curtains are still open and beyond the small mullioned frame
there is complete darkness. Little Langdale, like many such hamlets set deep
in Lakeland’s fells, is not overburdened with street lighting. The woman
seems to divine his misgivings. She fixes him with her bulbous fishlike gaze
and lifts a finger towards the ceiling.
‘Moon
had risen ower yon pike – it wo’ plenty bright enough.’
‘And how
long after you got into bed did you hear the other footsteps?’
‘Minute
or two.’ She sucks in her lips momentarily. ‘I’d ’ave deeked but
I’d took out me teeth by then.’
Skelgill
appears unfazed by this logic – he reaches for another biscuit and holds
it up approvingly, which pleases the old lady.
‘And
it was more than one person?’
The
woman gets to work again on the cat as a precursor to her reply.
‘Sounded
like when fell runners come through t’village – a group on ’em together.’
‘But
no voices?’
Now
she shakes her head and, as Skelgill watches with some alarm, she dispenses a couple
of solid thumps upon the tolerant feline’s cranium – perhaps this action
corresponds to a negative response. However, as he reaches for his cup of
tea he can’t fail to hear the creature’s throaty purr.
‘Is it
unusual for folk to be up and about – at that time of night?’
Now
the lady rubs the cat’s head with a side-to-side motion – this could be
an indication of uncertainty.
‘Since
these offcomers arrived there’s bin goings on.’
‘Clarice
– do you mean at the Langdale Arms?’
‘Aye
– and ower at castle – yon foreign gadgee.’ With the heel of
a hand she gives the cat a solid dunt in one ear. ‘He sacked local folk
as wukt there – and they say he keeps wolves – roaming wild int’ grounds.’
Skelgill
narrows his eyes and leans forwards with his elbows on his thighs. It
will not surprise him that Blackbeck Castle’s proprietor’s name – Wolfstein – and his conspicuous ownership of a brace of Alsatians have already
become twisted by hearsay. (In fact he might marvel that the rumour mill has
not made the leap directly to werewolf.) Though Clarice Cartwright is still
mobile about her modest abode, she probably relies upon visitors for her news
and gossip. Indeed it was from her twice-weekly charlady that she learned
of William Thymer’s unfortunate demise, and through the same woman’s good
offices that her report of his nocturnal flight was relayed to the local bobby
and thence to Skelgill. Now, as he munches companionably, he must be
speculating as to the reliability of her testimony. Witnesses are notoriously
inaccurate at the best of times – and throw into the equation such
variables as a hearing aid and thick-lensed spectacles (neither of which may
have been worn at the time) and an unlit village street at well past midnight
– and it is tempting to conclude that the account has been invented,
imagined, embellished, or possibly even dreamt.
*
The charcoal-clad
figure that drops noiselessly beside Blackbeck Castle’s grey forest gate
crouches for a second, poised like a panther in a patch of pale moonlight. He
wears fine gloves and a close-fitting hat, and a Buff around his throat pulled
up over his nose – exposing only glinting eyes that dart about, quick to alert
him to danger. His top is a soft-shell that makes no sound, his climber’s
trousers likewise, and rubber soled trail shoes complement the burglar’s silent
ensemble.
What separates
this intruder from the conventional sneak thief, however, is his next
act. Still on his haunches he slips off a small backpack and extracts
first a bulging hessian bass-bag, and then a leather sheath from which he draws
a wicked-looking filleting knife. He spreads out the bag and sets to work
upon its contents with the flickering blade. Some thirty or more cuts
made, he regards his handiwork. Tugging down his muffler, he picks up a
portion and stuffs it
there is complete darkness. Little Langdale, like many such hamlets set deep
in Lakeland’s fells, is not overburdened with street lighting. The woman
seems to divine his misgivings. She fixes him with her bulbous fishlike gaze
and lifts a finger towards the ceiling.
‘Moon
had risen ower yon pike – it wo’ plenty bright enough.’
‘And how
long after you got into bed did you hear the other footsteps?’
‘Minute
or two.’ She sucks in her lips momentarily. ‘I’d ’ave deeked but
I’d took out me teeth by then.’
Skelgill
appears unfazed by this logic – he reaches for another biscuit and holds
it up approvingly, which pleases the old lady.
‘And
it was more than one person?’
The
woman gets to work again on the cat as a precursor to her reply.
‘Sounded
like when fell runners come through t’village – a group on ’em together.’
‘But
no voices?’
Now
she shakes her head and, as Skelgill watches with some alarm, she dispenses a couple
of solid thumps upon the tolerant feline’s cranium – perhaps this action
corresponds to a negative response. However, as he reaches for his cup of
tea he can’t fail to hear the creature’s throaty purr.
‘Is it
unusual for folk to be up and about – at that time of night?’
Now
the lady rubs the cat’s head with a side-to-side motion – this could be
an indication of uncertainty.
‘Since
these offcomers arrived there’s bin goings on.’
‘Clarice
– do you mean at the Langdale Arms?’
‘Aye
– and ower at castle – yon foreign gadgee.’ With the heel of
a hand she gives the cat a solid dunt in one ear. ‘He sacked local folk
as wukt there – and they say he keeps wolves – roaming wild int’ grounds.’
Skelgill
narrows his eyes and leans forwards with his elbows on his thighs. It
will not surprise him that Blackbeck Castle’s proprietor’s name – Wolfstein – and his conspicuous ownership of a brace of Alsatians have already
become twisted by hearsay. (In fact he might marvel that the rumour mill has
not made the leap directly to werewolf.) Though Clarice Cartwright is still
mobile about her modest abode, she probably relies upon visitors for her news
and gossip. Indeed it was from her twice-weekly charlady that she learned
of William Thymer’s unfortunate demise, and through the same woman’s good
offices that her report of his nocturnal flight was relayed to the local bobby
and thence to Skelgill. Now, as he munches companionably, he must be
speculating as to the reliability of her testimony. Witnesses are notoriously
inaccurate at the best of times – and throw into the equation such
variables as a hearing aid and thick-lensed spectacles (neither of which may
have been worn at the time) and an unlit village street at well past midnight
– and it is tempting to conclude that the account has been invented,
imagined, embellished, or possibly even dreamt.
*
The charcoal-clad
figure that drops noiselessly beside Blackbeck Castle’s grey forest gate
crouches for a second, poised like a panther in a patch of pale moonlight. He
wears fine gloves and a close-fitting hat, and a Buff around his throat pulled
up over his nose – exposing only glinting eyes that dart about, quick to alert
him to danger. His top is a soft-shell that makes no sound, his climber’s
trousers likewise, and rubber soled trail shoes complement the burglar’s silent
ensemble.
What separates
this intruder from the conventional sneak thief, however, is his next
act. Still on his haunches he slips off a small backpack and extracts
first a bulging hessian bass-bag, and then a leather sheath from which he draws
a wicked-looking filleting knife. He spreads out the bag and sets to work
upon its contents with the flickering blade. Some thirty or more cuts
made, he regards his handiwork. Tugging down his muffler, he picks up a
portion and stuffs it
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