Werewolves of London

Steed stalks dangerous game

Emma lures it in

Prologue:

I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand

Walking through the streets of Soho in the rain

He was looking for a place called Lee Ho Fook's

Going to get himself a big dish of beef chow mein

Werewolves of London – Warren Zevon, 1978

 

Randy Stiles stifled a series of coughs with a fist over his mouth as he walked along the park path. The huge, waxing, silvery moon hovering low in the sky turned his surroundings into a high-contrast wonderland, but he hardly noticed as he concentrated on a developing headache. The familiar crunch of the gravel under his gum-soled shoes seemed dampened and he wondered if the cold he was fighting was moving into his ears. He was sure he’d picked it up from a patient at work. At least four times a year he caught some nasty virus from one of the elderly patients he nursed.

It took a moment for him to realize the low growling sound that he heard was not in his head but actually coming from the bushes to his right. Glancing over his shoulder at the dense park foliage, he moved to the center of the path and picked up his pace a little. Probably just a stray dog.

The shrubs edging the path shook with the passage of something large on the other side. Stiles glanced toward them again and let his gait break into a jog. It kept pace with him, the growl transitioning into a chilling snarl accompanied by a wheezing, breathy panting sound. He looked again, his upper body turning while his legs kept moving. In three more strides his left foot caught on an uneven patch and he tumbled forward. As his left shoulder slammed onto the path and skidded forward with the momentum of his run an enormous, reeking body hurdled onto him from the dark underbrush.

 

Act I

“Ahhh!” Mrs. Emma Peel quickly stifled a startled scream at the sight of a macabre wolf head, oversized yellow canines stained with blood, looming over her where she lay napping on her sofa. As she reached up to restrain it the jaws gaped open, revealing a crisp white card tucked inside the mouth.

“Mrs. Peel --,” Steed’s smooth voice pronounced the words printed on the card.

She tucked her fingers under the wolf’s lower jaw and pressed it shut, then struggled into a sitting position to look over the back of the sofa where he was crouching. He pulled off the mask to reveal his mischievous grin beneath twinkling grey eyes.

“We’re needed.”

 

“It was found near the body of the sixth St. James’s Park victim,” Steed said, dropping the rubber and fur mask on her coffee table next to the tray of tea things she’d brought from the kitchen.

“Sixth?” Emma lifted the lid of the pot to check the tea. “I remember seeing two in the newspaper, at least two or three months ago.”

“There has been a total of six,” Steed said, taking a biscuit. “All in the same general area, all with similar details. After the first two the police suppressed them so as not to start a panic. There have been four more, and number six just occurred last night.”

Emma prepared the tea, adding his preferred sugar and milk before handing him his cup.

“Shouldn’t the public be informed if there’s a serial killer stalking the park?”

“The police have increased their patrols. But they decided to keep the nature of the murders secret,” Steed replied, glancing at the mask. Emma followed his gaze.

“The murderer wears a werewolf costume?”

He nodded, sipping his tea. “And has a pet wolf.”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night, a Mr. Randy Stiles was walking home from his shift at an elder care facility – he was a nurse – when he was attacked in the park. His attacker seems to have been a wolf.”

“A real animal?”

Steed nodded, watching her think about what he’d said. “The lab is certain based on the shape of the wounds and saliva found in them.”

“But the mask near the body suggests that there was a person involved.”

“And other victims have born a mixture of wounds, some obviously inflicted by a man – or human.”

“Interesting,” she pursed her lips, still contemplating the implications. “But still just a string of murders,” she finally said. “Why are we being involved?”

“Location, my dear. In three week’s time there’s to be a festival in the park in honor of his highness the Prince of Wales’s birthday. Since the Yard has not been able to put an end to this, we’ve been asked to step in.”

 

Steed had brought along the case files for all six murders, including the medical examiners’ reports with all their gory details. He had been through them all twice before seeking Emma’s assistance, so he sat back and sipped his tea and watched her read. He never tired of watching her. Just now he was particularly curious to see her nibble on a biscuit while reading the horrific details of six brutal murders. It was not, he knew, that she was immune to the violence described on the pages. In fact, she was particularly skilled at understanding the clinical language of the ministry coroner, and particularly sympathetic to the victims in their work. No, she was absorbing the horror, storing it for later analysis. When she was through they would go to the park to visit the scenes, and then over dinner she would begin to share her analysis of the facts of the six murders. Later still the horrors would bubble to the surface and he would be there to hold her.

