your returning them to me, you would like me to explain why they were found where they were, yes?” For the briefest of moments, something almost akin to concern flashed across Ravenwood’s fine features. There was no turning back now, he thought to himself. He would have to explain everything and hope that they believed his story. “Shall we go inside, gentlemen?” he said. “I’ll have Franklins prepare a little something to eat, and we’ll get down to business. There’s much to tell.”

* * * *

After they had settled themselves in the study and Franklins had made some sandwiches and some tea and coffee, Owen gestured to his constable to open the bag once more. At arms length, as though reluctant to handle whatever it was that had been contained inside, Hughes removed a leathery flap of greyish-black material. What looked like green veins spread out web-like inside it.

“In addition to the arrows, we found this rather repulsive-looking thing. Have you any idea what it is?”

Ravenwood grinned. “I know exactly what it is. However—you may not believe me if I tell you. You see, what you have there is a piece of wyvern wing.”

“What?” asked the two policemen in unison.

“It’s a piece of wyvern wing,” Ravenwood repeated. Noting the confusion on the others’ faces, he decided that further information was warranted. “The wyvern is a monster. A creature long thought mythological and relegated to the realm of folklore. It’s similar in several ways to a dragon and has often been mistaken for one. It has but two legs and it also possesses a fearsome, poisonous barbed sting on the end of its tail. Legend states that the venom kills almost instantly and there is no known antidote. You will find its image displayed on countless shields within this very castle, and indeed, it is the old national emblem of Wales.”

Owen and Hughes exchanged disbelieving looks.

“It’s this monster which is terrorising Dyrysgol. I should know, for not only have I seen it, but—but it is my duty in life to slay it. I was there yesterday evening, when it attacked the doctor. Alas, I was unable to save him.”

“Can I stop you there?” Owen raised an interjecting hand. “Lord Ravenwood, please forgive me if I sound a little brusque, but try and see this from where we’re sitting. Wouldn’t you agree that what you’re saying sounds more than a trifle odd? I mean, do you fully expect us to believe that there’s a winged monster flying around out there, snatching people up and devouring them?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Inspector.” There was an intensity in the man’s eyes. “And more will fall victim to it, unless we, or rather I, stop it.”

“And just assuming that this thing does exist, where can it be found?” inquired Hughes, his question asked without much true interest. He reached for one of the sandwiches and began to munch into it. In his mind, at least, the viscount was stark raving mad. But why not humour the man for a moment? Besides, he was enjoying the sandwiches.

Ravenwood pondered this question for a moment. “Unfortunately, I don’t know. Don’t you think that if I did, I would have tried to kill it before now?” He put down his coffee cup. “There are a few locations that I have yet to explore. But to tell you the truth, it could be virtually anywhere. It will have laired itself somewhere secluded. Somewhere where it can hide and rest, only coming out on the nights around the full moon to hunt and kill its prey.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m still finding all of this very hard to believe,” said Owen. “You talk about a monster straight out of the Dark Ages, and expect us to join you on some dragon-slaying mission as though this were normal. It’s not normal, Lord Ravenwood. It’s preposterous. Now, if you’d said there was an escaped bear from a travelling circus on the loose—”

“You have a piece of wing.”

“This could be anything,” retorted Hughes. “I’ll admit I don’t know what it is, but I sure as hell don’t think that it’s part of any dragon.” He sneered derisively and looked at his Inspector.

“I told you, it’s not a dragon.”

“No, it’s a wyvern. Isn’t that right, Lord Ravenwood?” There was a tone of contempt and mockery now in Owen’s voice. Things were becoming farcical. He was a detective inspector, with a trained, rational mind. He did not believe in the existence of things that he could not see or detect, or understand for that matter. “You’ll be telling me next that the thing is immune to bullets or something, won’t you?”

“That’s correct. Like many creatures of the night, it’s impervious to most forms of modern weaponry.”

“Ah, hence the archery and the sword-fighting. Yes, I’m beginning to see now.”

“Inspector, it’s clear that not only are you trying to ridicule me, but that you don’t believe a word I’m telling you. It’s also clear that you’ll soon charge me on some grounds or other in connection with the disappearances. After all, you now have proof to link me incontrovertibly with one of the crime scenes. This leaves me with no alternative but to show you something that I have taken great steps to conceal from the outside world ever since I inherited the castle.” Ravenwood rose from his chair. “If you’ll follow me.”

The two policemen got up and followed Ravenwood as he led them out of the study, back along the main corridor into the hall and then down a further passage which headed deeper into the castle. It was as they were following him, that Owen began to realise the immensity of the building, with its labyrinthine turns and twists, and countless doors leading to an unknown number of rooms. Many of the walls were decorated with paintings and portraits of dour-faced individuals, who stared out at them, sinisterly.

