The Dyrysgol Horror and Other Weird Tales. Edmund Glasby
nothing he could put his finger on, nothing really tangible, but walking down that barely visible stretch of country road, he had the sudden impression that red eyes were watching his movements with a raptorial hunger. Savagely, he bit his lower lip to prevent himself from screaming out loud. The fear was palpable, clinging around him, soaking into his mind. He stood quite still, listening for a moment, certain that something—some hideous evil—would emerge from the fog and tear them all to pieces.
“Sure is one hell of a creepy place,” said Hughes. In the distance, he could hear the bleating of sheep.
“And this fog doesn’t help either.” Jenkins was walking slowly, eyes scanning the road below him.
They walked on through the fog for a further five minutes or so before Owen brought them up short. He pointed to the ground. “Look! See those tyre marks? This is clearly were the car began to skid. It looks as though the driver tried to hit the brakes.”
“And what’s this?” Jenkins, who had walked over to one side, returned with something long and slender in his right hand.
“What have you found?” asked Owen.
“Why, it’s an arrow, sir.” Jenkins handed it over. “It was just lying on the road.”
Carefully, Owen ran his hand down the relatively thick, smooth pine shaft. The black fletching had obviously been well trimmed, and testing the iron-cast barbed point against his thumb, he was not surprised to find that it was incredibly sharp. His appraisal was interrupted by a call from Hughes.
“The car’s just up ahead, sir.”
“Keep a good hold of this,” said Owen, returning the arrow to his constable. “And good work spotting it.”
The two of them jogged up the road to join Hughes, who had clambered down into the relatively shallow ditch and was peering inside the wrecked vehicle.
At first glance, it could have just been a simple accident. A car going off the road in adverse driving conditions was not, in itself, an unusual occurrence. However, it was only as they got closer that they noticed the jagged marks that covered the roof and the nearside. It was as though some creature, a bear for instance, had attacked it. Some gouges went right through the metal.
The driver’s door hung wide open, and Owen had to hope that the good doctor had somehow managed to escape and that he was out there somewhere trying to make his way back to civilisation. Much as he wanted to believe this, the state of the car and the terrible sounds Edwin had described seemed to make it unlikely. No, he told himself, there was something far more sinister at work here. With that realisation, he clambered down into the ditch to join Hughes.
“Sure is a bit of a mess,” said Hughes. “But there’s no blood visible, which is rather surprising.”
“Most strange.” Owen gave a final look around the interior of the car. He drew himself to his full height and straightened his back. His eyes narrowed to mere slits as he tried to push his vision into the enshrouding fog. That feeling of being watched was strong within him once more, as was the unsettling awareness that there was something out there. Something that could see them, despite the fact that they could not see it. A lump gathered in his throat, but he forced it down. There was a sudden cold clamminess of sweat on his back and an icy chill on his chest. He felt his arms shaking.
“Inspector!”
Jenkins’ call made him jump.
“There’s another arrow over here. And—and something else. I think you’d better have a look.”
* * * *
By early afternoon the fog had lifted somewhat, permitting Owen to drive far more easily than he had that morning. Passing through the gateway that led up towards Dyrysgol Castle he suppressed a shiver of fear and he heard Hughes, who was in the passenger seat, let out a little gasp of uncomprehending bewilderment.
“Looking at this lot, it’s no wonder that Jenkins thinks that this viscount is behind everything.”
“We’ve got nothing to go by yet, so let’s not be too quick to judge, although I’ll agree with you this place sure gives me the creeps.”
“I—” Hughes was about to speak, when he suddenly stopped and stared. “I think you’ll find that we’ve got plenty to go by, Inspector. Stop the car and look! Over there to the left.”
Owen brought the car to an abrupt halt. “What is it?” he asked tersely. His eyes lit up. “Right, let’s go. Leave the talking to me. And don’t forget to bring that.” He pointed meaningfully at a large black bag, which lay on the back seat. With that, he got out of the car and began to stride purposefully towards the near side of the castle.
Some two hundred yards away, he could see Ravenwood shooting arrows at a large, circular straw target.
“Lord Ravenwood!” he shouted.
Ravenwood turned to look at him, an arrow notched on his bow and ready to be released.
“A moment, if you please.” Owen was now getting near and the sudden, dreadful thought that he presented a good target to an experienced archer flashed briefly through his mind. He dispelled it the moment Ravenwood lowered his bow and stood waiting, expectantly.
“Inspector. Once again I have the pleasure of your company.” Ravenwood stood tall and imposing, the bow he gripped slightly longer than him. “You catch me pursuing one of my great hobbies. As a toxophilite—”
“A what?”
“A toxophilite—a lover of archery. I don’t suppose you’re aware that the so-called English longbow was in fact invented here, in Wales.”
“Is that right? Well that’s one of the main reasons why I’m here. You see, two arrows were found at the scene of one of our investigations this morning, and, they seem to be identical in appearance to the ones in your quiver. Now, I had merely come out here on the off chance that perhaps you could have told me something about them, what with your interest in old weapons and such. But here I find you with arrows, very similar in appearance, in your possession. Would you care to explain?”
Hughes had now approached. He opened the bag that he carried and took out the two arrows in question. He gave a slightly mocking look to the viscount that seemed to imply that it was all over for him now. They had the evidence to pin him to one of the disappearances. It would of course be interesting to discover how the man explained the other thing in the bag, but this was, nonetheless, a major breakthrough.
Ravenwood shrugged his shoulders. There was no obvious admission of guilt in his body movement nor in his eyes, only a confirmation that what the other held in his hand did indeed belong to him.
“They are yours, yes?” Owen looked at him with a hard stare.
“Yes, I do believe that they are. And I suppose as a token of my appreciation for your returning them to me, you would like me to explain why they were found where they were, yes?” For the briefest of moments, something almost akin to concern flashed across Ravenwood’s fine features. There was no turning back now, he thought to himself. He would have to explain everything and hope that they believed his story. “Shall we go inside, gentlemen?” he said. “I’ll have Franklins prepare a little something to eat, and we’ll get down to business. There’s much to tell.”
* * * *
After they had settled themselves in the study and Franklins had made some sandwiches and some tea and coffee, Owen gestured to his constable to open the bag once more. At arms length, as though reluctant to handle whatever it was that had been contained inside, Hughes removed a leathery flap of greyish-black material. What looked like green veins spread out web-like inside it.
“In addition to the arrows, we found this rather repulsive-looking thing. Have you any idea what it is?”
Ravenwood grinned. “I know exactly what it is. However—you may not believe me if I tell you. You see, what you have there is a piece of wyvern wing.”