 

Their tour of the park revealed little more than what was in the reports, particularly at the locations of the earliest murders. Only the location where Randy Styles had been attacked the previous night was still protected off by Scotland Yard and overseen by a bored looking patrolman. Emma crouched to examine scuffmarks on the path, then moved to the bushes nearby.

“Mrs. Peel?” Steed said, startled as she pushed through the underbrush.

“It attacked him from there,” the patrolman observed, nodding at the point where Emma had disappeared.

“This is where they found the wolf tracks,” Emma called out. The bushes beside the path rustled ominously and for a moment Steed could imagine how frightened Mr. Styles must have been. Emma reappeared presently from a spot further along and walked back toward them, her eyes on the gravel underfoot.

“Do you know how far they traced the tracks?” she asked the patrolman. “I could follow them that far, but I’m sure with the soft soil in there an expert could stay on the trail much further.”

Steed’s lips curled at the corners as the patrolman shook his head. It never failed: show Emma the scene of the crime and she would find the holes in the case.

“No idea Mrs. Peel,” the patrolman replied with a shrug. It seemed that his knowledge of the case only went as far as the edge of the path.

“I think we should find out, don’t you?” Emma turned her knowing smile on Steed.

 

Act II

Steed parked the Bentley in the street in front of Emma’s building, grateful that, as so often was the case, he could find such convenient parking for the old girl. He went round to the passenger side and opened the door.

“You will come in for a nightcap, won’t you?” Emma asked as she alighted from the car.

“I wouldn’t say no to a brandy,” Steed replied glibly as he followed her inside.

“What would you say to it then?” she asked equally lightly as she fished her keys from her bag.

Steed contemplated his response while she opened her door and led him inside.

“Come, intoxicating elixir. Sweeten my lips and warm my tongue.”

Emma stopped and turned to him, her face clouded with puzzlement.

“That’s what I’d say to a brandy,” he explained with a grin. She smiled back, rolling her eyes indulgently, and turned to the tray of decanters and glasses always ready on a side table.

They settled in on the settee with delicate brandy snifters in hand. They had reached the moment in a day spent together that Steed looked forward to the most: the easy transition from working partners and close friends to profound intimacy. They sipped their drinks and watched one another, frivolous conversation unnecessary, discussion of the case exhausted. Emma spoke volumes through her liquid eyes. Steed soon set aside his glass and took hers too, then pulled her into his arms. She came eagerly, quickly unbuttoning his suit coat to snake one lithe arm around him on the inside.

When she had first invited him into her bed, and even before that when they’d shared less-than-chaste kisses in the less intimate rooms of their apartments, he had grown accustomed to the sensation of falling into her deep, inviting eyes. He had learned to desire the moment of anxiety as he fell, Emma’s violation of his carefully constructed emotional barriers welcome, even needed. He had never allowed himself surrender in this way to any other woman, but Emma demanded it. Or perhaps it was just that he demanded it of himself in order to please her.

But then, in the last few weeks, he had learned that their emotional intimacy could be still more complete. As she stroked aside an errant curl from his forehead he plunged headlong into her inviting gaze. He did not hesitate, he felt no anxiety. He opened himself to her eagerly and, as if she knew that the last of his barriers was finally razed, she seemed to reveal herself wholly to him as well. It was an intangible change between them at an entirely emotional level. He knew there was no outward change in the way they went about making love. But he also knew it was there, enormous and powerful.

And then they were in her bed, the mechanics of undressing and moving accomplished without thought. Exploration lead to a careful nurturing of mutual need and the gradual building of overpowering passion. Far too soon it passed to a level beyond consciousness and their souls blazed together as one.

And then they lay fulfilled in one another’s arms and Steed faced once more the second intimate revelation of his life with Emma. For in the past, with other women, in those moments when the overwhelming need was gone, the desire quenched, he had always felt embarrassment. How silly it all seemed in the aftermath to have been so desperate for the crass, messy physical joining of flesh to flesh. He would disengage quickly, offering up the necessary cuddles with fraternal good will, and escape as quickly as was politely possible. His carefully chosen lovers had always intuited his message and departed, or gracefully accepted his departure. He had thought his love life perfected.

