Читать книгу The Wolf Letters - Will Schaefer - Страница 15

“What a banquet that was! The men drank their wine:

the weird they did not know,

destined from of old,

the doom that was to fall on many of the earls there.”

Beowulf

“At a fixed time, deputations from all the peoples who

share a common origin meet in a wood sanctified by their forefathers’ auguries and by ancient dread. A human victim

is slaughtered to celebrate the gruesome opening of the

barbarous ritual.”

The Roman historian Tacitus describes

the Semnones, a wild German tribe.

Germania, 98 AD

In spite of my hasty preparations, the conference lecture went well, much to my relief. Impatient to keep my schedule on track I decided to skip the luncheon in Hall, but just after one I remembered Monsignor Hough’s request concerning Mr Humphrey Miller. Since I felt a bit better about having salvaged the lost morning, I thought that ten minutes could be spared and I paid a visit to Mrs Barraclough at the Archaeology reception desk.

“I’m looking for the office of Mr Humphrey Miller, please.”

Mrs Barraclough looked tired. “I’m afraid no-one by that name works here, Mr Haye. You’re the second man in three days to ask me that.”

“It’s awfully rude of me to ask this, but - you’re certain?”

“More than certain, Mr Haye. If Mr Humphrey Miller worked here, I’d know about it.”

“I see. Then perhaps you could pass a message on to him, on the off chance that he makes himself known to you.”

Mrs Barraclough stared at me incredulously, then reached for a pencil and notebook.

“What’s the message?”

“Contact Monsignor Charles Hough at his presbytery as soon as possible.”

“I’ll pass it on. If Mr Miller makes himself known to me.”

I felt uncomfortable. Monsignor Hough had a sharp mind, it wasn’t like him to get something like this wrong.

“Thank you, Mrs Barraclough.”

I turned around to see Claude a few yards down the corridor, grinning at me.

“Thought I heard you talking out here. What happened at lunch time?”

“I worked through it. The conference threw me off track a bit.”

“You shouldn’t always be in such a rush, you know. You could get thirsty …”

Telling me I ought to be thirsty was an old trick of Claude’s - his way of convincing me I should come out and drink with him.

“I’ve got commitments tonight, Claude.”

“Reading in your digs doesn’t count as a commitment. And don’t tell me you’ve got boxing, I know you’re not training again until September.”

“Look, I’d love to but I’m behind on everything.”

“Too late! I talked with Tiernan over lunch. You’re booked in for a meal and a few pints with us at The Elephant and Castle.”

The Elephant and Castle. Our favourite pub. When we were younger, the three of us drank there whenever we could afford it. We’d had some memorable nights there, not least because it was supposed to be off limits to undergraduates. But these days Tiernan and I were so busy, and Claude spent most of his free time with Anne. How long had it been? “Go on,” said Claude, who could obviously tell I was tempted, “it’s been ages since we’ve been there.”

What the devil, I thought. If I got a lot done this afternoon it wouldn’t hurt. I’d be home by ten. “Talked me into it. Pick you up at quarter to seven.”

* * *

It was busy for a Thursday night at The Elephant and Castle, probably because the day had been so hot, and there was the exhausting prospect of similar weather to follow the next day and over the weekend. Several other dons we knew were there, but as our seniors and superiors they did not acknowledge us beyond a cursory nodding of heads. We didn’t mind. The meal - cold brawn, cold potatoes and some carrot, with bread-and-butter pudding for sweets - had been delicious, and eminently affordable at only ninepence. It was like the old days: my pipe was satisfying, the company was erudite and manly, and we made steady progress through our pints of bitter.

At around ten, with the pub threatening to close, Tiernan excused himself. Claude had gone to buy a last round, but had been distracted and was busy charming someone at the bar.