Eventually they arrived at what looked like an old dungeon door.

Removing a key from his pocket, the viscount inserted it into the lock and turned it. There was an audible click and he pushed the door wide, revealing a set of very old steps, worn deeply with age, which led down into what appeared, at first sight, to be a dank cellar from which several other subterranean passages radiated. Taking a torch, which hung on the wall, he switched it on and proceeded down. At the bottom, he took the tunnel on his left. It sloped down steeply.

Their dark shadows flitted ghost-like over the walls as they ventured deeper into the bowels of the castle. Owen was feeling uneasy, claustrophobic, in the dank dungeons. There was an eerie feel, an oddness that soaked into his being, surging along the nerves and fibres of his body. Silence screamed at him and his mind screamed silently in return. His inner sense was telling him to flee from this place, to turn around and run, back up the steps, to the relative safety of the ground floor. Anything could lurk down here in the shadows, he thought.

“I hope there’s a damned good reason for bringing us down here, Ravenwood,” said Hughes. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Nearly there. Just down this final flight of steps.”

The steps in question were, if anything, even more worn and dangerous than those to the entrance to the dungeon, and on two occasions it was only by sheer luck that Owen did not fall headlong down them. They gathered at the bottom and the two policemen stared, slack-jawed at the sight before them.

Illuminated in the torchlight, almost dominating the vaulted chamber they had entered, lay the skeletal, and indeed partially fossilised, remains of some prehistoric monster. Although it was difficult at first to ascertain its true outline amidst the jumble of yellow-aged bones, it was clear that this was no ordinary creature. Its sheer size alone ruled that out as a possibility.

Shaking his head in stunned disbelief, Owen half-stumbled forward on legs that had become leaden. This was amazing! Unreal! He tried to shake the image before him from his perplexed eyes, as though it were nothing more than an illusion brought on by stress and exhaustion. He gripped his hands tightly together, feeling all reality, every trace and last vestige of sanity, crumbling away beneath his feet, dropping away from under him like an avalanche of hard facts and nightmare. He searched his mind frantically, madly, for a rational explanation. Something for his spinning mind to hold onto, an anchor to steady himself.

“Look at those teeth.” Hughes had now taken the torch from Ravenwood and was shining the beam directly at the monstrous skull, which rested atop a vertebrae-ridged spine, the neck longer than any giraffe’s. He trailed the beam of the torch down, taking in every detail, every bone and protrusion. “And those claws. Good God!”

“This, gentleman, is the remains of the first wyvern. It has lain here for over thirteen hundred years, ever since my ancestor, the first of the Ravenwoods, slew it. Since that time, it has always been the duty—and to some extent the curse—of the Ravenwoods, to kill it. I’ve done years of research on the subject, and I now know the secret behind its existence. Whenever a male heir of the Ravenwood line reaches the age of forty, a new wyvern will hatch, spreading fear and horror until it is killed. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve never married. Hopefully when my line dies out, so will the monster’s. The question is, just how are we going to find it?”

A sudden idea came to Owen.

* * * *

Dusk was still an hour or so away, when Owen and Ravenwood saw the two approaching vehicles. That in front was the viscount’s car driven by Franklins. Behind it, churning up mud, bounced a large tractor pulling a farmyard trailer.

“Well,” said Ravenwood. “I hope to God that this plan of yours works. For not only has it cost me a pretty penny, but more importantly, I don’t think there are many more nights that the wyvern will fly before the next full moon. This might be our last night, our last chance to get it before it goes into a month-long hibernation.”

“It’s as good a plan as any. What with the alternative being a full-scale search of all the possible places where it could hide. This area is riddled with old mine shafts, ruined mills, caves, and goodness knows what else. We could spend a year combing the area and still not find it.”

“You may be right.” Ravenwood winced at the distinct animal stench that wafted out from the trailer, which had now parked up nearby. From inside, came the sound of bleating sheep. “I hope your men don’t mind getting their hands dirty,” he said, a wry grin on his face.

* * * *

From the bushes, Owen watched the moon come up from behind the castle; a great skull-white disc that glared down out of the star-strewn heavens like a huge, watching, evil eye witnessing their every move. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry, and he was afraid.

