The Wolfman (20 page)

“Lawrence!”

He turned to see Gwen Conliffe hurrying toward him down the path.

“I looked for you and couldn’t find you,” she said.

“Has something happened?”

“No,” she said, and almost blushed. “I . . . just wanted to talk with you.” She stopped near him, the sunlight turning the blue of her eyes to a crystal paleness. “What did Inspector Aberline have to say? You both seemed so angry.”

Lawrence was a long time deciding how to answer her question. He turned and began walking along the edge of the lake and she took his arm and strolled with him. “He’s of no help,” he said.

She nodded, then said, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

Gwen shook his head. “I . . . can’t help feeling responsible for what’s happened to you. If I hadn’t sent that letter . . .”

“No,” he said firmly. “It was right that I came back.”

They stopped by a stand of bulrushes. Lawrence leaned his cane against a shrub, bent to pick up a stone, hefted it for a moment, and then skipped it across the lake. It caught the tips of half a dozen wavelets before sinking. He smiled and bent for a handful of stones, making thoughtful selections.

“So,” Gwen said, “tell me about New York. I’ve often imagined what it’s like.”

He handed her a stone and watched her throw. It sank as soon as it hit the water.

“You must come and visit me there someday and see for yourself.”

He gave her another rock.

“Anything is possible,” she said and threw the stone. This time it hit, skipped, hit and skittered deep into the lake.

Lawrence began to laugh, then froze, his head cocked to listen. He turned and scanned the fields, the paths, the forest.

“Did you hear that?” he said.

“Hear what?”

He held up a finger and strained to hear, and there it was. Horses on the road. Still miles away, but coming toward the Hall. It was a wonder he’d heard them at all.

“Go tell my father we have company,” he said as he bent to retrieve his sword cane.

“What’s happening?”

“Go now,” Lawrence urged.

She hesitated for just a moment, then hurried off.

L
awrence walked along the path that circled the house and entered the front yard just as a line of men on horses cantered up to the front steps. The riders saw him and their faces hardened and they angled their horses toward him. Fear bit into Lawrence as he saw the angry determination written on the features of each man. He recognized some of them. Pastor Fisk was at the front, leading the others in a grim congregation; Squire Strickland was on his left flank and Colonel Montford on his right. Dr. Lloyd, looking nervous and ashamed, hung to the back of the group. The rest of the men were strangers, but Lawrence knew that he had no friends here. He stopped and his fingers traced the silver collar of the walking stick. If this got nasty he could at least draw the rapier within. The sight of the blade might bring these fools to their senses.

Or it might encourage them to shoot him down.

“Hello, Doctor,” Lawrence said, forcing faux good humor into his voice. “I thought my checkup wasn’t till Friday.”

Squire Strickland gave Lawrence a haughty look. “Come with us, Talbot.”

Lawrence smiled. “Where are we going?”

Strickland began to speak but Pastor Fisk blurted, “It’s nearly the full moon!”

“Yes,” Lawrence drawled. “And what of it?”

The vicar pointed an accusing finger at him. “You were bitten by the beast. Don’t deny it! You bear his mark now.”

Lawrence burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. Of all the stupid rural foolishness he had ever heard, this was the most absurd. Even if he could believe his own memories that it had been a monster that had attacked him, it was the height of nonsense to think that
he
was a damned creature. He’d fought the creature, chased it, nearly been killed by it. But these men must have believed the vicar’s nonsense. At least a few had the good sense to look embarrassed to be here. Dr. Lloyd looked thoroughly ashamed and he could not meet Lawrence’s eye.

But Colonel Montford pitched his voice above the laughter.

“Come, Talbot . . . show us your wound.”

“What for?”

“Because,” fired back Pastor Fisk, his face alight with righteous anger, “we are told that it heals in an unnatural way.”

Lawrence looked at Dr. Lloyd, who lowered his head to study the grain of his saddle horn.

Montford nudged his horse with his knee, urging it forward to crowd and intimidate Lawrence. The horse was a heavy-shouldered brute that stood at least three hands taller than the others, but when it was four feet from Lawrence the horse suddenly whinnied and shied back, shaking its big head side to side despite Montford’s strong hand on the taut reins.

The moment seemed to freeze around Lawrence. The horse had been spooked, but by
what
? He half smiled. It almost seemed as if the horse had been frightened by Lawrence . . . but that was absurd.

None of the riders were smiling, and even Dr. Lloyd was attentive now. Every eye was on Lawrence. Montford nodded darkly and snapped his fingers. Three bull-shouldered men slid from their saddles and closed on Lawrence. The moment was so bizarre that by the time Lawrence realized what they were actually preparing to do he had lost his advantage. The cane was torn from his grasp before he could twist the handle to release the sword, and rough hands grabbed his arms.

“Let go of me, you bastards!” He struggled as hard as he could, but these men were brutes, their hands like iron.

“Open his shirt,” ordered Montford.

Panic flared in Lawrence as the men began pawing at the folds of his robe and the sleeping shirt beneath. He yelled and kicked at them, trying to break free.

“You see?” demanded Pastor Fisk. “He tries to conceal it!”

Lawrence kneed one man in the crotch, but one of the others cuffed him above the ear and another punched him in the mouth. Lawrence’s lip burst against his teeth and hot blood poured over his chin as iron fingers tore at his clothing.