Merry as I’d been all night, while alone at the table I couldn’t help but think again about the detective and his documents and how the answers to my questions were eluding me. The questions led to more questions and a frustrating sense of not knowing something I ought to. I closed my eyes, suddenly thinking hard and seriously, barely conscious of the chattering and laughter around me. For some reason I also thought of Monsignor Hough and his mysterious Mr Humphrey Miller. Too many questions. I wanted to go home to bed.

Claude barged in with three more pints, splashing froth onto the tabletop as he set them down. He was quite drunk.

“Now - what’s the matter, George?” he slurred affably. “You look knackered. Buggered. You’re not getting out enough these days. You’re out of shape, it’s disgusting. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I said, without spirit. We clinked glasses, and I realised that I was drunk also, much drunker than I ought to be on a work night.

“You know, George, you shouldn’t remain sober when you do as much as you do. It’s not good for you.”

At that moment the publican came over to our table. He looked gruff, and at first I thought he was going to tell us to behave ourselves. But he said: “Which of you gentlemen is Mr George Haye?”

“I am.”

He gave me a slip of paper with handwriting on it. “Message for you, sir.”

Message for Mr George Haye:

Contact Detective Sergeant Aage Nielsen at station or on tel extension 811.

URGENT

I groaned. Certainly, I wanted my questions answered, but I’d been drinking and I wanted to go home, not quibble with an impeccably formal Scandinavian policeman.

“Don’t worry about it until tomorrow,” offered Claude.

But in a wave of alcohol-fuelled stubbornness I made up my mind to ring Nielsen and get it over with. At the bar I paid fourpence for the call.

The telephone was down a hallway, next to the stairs that led up to the Elephant and Castle’s accommodation. From here the noises of the pub seemed far away. I lifted the earpiece and was just about to ask the operator to put me through when I heard a man scream from upstairs.

Momentarily I thought it was my imagination. But I heard it again. A scream. An old man’s scream.

There was fear and agony in that scream. My spine tingled.

I dropped the telephone earpiece and sprinted up the stairs. It vaguely occurred to me that it probably wasn’t wise to intervene when I was drunk, but I reached the top of the stairs before I could reconsider. There were at least ten doors off the second floor hallway.

I heard more screaming, this time louder, and I checked myself, for the alcohol in my blood did not stop me being scared. But someone was in trouble, serious trouble. I rushed at one of the doors, not knowing what I’d do if confronted with a situation as violent as the one I imagined. The room was empty. I charged out and burst into the next room.

There were two men on the bed. A man in white clothes, driving a knife into the guts of a skinny old man. No, it wasn’t a knife, it was smaller, but it was razor sharp. A scalpel. The old man had been disembowelled, and was choking on his own blood in abject terror.

A disgusting smell filled my nostrils. Paper, scattered from a briefcase near the window, blew across the room. It was suddenly freezing cold.

Almost instantly, the white man leapt from the bed to stab me. As he charged, I caught the expression on his face: completely blank, as though a cruel machine had sucked the life from him, and left him with a set of bloodshot eyes devoid of every human feeling. Dodging his weapon, I crashed with the force of his assault back onto the wardrobe. Steel flashed as the white man lurched again at me with his tiny blade. I let him through, then drove my knee into his ribs.

He made no sound, despite my knee connecting solidly. I flung him at the far wall, which he hit hard. He dropped the scalpel but recovered instantly, picking up a brown glass bottle from the bed and hurling it at my head. It missed by inches and smashed on the cupboard behind me, showering me with glass and a sickly smelling white liquid. Split seconds later, circles - big, blood-red circles - formed in my vision. Something strange was happening. The man launched himself. I felt weak and dizzy, and knew that I could not avoid him.

But he missed. I heard glass smash. My attacker had crashed through the window. I was confused. Had he jumped? Had he fallen? My head spun wildly as I staggered to the broken panes and stared into the street twenty feet below. There was nothing, no-one. He was gone.

I was passing out. I slumped to the floor, my eyes flooded with violet lines and weird scarlet shapes, vaguely conscious of the many footsteps in the hall.