Until Emma had taken him to her bed. The first time there had been no awkward moment, for the need had not faded after each miraculous climax. If anything it had deepened, and he’d been unaware of falling asleep with her, unembarrassed by the damp spots in the bed that exposed the mundane physical aspect of their lovemaking. And even in the harsh morning light he had still felt desire. He had reached for her to take her again and she’d come with him eagerly. She simply would not allow him to be uncomfortable with the physical residue of their intimacy.

Tonight, as every other night when they were sated, she caressed his face and kissed the tip of his nose. Yes, in its aftermath the overpowering physical need seemed silly, the act itself sometimes comical. But that did not make it embarrassing. It was a part of their intimacy and she valued it. Her amazing smile of knowing ingenuousness did not allow him to belittle it. He lay with her in a state of grace.

Shortly after they had become lovers she had confronted him – told him that if he did not want her to stay all night she would not enter his bed. He doubted she’d understood why he did not sleep over with his lovers, but she’d known it to be the case. That had shaken him – he’d had no idea that she’d been observing his casual love life. But casual had been the operative word. His relationship with Emma was anything but casual. Holding her, sated, knowing that he had satisfied her, he came to understand euphoria. And his need for it became almost as overwhelming as the earlier physical need. His rule about sleepovers had crumbled.

It helped that Emma was not a clingy sleeper. As she transitioned from post-coital daze to sleep she rolled away from him to find her own space. In addition to the difficulty of mornings after, he found sleeping tangled with a woman singularly un-restful. A man needed room to stretch out, and he did not need her head, arms, and legs pressed against him cutting off his circulation.

So while some men might characterize Emma as cold or unromantic, he found her sleeping habits completely in accord with his own. And she was not unreceptive to contact – if he rolled close to spoon with her she snuggled against him with a contented, nearly feline sigh. And when he eventually rolled away to lay on his stomach and clutch possessively at a pillow beneath his chin she stretched out contentedly on her own side of the bed. She was a woman with a man’s understanding of the difference between sex and sleep.

 

Steed awakened with a start and rolled over to face Emma. She had kicked him. He watched her shudder again and realized she was asleep. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as her legs flailed again.

“Emma,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders to shake her gently. “Emma, darling, wake up.”

She cried out again, the fear in her voice palpable. He gathered her into his arms to try to still her spasmodic movements.

“Emma,” he repeated, his mouth near her ear.

She shuddered, then sucked in a long breath.

“What?” she said, pressing her hands against him. He loosened his embrace and looked into her open eyes.

“You were having a nightmare,” he explained. She frowned and shut her eyes for a moment.

“Yes. I was terrified. Of something.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No,” she shook her head slowly, looking annoyed at her faulty memory. He smiled fondly.

“Your mind is already suppressing it,” he said. He was certain that the grisly photographs combined with an afternoon and evening thinking about the murders had brought forth the nightmare. But if Emma did not realize it he was not about to suggest it to her.

“It’s gone now,” he added soothingly. “You’re safe in your bed and I’m here.”

“You’ll protect me from my own subconscious,” she said with a wry smile.

“I’ll protect you from whatever threatens you, darling,” he agreed, smiling back. “Go back to sleep.”

And she did. Steed might have felt flattered that his reassurance was enough to ease her mind so quickly -- if he hadn’t fallen back to sleep as soon as she did.

 

Emma let her eyes flutter open to admit the golden morning light. She turned her head to look at Steed. He lay on his left side facing her, but his eyes were shut tight and his face looked angelic. He was definitely asleep.

She slipped out of the bed and went to perform her morning ablutions. When she returned Steed had rolled onto his back and flung his arm across her side of the bed, but he was still sound asleep.

Emma made a pot of coffee and sliced bread for toast. Steed wouldn’t eat anything more and she was not hungry after their hearty dinner last night. She had just poured her first cup and spread butter on her toast when Steed appeared dressed in last night’s trousers and a fresh shirt from the supply she had made room for in her dresser.

He leaned down to give her a kiss, smacking his lips as he straightened. “Toast?” he asked.

She smiled winsomely and took another bite.

Steed poured his coffee and put his own bread in the toaster, then sat down at the table across from her.

“No more nightmares?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

“You got back to sleep easily enough. So I guess you slept through.”

