Page 17 of Mongrel
We walk side by side to the front door, and Bowie knocks. Inside, I hear shuffling and voices. It’s not too late, but it’s an odd hour for visitors nonetheless.
The door swings open to reveal a harried-looking man of middling years, his face gaunt with worry. His anxious expression shifts to full-blown concern upon seeing me, though I’m seated just behind Bowie, trying my best to look docile.
“Apologies, good sir, if you’ll be so kind as to pardon me for calling unannounced.” Bowie bends gracefully at the hip, bowing to the peasant as if this man were the nobility and Bowie just an average farmer.
“That’s all right,” says the man. His dark eyes, though haunted, look kind, and he keeps them on me with caution. “What can I do for ye?”
“I’m Lady Catherine’s nephew, Beauregard. I’m here on her behalf. She thought perhaps we”—Bowie steps to the side and gestures to me—“could be of some use to help find your daughter.”
The man’s face falls at the mention of his missing daughter. My heart goes out to him. I didn’t miss the fact Bowie called himself Catherine’s nephew. Is that because the brother should be closer to her in age?
“S’that a wolf?” he asks, though surely it’s obvious.
I don’t blame him for his trepidation. Tame wolves are uncommon, and though I may be small for a man, I’m quite large for a wolf.
Bowie strokes my forehead. “Only part wolf. The other part is hound.” The lie slips from his lips with ease. “No need to fear him. He’s a gentle giant.”
I see the jut of the man’s Adam’s apple as he swallows. “As you say.” He offers Bowie his hand. “Name’s Albert.”
Bowie clutches the man’s wrist. “I wish we’d met under more pleasant circumstances, Albert. May we come in?”
Albert’s gaze lands on me. “Can he really find my Bethie?”
“I can’t make any promises, but we’re going to try.”
Pushing the door wide, Albert steps aside to allow us to enter. “Thank you.”
It’s a humble dwelling. The inside smells of damp earth, cheap tallow candles, and the sweat of working people. A woman sits in a low chair, her sewing abandoned in her lap, watching. With hunched shoulders and eyes red and puffy from tears, she is the picture of a grieving mother. Beside her, a young girl, perhaps seven or eight, has fallen asleep upon a rug on the floor.
“My wife, Rahel,” says Albert. “And please pardon Esther. She won’t stay in her bed since her sister…” At this, he trails off sadly.
Bowie gently fills the silence. “Greetings, madam. I won’t trouble you for long. My wolfhound needs to pick up your older daughter’s scent in order to follow the trail, and I have but a few questions.”
“Of course, thank you,” says Rahel, her voice strained as Albert drags an extra chair from behind a modest table and gestures for Bowie to sit.
If there are any useful details to be had from the grief-stricken parents, I trust Bowie to uncover them. Meanwhile, I patter away to the only other room in this house.
A small adjoining bedchamber makes up the back half of the home. One straw mattress rests upon the floor covered in brown woolen blankets. A second is shoved upright against a wall to make room for a child’s puzzle game on the floor. A tall chest with crooked cabinet doors stands between.
I imagine two sisters playing in the room, perhaps arguing, but still enjoying each other’s company. At night the other bed would be tugged to the floor, and the girls would sleep soundly across from their parents, knowing they were safe. What happened to the poor elder sister?
I dip my nose to the creaky wooden floorboards and gather all the information available to me. This family smells of farm work, earth, and the animals they care for. Simple foods, vegetables and poultry cooked without any of the fancy spices found at Bowie’s table. Minerals from the water used to rinse and cleanse their clothes. Good smells. Normal smells.
Following instinct, I make my way to the first bed, and it’s all very much the same. A familial scent with four slight variations, one for each member of the household. The upright bed holds the scent of the missing girl more strongly than the one on the floor. I close my eyes and concentrate, committing her smell to memory so I can follow her trail.
Pausing, I take in the game left sprawled across a tattered blanket. Round pebbles about the size of olives on one side, flatter rocks on another, the whole thing divided by four sticks. It isn’t a game I know, and I wonder how to play.
Saddened, I take a final whiff and head back to the others. Bowie sits straight, his ankles crossed, hands in his lap as if he’s purposely trying not to wave them about as he speaks. The younger girl, Esther, is awake now and in her father’s lap. She sees me first and lets loose a delighted squeal.
“It’s a doggy!” Her grin spreads wide, and she starts to scramble from Albert’s lap.
He stops her leaving with a quick arm about the waist. “No, no, Es. That’s a wolf. You must be careful.”
Her face falls. “I want to pet him.”
As Albert begins to console her, Bowie catches my gaze and raises his brows. It’s obvious he wants me to let the child approach, but he’s not rude enough to offer without my permission. I slink to his side and dip my chin. I’d happily do anything to make the girl forget her troubles, if only for a moment.
“Albert,” says Bowie. “So long as it’s all right with you, she’s welcome to pet him. He’s really quite docile and accustomed to people.”
