Page 31 of Who Cries for the Lost

“Ten, perhaps?” He thought for a moment, then said, “Yes, ten; I remember now that the clock towers began striking the hour while we were speaking, and he remarked on my being out so late. I’d been studying examples of symbolism on the funerary monuments in the Abbey, and then stopped at a pub I know for something to eat before heading home. But I fear I had lingered rather too long—I was reading while I ate, you see—and forgot the time. He told me I should take a hackney, that it wasn’t safe.”

“Did he seem nervous in any way? Anxious? Angry, perhaps?”

“Oh, no; on the contrary, I’d say he was in excellent spirits.”

“Did he happen to mention why he’d been to Austria?”

“I believe he was in the area mainly to visit Salzburg, the site of some rather horrific witch burnings in the late seventeenth century. He was fascinated by tales of witchcraft, you know. Witches and werewolves.”

“Werewolves?”

Tiptoff cleared his throat. “Yes, it’s from the Old English word werwulf, a compound of wer, meaning ‘man,’ and wulf, for ‘wolf.’ ”

“I’ve heard of them. I gather they’re something of a cliché in modern romance novels.”

Tiptoff huffed a wry laugh. “Oh, yes; they’re becoming quite popular now that we’ve quit burning them.”

“I didn’t realize we burned people for supposedly being werewolves.”

“That we did—usually along with the poor souls who’d been tortured into confessing they were witches.”

“Hence Sedgewick’s interest in both?”

Tiptoff nodded. “In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, accused werewolves and witches were often burned together because both were believed to have received their powers from the devil. But that was actually a surprisingly late concept, you know—the idea that their powers came from Satan, I mean. Both Petronius and Herodotus tell tales of werewolves, as do Ovid and many, many others. And of course they appear in the medieval romances. In France they call them loups-garous, in Iberia they’re hombres lobos, and in Bulgaria they’re called vrykolakas. In fact it’s quite astonishing how widespread the myths are, although there are always local variations, of course. Some of the legends say that werewolves can only be killed by a silver weapon, while others will only trust fire. In parts of Germany there is a belief that the only way to stop a man with the power to turn himself into a werewolf is to decapitate his corpse and throw the head into a river. Supposedly the weight of the werewolf’s sins will cause the head to sink to the river bottom and stay there.”

Sebastian was suddenly, acutely aware of the fire crackling beside them, of the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the cry of a street seller outside. He drew a deep breath. “Someone cut the hands and head off a man whose body was pulled from the Thames a few days ago.”

Tiptoff’s lips parted. “Merciful heavens,” he whispered. “You can’t think...”

“I don’t know.” Sebastian sat forward. “Have you ever heard of a folk story in which the victim has his face destroyed and his sex organs removed?”

Tiptoff looked troubled. “Well... there is an old French tale of a werewolf who once terrorized a village near Lyon. He would attack only the handsome young men, and after he killed them, he ripped off their faces and private parts.”

“Do you know of anyone else in London with an interest in werewolves?”

“Yes, of course. As I said, it’s a common, recurring theme in folk traditions, and folklore is increasingly being recognized as an important area of scholarly interest. Why? Do you think we might all be in danger?”

It was an angle Sebastian hadn’t yet considered, that someone could have targeted Sedgewick because of his interest in werewolves and witches. He let his gaze drift over the scholar’s strange collection of artifacts and curiosities. “Have you ever experienced hostility because of your interests?”

Tiptoff shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, of course. The world is full of bigoted, benighted people, I’m afraid. They see the ancient tales of such things as witches and werewolves as satanic and evil rather than as folklore to be studied and written down before such an important part of our heritage is lost. And they have a tendency to view any scholarly interest in that tradition as equally satanic.”

“Have you had trouble with anyone in particular?”

“I’ve had crosses painted on my door—that sort of thing. But I don’t know who’s doing it.”

“When did this start?”

“Some months ago. I don’t think I could say precisely when. Why?”

“Do you know if Miles Sedgewick experienced anything similar?”

“If he did, he never mentioned it.” Tiptoff paused, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a quick breath. “You never said if you thought I might be in danger.”

Sebastian met his frightened gaze and held it. “Let’s just say it wouldn’t hurt to be careful. I don’t think I’d go out walking alone late at night again for a while.”

Chapter 18

That morning, Hero spent some time writing up the notes from her interview with Jeeper Jones, then took the boys to the park. It was after they’d returned, when she was leaving the nursery, that she heard the distant peal of the bell, then met Morey coming up the stairs toward her.

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