“What are you talking about Steed?”

“Last night I woke you up from a nightmare. Remember?” He watched her for a moment, head inclined. Then his toast popped and he rose to get it.

Emma pursed her lips, staring into the space where he’d been. And then she remembered.

Returning with his toast Steed saw her shudder. She covered her face with her hands and took a deep breath.

“Mrs. Peel?” Steed reached across the table to touch her wrist. She lowered her hands and took his. “Perhaps if you describe it.”

“I was running. Something was chasing me. It was dark and the trees were rustling. It was windy, and very cold.

“I was terrified of something. I know it doesn’t sound terribly frightening, but I was. Whatever was chasing me was panting, and it had claws that I could hear scratching on the ground.”

“A wolf?”

“Yes. No,” she frowned and released his hand, then stood up. “Not a wolf. A werewolf.”

“A what?” he half turned in his chair to watch her. She had gone into the sitting room, and she returned a moment later carrying a magazine. “Are you suggesting that there’s a werewolf roaming St. James’s Park?”

“Of course not,” she smirked at him as she sat back down and leafed through the magazine. “I think that part of my dream probably came from this article. I read it last week.”

She handed him the magazine. It was a psychology journal, one of many academic publications to which she subscribed.

“Lycanthropy. A psychological condition that some claim explains the werewolf myth. Most serious academics and practitioners say there’s no such thing.”

“Including this one, apparently,” Steed said, reading the skeptical title of the article and pointing to the author’s byline. Then he looked more closely at the article. “And according to his biographical note, Dr. Crispin Neff lives outside of London.”

Emma eyed him warily. She knew all too well what was coming next.

“Mrs. Peel, perhaps you should make the acquaintance of the good doctor this morning,” he said.

“Uh huh,” she smiled. “And what will you be doing?”

“Calling on some of the relatives and friends of our victims, and checking on Sir Lionel – the tracker.”

 

Act III

Emma braked to a stop at the bottom of a private drive and glanced again at the directions that she’d scribbled on the back of an envelope while consulting a local telephone directory in the nearest village. Second drive on the left. This is the one.

Easing out the clutch she caught glimpses of a quaint, white cottage nestled in a dense, English garden like a partridge on a nest. She could see that a careful gardener had designed the space. A canopy of colorful autumn blooms was interspersed with the still-green leaves of spring and summer blooming perennials and the darker hues of evergreens. This garden would be glorious in the spring, but it would be equally charming in the winter and lush in the summer. Smiling appreciatively, Emma parked in the narrow drive that ran along beside the garden, unavoidably blocking it. There was no other vehicle, but there was an old, faded wood frame garage, the closed doors decorated with a reinforcing wooden X.

As perfect as the rest of the garden, the path from a small white gate in the picket fence was delineated by large round pavers set into loose chippings. Emma tucked her small bag under her arm and used the heavy, lion’s head knocker on the door. The sound seemed enormous in the cozy garden space. For a moment the birds all fell silent as if waiting with Emma for the door to be opened. When nothing happened they resumed their song. Emma knocked again.

Over the sounds of the garden she heard a creak of the floor inside and a moment later the door opened, someone inside holding it at the halfway point.

“Dr. Crispin Neff?” Emma asked, squinting slightly to see the man standing in the shadowy entry.

“Yes,” came his reply, tentative but not alarmed.

“I’m Mrs. Emma Peel. I’m a freelance writer working on an article about a series of murders in St. James’s Park. I hope you can act as a source, Dr. Neff.”

“I don’t know anything about –.”

“No, I didn’t expect so. The details have been somewhat suppressed, so you might not have grasped the connection to your professional reputation. I must be honest, Dr. Neff – my article is for a magazine covering the occult. I have plenty of sources who say the killer is anywhere from a wild dog to a werewolf to a man suffering from lycanthropy. I know of your skeptical view of such things so I am hoping you can supply me with some quotes to counter theirs.”

While she spoke Emma studied the tall, lean figure before her. His unkempt dark brown hair hung in big curls all over his head and merged into an incongruously well-trimmed beard. His narrow shoulders were a little stooped, and his feet were angled outward in a pigeon-toed stance. She couldn’t make out his facial features, and she got the impression that he was intentionally staying in the shadows.

“I see,” he said. “Well, perhaps you should come in then.”

