Inevitably, the housekeeper objected to Lougarry. ‘Great-Cousin Ned had a dog,’ Fern reminded her. ‘You told us so.’
‘That’s not a dog,’ said Mrs Wicklow. ‘Looks more like a wolf. It’s probably savage, anyway. If it’s been killing sheep there’ll be real trouble, police and that. I’d better go call someone to fetch it away.’
‘Have any sheep been killed?’ Fern challenged, unobtrusively crossing her fingers. She had a feeling that taking mutton on the hoof would be well within Lougarry’s scope.
Mrs Wicklow conceded grudgingly that they hadn’t. ‘Been fighting, though, by the look of it,’ she said. ‘Those cuts look nasty. You want to take it to t’ vet: he’ll see to it. I daresay t’ reverend would give you a lift.’
Lougarry’s lip lifted in a soundless snarl.
‘I don’t think she’d like that,’ Fern said.
‘What’ll you do about feeding it? Haven’t thought about that, have you? You can’t just give it Madam Slimline’s leftovers.’
A picture of rabbits came into Fern’s head—rabbits scattering in a panic, scuts flashing white. ‘We’ll fix up something,’ she said evasively. ‘Anyhow, she doesn’t belong to us. She comes round sometimes: that’s all.’
‘Scrounging,’ said Mrs Wicklow, hunching a disapproving shoulder.
A knock on the back door heralded the arrival of Gus Dinsdale, further complicating the argument. ‘If she’s a stray,’ he said, ‘you ought to hand her over to the authorities.’
‘She’s not a stray,’ Fern snapped, feeling beleaguered. ‘She belongs to this old man: I don’t know his name but I’ve seen him round here quite a lot. I think he’s a kind of tramp.’ Will glanced quickly at her, his eyebrows flicking into a frown.
‘I know the one you mean,’ Gus said unexpectedly. ‘Interesting type. Seems to be out in all weathers and there are more lines on his face than a street map, but I’ve seen him striding over the moor at a pace that puts most hikers to shame. We’ve exchanged a few words now and then; he’s intelligent and cultured, certainly not a drunk. I would guess he’s one of those who choose a life on the road—they feel hemmed in by the walls of civilisation, trapped in the kind of surroundings we would call home. A free spirit. I never realised he had a dog. I must say, this creature appears to be an appropriate companion. She looks more than half wild. A free spirit herself, no doubt.’
‘It’s wild all right,’ said Mrs Wicklow, still refusing to allow the visitor the dignity of gender. ‘If Fern touches t’ cuts it’ll bite her for sure.’
(‘Who’s the old man?’ Will inquired, for his sister’s private ear; but she shook her head.)
‘The dog seems to trust her,’ Gus was saying, evidently won over by his own image of the free-spirited wanderer and his maverick pet. ‘Animals can very often sense when they’ve found a friend. After all, you’ve heard the story of Androcles and the lion, haven’t you?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Mrs Wicklow retorted, scoring points where she could.
But Gus had turned back to Fern. ‘Does she have a name?’ he asked.
‘Lougarry,’ said Fern. She didn’t say how she knew.
‘Odd,’ the vicar mused. ‘I wonder…it sounds almost as if it might come from the French. Lougarry…loup garou.’
‘Loup garou,’ Will repeated, struggling with his accent. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Werewolf,’ said Gus.
It was after lunch and Lougarry had departed on affairs of her own before the Capels were left to themselves. ‘It’s time we had a serious discussion,’ said Will. ‘There are too many things you’re not telling me. The old man, for instance. And Lougarry. Do you think she really is a werewolf?’
‘Maybe,’ said Fern. ‘She’s on our side: that’s all that matters. We’re rather short of allies.’
‘And the old man?’
‘He watches. I told you. He has a tendency to look like a rock. I thought I might have imagined him, but Gus has seen him too, so he must be real. Perhaps it was the rock I imagined.’
‘Gus is a vicar,’ Will remarked captiously. ‘He’s supposed to see things. Angels, you know, and visitations.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Fern. ‘He’s C of E.’
There was a pause; then she got to her feet. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’d better get on with it.’
‘Get on with what?’ asked Will, but he knew.
They went upstairs to Alison’s room. The landing was grey and dim, surrounded by closed doors; no sunlight penetrated the narrow window in the north wall. Will took hold of the handle and tried to turn it, but it would not move. It seemed to be not so much jammed as fixed, petrified into stasis: it didn’t even rattle. He pulled his hand away, complaining of pins and needles. ‘It can’t be locked,’ said Fern. ‘There’s no key.’ She seized the knob herself, but her grip squeaked on brass; Will kicked and shoved at panels that did not stir. When she drew back she could see the pins and needles, angry pinpoints of red flickering and fading on her palm. ‘This won’t do,’ she said. ‘This is our house. We have a right to enter any room we please. She can ask us to stay out if she likes, but she can’t force us. I don’t know what she’s done, but we’re going to get in.’
‘The window?’ Will suggested.
From a neighbouring room they leaned out to check, but Alison’s window also appeared shut. ‘We might be able to open it,’ Will said, ‘if she hasn’t done anything fancy to it like she has to the door.’ He didn’t mention the word magic but they both knew the omission was not born of modern scepticism. ‘This window’s on a latch; hers probably is too. You could lift it from the outside with something thin enough to slip through the crack. I’ve seen it done on TV with a credit card.’
‘I don’t have a credit card,’ said Fern. ‘We’ll try a knife. But first, we’re going to need a ladder.’
Knowing Mrs Wicklow’s antipathy to Alison, Fern did not hesitate to enlist her aid. The housekeeper had reservations, not about the propriety of their actions, but about the risks of illicit entry via a window more than twenty feet off the ground. Ladders, she claimed, were notoriously chancy, especially under inexpert control. However, suspicion of the alien finally persuaded her. ‘I don’t know what she’s done to t’ door,’ she said. ‘Fair made my hand sting. It must be some kind of electricity.’
Introduced to a small-time builder in the village, Fern and Will were able to borrow a ladder long enough for their needs on the following Wednesday afternoon. As instigator of the plan Will climbed up first, armed with the slimmest of the kitchen knives; his sister waited at the bottom, holding the ladder to steady it. Rather to her surprise, the methods of television drama did not let them down.
‘Done it,’ Will called out, and she saw him disappearing over the window-sill. She wriggled the two prongs deeper into the flower-bed and ascended a little nervously after him.
The room was transformed. The balding velvet of cushion and curtain now appeared thick and soft, the dingy carpet glowed with the tracery of long-lost designs. Shelves formerly empty were stacked with books and cassettes, a portable music centre, a pair of candles in iron holders, a pot-plant which resembled a cactus, its spines glistening, its single flower gaping like a small red mouth with the tongue-shaped stamen lurking inside. Fern glanced at the books: they seemed mainly concerned with art and antiquities, though there were a couple in a language, and a script, which she could not understand. Several new pictures adorned the walls, one of which looked vaguely familiar: it took her a few moments