“He will turn with the moon,” shrieked Fisk, completely caught up in the passion of his belief. “Will you let him murder your wives and children?”

“Hold him, dammit,” Montford growled as he slid smoothly from the saddle. He snatched the rope from one of the mounted riders and handed it to the men holding Lawrence. They immediately began looping it around him.

There was a deafening blast and the head of a garden statue exploded, showering Montford with jagged marble shards. The colonel reeled back, clutching the side of his face as bright blood ran freely from between his
fingers. His eyes bled tears of blood from the stinging stone dust.

Everyone turned to see Sir John Talbot walking across the lawn. He looked composed, even calm as he broke open his big elephant gun and thumbed in a fresh cartridge. The rifle closed with a solid
thunk
and Sir John aimed the heavy weapon from the hip.

Montford stared at him in rage and disbelief, his face a mask of blood. “Talbot—damn you . . .
my eyes
!”

The other men began reaching for their weapons, but Sir John brought his rifle up to his shoulder.

“Sorry, Colonel,” Sir John said with a small genial smile. “It was your brainpan I was aiming for. He pointed his rifle past Montford at Strickland, who was white-faced with shock. “Seems I’m not the marksman I used to be.”

Lawrence was the first to recover from the shock and he tried to pull away from the men, but they held fast. Dr. Lloyd scrambled down from his horse and hurried toward Montford, who was bleeding badly.

“Leave him,” snapped Sir John in a voice that brooked no argument. Dr. Lloyd stopped in his tracks. “Untie my son.”

“He’s cursed,” said Pastor Fisk with such fervor that spit flecked his chin. “God has forsaken him.”

Sir John sneered. “Well he can join the club then, can’t he?”

“You know what he means,” growled Strickland. “John . . . I know this is hard for you, but let us deal with him.”

“Perhaps I am being unclear,” said Sir John softly. “Untie my son or I’ll kill you.”

“You can’t be serious,” Strickland said. “You have two bullets. We have—”

“My Sikh manservant is on the roof above us, and you well know that he’s a crack shot with a Martini-Henry. He’ll kill the next five of you before he has to reload.”

The lynch mob looked up at the sprawling mansion. They saw nothing but even the densest of them could tell that there were a dozen places a sniper could hide. They looked to Strickland, who in turned looked to Fisk. The vicar licked his lips as he weighed the moment in his mind. He gave the men a single curt nod.

It was Dr. Lloyd who finally stepped forward, removed the ropes, and gave Lawrence a weak conciliatory smile. Lawrence wanted to knock his teeth down his throat, but he was afraid that if he started hitting the fool he wouldn’t be able to stop. Rage had become a feral thing in his chest and his knotted fists trembled with the desire to kill every single man among them. He kept his mouth clamped shut for fear that anything he would say would be a roar of uncontrollable fury.

Sir John walked over to Montford and studied the colonel’s gory face. He smiled.

“Now get off my land,” he said quietly. “And the next time any of you trespass this way I won’t be so civil.”

With that Sir John lowered his rifle and took Lawrence by the arm to help him. Gwen Conliffe came running from the house and took Lawrence’s other arm. None of them looked back at the mob, but before they had even closed the garden doors there was the sound of hooves on the road.

I
NSIDE, GWEN AND
Sir John helped Lawrence into a chair. In truth the encounter and struggle had taken a lot out of him, far more than he thought, and as the anger
wore off it left him spent and weak, and the trembling in his limbs did not abate when he unclenched his hands.

Once Lawrence was in the chair, Sir John called for Samson and the massive wolfhound came bounding down the stairs. Sir John opened the door and made a clicking sound with his tongue. The hound snarled and raced outside to harass the lynch mob. Lawrence could hear his deep-chested bray even after Sir John had closed and barred the doors.

“Should we get Singh?” Gwen asked.

Sir John shrugged. “Can’t. He’s in town with the blacksmith.”

Gwen stared slack-jawed at him, but Lawrence burst out laughing. He had never admired his father more than he did at that moment. Sir John chuckled, clearly pleased at his son’s delight.

“Guess you’re not the only one in the family who can act,” he said.

“Bravo, sir,” Lawrence said between horse laughs, “Bravo!”

Gwen knelt by Lawrence and as his laughter abated she pressed him back onto the settee and used a handkerchief to sponge away the blood from his torn lip. Lawrence recoiled at first, but her touch was gentle and soothing and there was a look in her eyes that was as unnerving as it was wonderful.

“I don’t understand how they could think it possible that you are a threat to them,” Gwen said.

“I’m not,” said Lawrence.

“He’s a stranger, Miss Conliffe,” observed Sir John. He had his back to her and his son and neither could see how cold his eyes had become after he had seen the look Gwen had in her eyes as she tended to Lawrence,
and the look in his son’s eyes when he noticed it. He kept his tone light, but his face had become stone. “He’s a stranger, and that suffices in Blackmoor.”

With that he left the room and closed the door behind him. If it was a little too hard, neither Gwen nor Lawrence took particular notice.

E
vening fell softly over Talbot Hall. The mob from the town did not return, and Sir John predicted that they would not.

“How can you be sure?” asked Gwen.