His speech had a cautious, measured tempo and an evenness of tone that chilled Emma.

“Thank you,” she said, stepping inside. At his inviting gesture she passed through the entry vestibule and into the sitting room beyond. Warm paneling, furniture upholstered in rich, tasteful fabrics, fresh flowers on a side table, and a beautiful painted screen in front of the fireplace gave Emma the impression of a cozy retreat. Steed would like this room, she thought absently as she heard the door close behind her and her host step into the room.

“I just put the kettle on,” he said. “Will you join me in a cup? I am a firm believer in elevenses.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Emma said, turning to him. Her eyes had adjusted to the low light inside the cottage. His ruddy complexion seemed as incongruous as his neat beard. His long, narrow nose pierced high cheeks and pointed to a narrow, thin-lipped mouth above a pointed chin. Like his skin, his lips were densely rouged. But it was his eyes that captured Emma’s attention: they were so light brown they were almost yellow.

“It would be an imposition if you prevent me from my tea, and I would be rude to take it if you don’t join me,” he replied in his measured, matter-of-fact way. Emma wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or if this was his idea of hospitality.

“Very well,” she surrendered. “I would enjoy a cup of tea.”

“Please make yourself comfortable. I’ll bring it in a moment.”

Emma watched him stride off down the hall, and then stepped further into the sitting room. For a moment she considered following him to the kitchen, but that was an intimidation technique she would use on a suspect. Unsettling as Neff was so far, he was not a suspect. What she wanted from him was cooperation and information.

She wandered around the room, dragging a finger over the surface of the side table out of habit to check for dust – there was none – and pausing in front of a tall barrister’s bookcase filled with dozens of volumes on psychology, sociology, and the occult. She turned to the mantel where a bronze figure sat in the place of honor at the center, flanked by silver candlesticks. It was a noble looking wolf, its cast face bright and intelligent.

“A gift from an uncle,” Neff’s voice came from the hall. He entered carrying a tray and headed for the cocktail table in front of the settee. The table bore several uneven stacks of books. Neff stood looking down at it for a moment as if trying to figure out how to fit a square peg into a round hole. Emma resisted the urge to go to his aid. He turned jerkily, first toward a stuffed chair, and then, apparently realizing that it was too small, toward the settee. He set the tray on the upholstered seat while he moved the books from the table to the floor.

Emma watched the proceedings from across the room. He appeared to be completely subsumed in the project – unaware of her presence. When the table was clear he moved the tray to it. And then he looked up at her.

“It’s a Swiss wolf – a European wolf.”

“It’s exquisite,” Emma observed, concealing her surprise at his abrupt resumption of the previous topic as she moved toward him. He indicated that she should sit on the settee and watched her do so. As she smiled up at him she felt the same little chill from his yellow gaze that his voice had inspired. And then, abruptly, he sat down on the chair across from her and reached for the teapot.

“I’ll play mother, shall I?” he said as he poured.

 

“I was able to backtrack your beast here Steed,” Sir Lionel Bridgewater, professional hunter and tracker, dragged aside dense willow branches and pushed through into a secluded open area in near the trunk. Steed followed him, hand on his hat to keep it in place as he passed through the narrow opening.

“You’re sure it’s a wolf, Sir Lionel?” he asked.

Bridgewater was crouching, forearms on knees, near the base of the willow tree. He pointed to a track in the soft soil. “Oh yes, no question it’s a wolf -- a very big one. Quite remarkable.”

“That it’s so large?”

“No – that it’s here in the park. An animal that large needs a lot of territory,” he stood up. “But that could explain why it’s attacking humans. An ordinary wolf in the wild would stick to smaller, easier game.”

“So is this a nest?” Steed asked, poking at drifts of dead leaves and foliage on the ground.

Bridgewater shook his head. “A den,” he corrected. “No. It’s just the start of the trail. Your wolf started here, stalked through the woods out into the higher-traffic areas of the park, and eventually attacked Mr. Styles. But I can’t follow the trail back further from here.”

Steed frowned, looking around the open space beneath the tree.

“I know. It’s quite a puzzle,” Bridgewater acknowledged. “As if it materialized here. And there’s more. Look.”

He led Steed to the edge of the space under the tree and dragged aside the low-hanging foliage to point at the ground.

“Human footprints. Two sets, different types of shoes. See?”

