The Dyrysgol Horror and Other Weird Tales. Edmund Glasby
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.”