Free The People in the Castle: Selected Strange Stories by Joan Aiken

Lord Hawick, glancing out at his Harley Street doorstep. “Come in and I’ll give you the wolfsbane prescription.”
    The eminent consultant courteously held the door for his young colleague.
    The journey to Cornwall was uneventful. Dr. Peachtree drove his distinguished patient, glancing at him from time to time with mingled awe and affection. Would the harassing crawl down the A30, the jam in Exeter, the flat tyre on Dartmoor, bring on an attack? Would he be able to cope if they did? But the handsome profile remained unchanged, the golden eyes in their deep sockets stayed the eyes of a man, not those of a wolf, and Sir Murdoch talked entertainingly, not at all discomposed by the delays. Ian was fascinated by his tales of the theatre.
    There was only one anxious moment, when they reached the borders of Polgrue Chase. Sir Murdoch glanced angrily at his neglected coverts, where the brambles grew long and wild.
    “Wait till I see that agent,” he muttered, and then, half to himself, “‘Oh, thou wilt be a wilderness again,/Peopled with wolves.’”
    Ian devoutly hoped that the agent would have a good excuse.
    But the Hall, hideous Victorian-Gothic barrack though it was, they found gay with lights and warm with welcome. The old housekeeper wept over Sir Murdoch, bottles were uncorked, the table shone with ancestral silver. Ian began to feel less apprehensive.
    After dinner they moved outside with their nuts and wine to sit in the light that streamed over the terrace from the dining-room French windows. A great walnut tree hung shadowy above them; its golden, aromatic leaves littered the flagstones at their feet.
    “This place has a healing air,” Sir Murdoch said. “I should have come here sooner.” Suddenly he stiffened. “Hudson! Who are those?”
    Far across the park, almost out of sight in the dusk, figures were flitting among the trees.
    “Eh,” said the housekeeper comfortably, “they’re none but the lads, Sir Murdoch, practicing for the Furry Race. Don’t you worrit about them. They won’ t do no harm. ”
    “On my land?” Sir Murdoch said. “Running across my land?”
    Ian saw with a sinking heart that his eyes were turning to gleaming yellow slits, his hands were stiffening and curling. Would the housekeeper mind? Did she know her master was subject to these attacks? He felt in his pocket for the little ampoules of wolfsbane, the hypodermic syringe.
    There came an interruption. A girl’s clear voice was heard singing:

    “Now the hungry lion roars,
    And the wolf behowls the moon—”

    “It’s Miss Clarissa,” said the housekeeper with relief.
    A slender figure swung round the corner of the terrace and came towards them.
    “Sir Murdoch? How do you do? I’m Clarissa Defoe. My father sent me up to pay his respects. He would have come himself, but he was called out on a case. Isn’t it a gorgeous night?”
    Sitting down beside them, she chatted amusingly and easily, while Ian observed with astonished delight that his employer’s hands were unclenching and his eyes were becoming their normal shape again. If this girl was able to soothe Sir Murdoch without recourse to wolfsbane, they must see a lot of her.
    But when Sir Murdoch remarked that the evening was becoming chilly and proposed that they go indoors, Ian’s embryonic plan received a jolt. He was a tough and friendly young man who had never taken a great deal of interest in girls; the first sight, in lamplight, of Clarissa Defoe’s wild beauty came on him with a shattering impact. Could he expose her to danger without warning her?
    More and more enslaved, he sat gazing as Clarissa played and sang Ariel’s songs. Sir Murdoch seemed completely charmed and relaxed. When Clarissa left, he let Ian persuade him to bed without the topic of the Furry Race coming up again.
    Next morning, however, when Ian went down to the village for a consultation with cheerful, shrewd-eyed old Dr. Defoe, he asked about it.
    “Heh,” said the doctor. “The