“Yes.”

“They both came in under the tree, although I have no way of telling if they were together or just within a few hours of one another. And over here,” he moved back to the area where they’d entered and pointed to a set of human prints. “That man went out with the wolf.”

“They went together?”

“Well,” Bridgewater put his hands on his hips and arched his back, then straightened and looked at Steed. “Based on the spacing of the prints, the wolf left here at a jog. The man’s footprints indicate that he was running – which would be about right to keep up with an animal that large. So yes, they left together.”

“The wolf could have been chasing the man.”

“No,” Bridgewater shook his head. “If that were the case, the prints would not be side-by-side, and the man would have been sprinting. And he would have been the wolf’s first victim that night.”

Their eyes met for a moment and then Steed turned back to scan the area under the tree. Leaving Bridgewater near the hanging foliage he paced slowly toward the tree trunk and then around it, looking down at the roots and up at the limbs that spread out like an umbrella above them. Dappled green light filtered through to create a luminous, watery feel.

“Sir Lionel?”

The tracker came around the tree trunk, moving so carefully across the leaves and twigs his progress was nearly silent.

“Does this shoe match either of the prints?” Steed asked, using the point of his umbrella to flip over a cheap, rubber-soled canvas shoe that was half covered by a drift of leaves.

“My word Steed,” Sir Lionel exclaimed, picking up the shoe. “You do have a sharp eye.” He carried it back to the site of the two sets of human prints and held it next to one. Steed followed, already certain of the answer but awaiting the tracker’s confirmation. “Yes. It’s a match for this set,” Bridgewater held the shoe next to one of the prints. “But these are not the prints that exit with the wolf’s.”

“No,” Steed said thoughtfully. “They wouldn’t be, would they?” Above them a sudden gust of wind rustled the willow’s branches. The trunk creaked eerily.

 

“What are you doing here? You should not have come Bela!” Crispin Neff recoiled from the doorway, pursued by a man dressed in a threadbare sweater and blue denim trousers. Despite Neff’s generous height, the visitor seemed to tower over him.

“You said we need to talk doctor. I did not wish to do so over the telephone,” Bela replied gently.

Neff inhaled a short breath through his nose, his yellow eyes narrowing in a calculating expression for a moment as he looked at the visitor. Then he backed further into the house.

“Come in. Shut the door! Did you bring a car?” at this last he stepped sideways into the sitting room to look out of the front window.

Bela barked a quick laugh and followed him into the room. “Where would I have gotten a car?” he snapped.

Neff shrugged, turning back toward him, oblivious to the bitterness in Bela’s tone.

“I hitchhiked,” Bela growled, intent on making his point to the other man. “That’s all I can do, Doctor Neff. Beg for rides, beg for food, beg for treatment --.”

“And I have provided that last, Bela. But you have not progressed, have you?” Neff moved to the armchair and sat down, eyes never leaving his visitor. Bela crossed to the fireplace and stood looking at the wolf figure.

“You taunt me,” he muttered.

“Bela?”

“You don’t believe in me, Doctor. How can you treat me?”

Neff shut his eyes for a moment as if to organize his thoughts, then they popped open and he focused on Bela, watching as he paced toward the bookcase.

“They are going to catch you Bela. I had a visitor this morning: a woman who claimed to be a writer. She was most certainly with the police.”

Bela faced him, a vicious grin on his face. “You mean they’re going to catch you, doctor,” he snorted. A low growl emanated from deep in Neff’s chest. He rose and lunged at Bela in a fluid motion, knocking aside a candlestand as his momentum slammed the other man into the glass-fronted bookcase. One of the glass panes shattered under the impact of Bela’s shoulder. He cried out in a long, keening wail and wrapped his left hand around his right upper arm.

The sound snapped Neff out of his rage and he stepped back, hands dropping to his sides.

“Go away, Bela. Go far away. Before they catch you. Find someone who can help you.” He sounded defeated, his words a final entreaty.

Bela turned eyes full of pain and anger on Neff.

“I’m bleeding,” he said. “Get me a bandage.”

Neff glared at him for a moment, then turned and left the room. Bela followed him down the hall and into the kitchen, standing silently while Neff looked in one cabinet and then another until he found a first aid kit. They both remained silent while Bela pulled his arm out of the now torn sleeve of his sweater. Neff wrapped and taped gauze over several slices from the broken glass on his upper arm. When he had finished Bela worked his arm back into the sleeve.