It was the waiting that was the most terrible part of it; having to sit out there in the long and clinging silence, which seemed to throb in his ears, almost tangibly. He could do nothing to force the fear away, knowing that they were waiting in ambush for something abominable. Something seemed to clamp down upon his brain, allowing the horror and the black fear to rise a little higher, to grow a little stronger, until now he could hardly bear it. He thought grimly of the black thing that hovered somewhere up there in the dark sky, waiting to make its nightmare plunge. But there was nothing there. Nothing moved in the deep pools of ebony shadow. No sound. No movement. Nothing. He breathed in deeply, striving vaguely to still the sudden hammering of his heart and the violent pumping of the blood in his veins.

The stench from the scattered sheep viscera was repugnant, and he felt a little twinge of sympathy for the two remaining live animals which were tethered in its midst. Still, if the bait worked, it will have been worth it, he thought.

He almost jumped when Ravenwood grabbed his shoulder and pointed. He looked up, and there, silhouetted against the moon, he saw it! A chill of utter horror ran down his spine. It clutched at his body with ripping, seeking fingers, and it was only with a great mental effort that he stopped himself from screaming out loud.

The winged monstrosity circled lazily overhead before starting a descent, its twin claws extended. It swooped down like some hellish bird of prey and plucked one of the sheep from the ground before taking to the wing once more.

“We have to try and lure it down,” whispered Ravenwood, his longbow in hand. “If we can get it near enough, I will be able to shoot it.”

It had clearly devoured the first sheep in mid-flight, for Owen could see that it was now preparing itself for a second dive. This would probably be their last chance. With an insane compulsion, he broke from the cover of the bushes and ran out into the open, waving his hands and shouting at the top of his voice.

Hellish, lambent red eyes fixed on him from high above. For a fleeting moment, he was the rabbit in the eyes of the hawk. And then it plummeted towards him, its wings outstretched and membranous, horn-like spurs at their tips.

At that moment, Ravenwood and the two constables charged into the clearing. The viscount launched an arrow, and then a second whilst the policemen discharged their shotguns, which Franklins had purchased from the farmer earlier that day. Caught in the crossfire, the wyvern whirled and spun, its poison-barbed tail lashing at the air and dripping venom.

Owen scrambled clear. “Shoot it! Kill it!” he hollered.

The wyvern landed on its two legs and turned to face Hughes and Jones. It screeched directly at them. Its voice—the voice of the dark and its power over the light—sent a wave of fear through the two constables, for it touched upon the primal fears buried in the marrow of all living creatures. Their knees buckled under them and they fell screaming to the ground, covering their ears with trembling hands. And in that moment, it flapped towards them. Its huge jaws clamped around Hughes and, shaking him from side-to-side, it tossed his headless body away.

It was just about to snap down on Jones, when another arrow struck into its left flank, causing it to spin round and face the advancing archer. A second arrow sunk deep in its chest, drawing a further snarl of rage and anger from it.

Suddenly the terrible carnage was illuminated in ghastly detail as Franklins turned on the headlights of his car and came speeding towards it.

Owen stifled a cry as he saw the reptilian horror turn to face the oncoming vehicle. He felt helpless, unable to intervene, rooted to the spot. Paralysed, all he could do was watch through horror-filled eyes.

And then all hell broke loose! There were cries and shouts and shotguns blasts and that infernal screeching. The wyvern had been wounded, whether from the impact from Franklins’ car or from the half dozen or so arrows which now protruded from its bat-like wings, he could not immediately tell. In one terrible moment, he witnessed the manservant’s car being overturned and the unfortunate being inside horribly rended by the monster’s snatching claws.

With a cry, Ravenwood, now out of arrows, leapt into the fray, swinging his broadsword. Hacking and chopping with abandon, he threw all caution to the wind and set about the beast. With a mighty two-handed swing he completely severed one of the wyvern’s wings. A follow-up chop sliced a great gash down its flank. Dark greenish blood spattered.

But then, just as it appeared as though Ravenwood had the upper hand and was about to vanquish the beast, its snake-like tail lashed forward, the barbed stinger striking him in the right thigh. He screamed in agony. In one final, desperate act, with the lethal toxin spreading through his body, he drove his sword through the dragon-like head, silencing the Dyrysgol horror forever.

Stumbling, staggering, Owen lurched forward. Ravenwood was not quite dead but he could see that there was nothing he could do to save him.

“And so it ends,” Ravenwood managed to gasp. “Get rid of the body if you can. Burn it.”

“Inspector!” Jones came rushing over, trying not to look at the bloody aftermath of their confrontation. “How in hell’s name are we going to explain all this?” he cried manically.

Owen shook his head, unable to take in the reality of what had just transpired. “I—don’t know, I really don’t know. But hopefully the nightmare is now over.” He could see that Viscount Ravenwood was now dead, and he had to hope that with his death Dyrysgol would now be safe.