“It’s in tatters,” Neff observed, lightly touching the tears. “Let me give you something else.”

Bela waited while Neff disappeared up the stairs. He returned a few minutes later carrying a faded Manchester United jersey and a dark grey anorak.

“Take these. It’s cold outside,” he said.

Bela snatched the garments but made no move to put them on. “Don’t forsake me, Doctor. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I don’t know how to stop,” he nearly pleaded.

Neff sighed as he repacked the first aid kit and put it away. When he finished he turned back to find Bela still standing there watching him.

“The exercises I’ve shown you – you must do them,” he said.

“I do them!” Bela’s expression darkened, the anger of a few moments ago returning.

Neff’s anger rose to meet it. “Do them more! You can modify your behavior if you really want to. And if you do not then you will be caught. Do you want to go to jail?”

Bela shifted the bundled clothes to one hand and reached for the knob on the garden door with the other. He paused in the doorway. Neff’s look of relief that his visitor was leaving froze on his face.

“Maybe I do,” Bela said. “It would be easier than living the way I do now.”

“Bela –.”

“And what about you doctor? It seems to me you have no hope. Certainly no hope of modifying your behavior!”

He slipped out and shut the door leaving Neff standing frozen in the middle of the kitchen.

 

Act IV

“He’s rather odd, but he did provide me with some useful information,” Emma told Steed that evening. She was sprawled sideways across her armchair with her bare feet in the air and the telephone nestled against her shoulder.

“Oh?” Steed was stretched out on his sofa, a glass of claret on the small table near his head that also held the telephone.

“For example, the werewolf myth varies quite widely. Some say inflicted people only take the wolf form on the night of the full moon, while others say they transform for several nights around the full moon.”

“Fascinating,” Steed yawned.

“If we were looking for an actual werewolf, I would suggest that we match the murders to the lunar cycle,” Emma replied with a hint of annoyance at his boredom in her voice.

“We have,” Steed replied, wakeful again. “As a matter of fact. Each of the murders has been within three days on either side of a full moon.”

“Really?”

“Someone in research thought to check it.”

“Your researchers are nothing if not thorough. Dr. Neff said that if the murderer is a lycanthrope – a person with a mental disorder – he or she would attack during the full moon.”

“But I thought that your Dr. Neff didn’t believe in the lycanthropy,” Steed frowned.

“As a specific disorder,” Emma nodded. “But he does acknowledge that some people suffering from clinically proven psychoses manifest lycanthrope-like symptoms.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Peel, but what’s the practical difference?”

“For our purposes? None, I suppose,” Emma conceded. “What about your big game hunter? Was he able to follow the tracks?”

“Right back to a dead end.”

“How so?”

Steed explained Sir Lionel’s discovery of the willow tree and his subsequent find of the shoes. He described the various sets of tracks entering and leaving the space.

“Steed, are you suggesting that there’s a werewolf prowling St. James’s Park?” Emma asked with a grin.

“Of course not, Mrs. Peel. But it was darned strange.”

“A trail your hunter lost and a pair of old shoes left under a tree?” Emma chuckled. Steed winced, knowing that he’d failed to convey the eerie atmosphere in the space under the willow.

“Perhaps your new friend Dr. Neff would examine some of the suspects – look for signs of lycanthropy – or whatever he cares to call it.”

“I’ll ask him when I see him at his party,” Emma replied pertly. She could practically hear Steed’s hackles rise.

“Oh?” was his only verbal response.

“It’s fancy dress. The day after tomorrow -- in honor of All Souls Eve -- Halloween. He said some of his associates and students would be there, so I could get some more interviews for my article. You should come.”

“I was not invited.”

Emma smiled indulgently, knowing his peevish tone was not genuine, but that he enjoyed playing at jealousy.

“In point of fact, you were – he said I could bring a guest.”

 

Emma rolled across the bed and peered through slitted eyes at the ringing telephone. On the fourth ring she managed to snake one arm out from under the covers to pick up the receiver and press it to her face. “It’s one o’clock in the morning.”

“Mrs. Peel, it’s Steed. Forgive me for waking you. There’s been another attack in the park.”

“Not a murder Steed?”

“No. The victim is alive. Can you meet me at the hospital?”

 

Thirty minutes later Emma, clad in a dark orange crepe wool pant suit and matching suede boots, strode along a bright hospital corridor and stopped at a wooden door guarded by a police officer. She smiled in recognition of the man who’d been in the park the day before yesterday. He nodded in acknowledgement as he opened the door to admit her.

“Here Mrs. Peel,” Steed’s warm voice offset the stark hospital whiteness. He was standing near the corner of the room watching a nurse adjusting a dressing on a heavily bandaged patient in the bed. She stepped over to stand beside him, tilting her head close to his.

“What’s his name?” she asked quietly.

“Her name,” Steed corrected, “is Miss Iris Mallon.” He held up a woman’s wallet in green leather, a driving license complete with bad photograph visible through a clear plastic window. “She’s a musician.” He patted a black violin case sitting a chair atop the woman’s other belongings.

“Have you spoken with her yet?”

“No. She has yet to explain why she was walking through the park at night.”

“What about her wounds?”

“You mean, are they wolf bites?”

Emma nodded.

“The doctor did not find any bites, but there are scratches on her chest and neck. Ah, let’s see what she has to say,” he nodded toward the departing nurse.

They separated to approach the bed on both sides.

Emma’s eyes locked with Steed’s and he nodded slightly. She spoke first: “Miss Mallon?”

The patient rolled her head toward Emma and opened her eyes. The top of her head was wrapped in a bandage and her right arm lay on top of the sheet in a sling. Bruises were already darkening on her chin and the left side of her face, and there was a dressing on her right cheek.

“Yes?” she whispered hoarsely.

“My name is Mrs. Emma Peel. This is Mr. John Steed,” Emma glanced up at Steed. “We would like to ask you some questions.”

“More police?” the woman asked, her eyes flicking from Emma to Steed and back, and then shutting.

“Something like that,” Steed purred. “Miss Mallon, what can you tell us about your attacker.”

Miss Mallon swallowed and licked her lips, then opened her eyes to look into Emma’s again.

“Would you like some water?” Emma asked.

“Please.”

“Can you describe him, Miss Mallon?” Steed asked while Emma poured water from a pitcher into a cup with a straw waiting on the bedside table.

“He was huge and very strong,” the patient said. Emma held the straw to her mouth and she took a long sip of water, then looked again at Steed. “He jumped on me from behind and got his arms around my shoulders. We both fell down – I landed on my wrist and my face hit the ground really hard. He scratched my neck so I thought he was going to choke me.”

“Did you see his face?” Emma asked, hope of identifying the attacker waning.

“He had a big nose,” Miss Mallon said. “And very bad teeth. His eyes were dark. His face was so close that’s all I could see.”

“You turned your head to look at him?” Emma asked, trying to visualize the struggle.

“Yes. He started breathing on my neck so that I was sure that he was going to – you know – rape me. But he opened his mouth and his breath stank and his teeth were gross, and he tried to bite me.”

Miss Mallon swallowed hard and took another sip of water. Emma glanced up at Steed to see a tiny smile curling the corners of his mouth.

“You’re certain, Miss Mallon?” he asked gently.

“Positive. I could feel his breath on my neck. It was horrible.” Her voice rose

“What happened next?” Steed asked. “The doctor didn’t mention any bites in his report.”

“Another man came along the path. I suppose he shouted when he saw us on the ground. Then the man attacking me got up and ran, and the second man ran after him.”

“The second man didn’t stop to check on you?” Emma asked.

“No, he chased the first man. I got up and went the other way and found a Bobby.”

“Can you describe the second man?” Steed asked, glancing at Emma.

“Um, he was big too – tall, but maybe not as big as the first man. He had a beard,” she paused, her gaze falling pleadingly on Emma. “I’m sorry. I was on the ground, and he was running so fast, practically doubled over.”

“You were very brave, Miss Mallon,” Emma assured her, for she could see that the woman was on the verge of tears. “Thank you for answering our questions.”

Emma and Steed stepped away from the bed toward the door. Steed opened and held it for Emma, then turned back toward the bed.

“What did the second man shout, Miss Mallon?” he asked.

“Um,” the patient frowned, “I’m not sure. It sounded like a name.”

“What name?”

“Bela. You know, like the composer – Bela Bartok?”